by Deen Ferrell
You must come to sense the world around you…Did Antonio know? Willoughby had become gradually aware of constant flares of bluish light that seemed to indicate some weakness in the time continuum around him. Usually the flares were only out of the corner of his eye and disappeared almost as quickly as they flashed, but they were there. He had considered telling Antonio more detail about the night in Antonio’s Corner Barber when he had seen the old man’s face peering through a rip in time, and about the conversation he overheard afterwards. But there had been no more incidents with number strings and he had not seen either the tattooed man or the tall, dark-eyed man since that night, so he kept silent. He wasn’t sure how Observations, Inc. would react. Did they know they were being watched?
Willoughby leaned back in his chair. If Antonio or H.S. knew he was a “person of interest” to the ones watching them, would they still want him to be part of their team? Leaving the team now wasn’t an option. Willoughby knew too much. He could never walk away from the possibilities Observations, Inc. presented. Observing the past, not through the filters of a book, but by actually being there to watch it unfold, was the sort of thing the true adventurer only dreams of! There was also the connection with his father to work out. He still found it odd and a little too coincidental that he should have stumbled upon the same clandestine organization that had once been observing his father.
Willoughby’s thoughts were a million miles away when he heard a soft voice call out his name.
“Willoughby?”
He looked up to see a slender blonde peering down at him. He straightened, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah,” he choked, recognizing her as one of the Junior Varsity cheerleaders from his chemistry class.
“Sorry to interrupt, you seem lost in such, such concentration, but I was wondering if you wrote down the last formula from class today? I think I must have lost it.”
Willoughby fumbled to pick up his pen. “Uh, yeah, sure.”
Of course you lost it, he thought as he wrote the formula down; you were texting on your cell phone. While handing her the jotted formula, his sleeve caught on the spiral of one of his notebooks. The book flipped to the ground, causing a group of girls at the next table to giggle. He bent clumsily to pick it up. It wasn’t fair. He could travel through time, solve the Riemann Hypothesis, but put him in front of a pretty girl, and he always managed to choke. He sat up, irritated. “Uh, here…”
“Thanks,” the girl said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “By the way, do you know your book is upside-down?” Willoughby noted with horror that he had propped his book up against his backpack upside-down. “Did you know that, or is this, like, some sort of meditation thing?” The girl bit her lip, trying to keep a straight face as her friends at the next table burst again into snickers and laughs. She turned, at last unable to contain her own laughter, and hurried over to rejoin them. Willoughby knew that his face was probably pretty red, but he pursed his lips and tried to make the best of things. He looked over at the girls with a mischievous smile, picked up the book, and began moving his mouth silently, as if chanting in a trance. The girls laughed even louder.
Another girl called out his name. He glanced over his shoulder. Seldom did two girls speak to him on the same day. He saw a rather odd girl leaning her chair back and resting worn hiking boots on the corner of a table one row back. She had a mountain of books stacked to one side. With brown skin and ankle length fatigues, she seemed like some kind of guerrilla for an underground war. He recognized her as a relatively new girl from his American history class. She transferred in from out of the country only two or so months ago. She tugged at the sleeve of her tattered army jacket and pulled it tighter around her sunshine yellow t-shirt. A red dot adorned the center of her forehead. She was rather attractive, actually, but also sort of weird. Once, during a particularly boring lecture on Elias Boudinot, framer of the Bill of Rights and the first president of congress, she had caught his attention by holding a bulls-eye up to her forehead. It was like the red bulls-eyes you see in an ad for Target stores. She pointed to the bulls-eye and then to him, raising her eyebrows. What was that supposed to mean?
She called his name again, black hair exploding in smooth waves down her back. Perhaps attractive wasn’t the right word for her. The better word was unique.
“I didn’t know you were a fan of John Kushnell,” she called over in a loud whisper. “You must have read his infamous 1970’s doctoral thesis on memorization: ‘Turn your book upside down and read right to left. Forcing yourself to read this way will burn critical information into the semi-conscious resources of your brain.’ Good method, I think!”
Willoughby gave the girl a hesitant wave, smiled, then nodded. He had no idea who John Kushnell was. Laughter from the Barbie girls died down. After some mumbling and a few shrugs, two of them turned their books upside down and started trying to read. Willoughby glanced back at the dark- haired girl. She winked and tapped her forehead. Too weird, he thought. He gave her a quick nod, closed his book, and slung his pack over his shoulder.
He still had ten minutes before his appointment with Dean Hollifield, so he took a few minutes to browse a book aisle. Books were a thing he loved. He loved the smell of them, the feel of them in the hand. There was something magical about words on paper to him. He wondered if electronic technology would ever be able to replicate the experience. A moment later, he pushed through the tall, brass door. Hurrying across the quad, he found himself thinking of the Dean.
Dean Hollifield was a stern, no-nonsense sort of guy. He usually only summoned Willoughby if he felt there were issues with his academic progress or to lecture him on his lack of social development. So, what was it this time? Willoughby hoped he wasn’t in for another lecture on school spirit.
Approaching the administration building, he sighed. For all its plusses and minuses, Worthington Hills was just a place. It wasn’t the place he hated so much. It was just that there was no-one in this place whom he really cared about.
His mind drifted to the soccer game. Antonio was supposed to pick him up in just over half an hour. He hoped the Dean’s speech would be short. The game was an exhibition match between D.C. United, their local team and the reigning division champs, and a new contender for the MLS Cup, the San Jose Earthquakes. Antonio had promised to “take them to the game in style,” whatever that was supposed to mean. “You will be amazed!” he told Willoughby. “It will be a most excellent surprise!” Willoughby envisioned a stretched Hummer limo, stocked with snacks and fruit drinks. It could be interesting…
Just as he reached the door to the administration building, his cell phone rang. It was Klaas. “Hey…yeah… No, I haven’t seen him yet. My appointment is at 4:00… Right. We’re going straight to the game after that… Girls? Are you kidding? I had a rather interesting exchange at the library, but it was more the ‘what planet are you from’ type of conversation…Of course not! If I was sneaking time with my dream girl, do you think I’d take a 30-year-old Spanish-American barber along? I promise, Klaas—when there’s something to tell, you’ll be the first to know… Yeah. I’ll call you from the stadium… I don’t know, he didn’t say…Okay, I’ll call. See ya.”
Willoughby frowned. He didn’t like keeping Klaas in the dark. His step-father was one of his best friends. Even though it had seemed odd when he told them his 30-year-old barber had invited him to the soccer game, he had been the one who convinced Mom to let him go. Despite his age, Antonio was one of Willoughby’s few friends, and Klaas thought it was healthy for Willoughby to take a break from the books. Klaas also promised to square it with Mom if he won the Society of Historic Artifacts contest. He seemed genuinely excited that Willoughby might win a chance to be on a real sailing ship—especially a windjammer.
Willoughby crammed the cell phone into his pocket and raked his fingers through his hair. He knew it was best that Klaas didn’t know Observations, Inc., but what H.S. said about i
t being lonely holding on to such a secret was true. He just wished the days would move faster. He could taste the adventure of the summer to come.
As he stepped into the building lobby, the receptionist grinned and waved him past. The door to the dean’s office was open.
“Willoughby, come in,” Dean Hollifield said, motioning toward a seat. “You’re not in any trouble, though I might welcome that development as a sign that you do have a life beyond your studies.” He barely glanced up from the neat stack of printed documents he was scouring. Willoughby stepped into the office and seated himself in one of the stiff, uncomfortable chairs facing the dean’s desk. Dean Hollifield glanced up. He smiled, folding his hands together and resting them on the paper he was currently reviewing. “You seem to have rather important friends. I’ve been asked to inform you that your essay has won the annual Society of Historic Artifacts competition, a competition not usually open to students below graduate level studies.”
Willoughby smiled. “Great!”
He tried to seem surprised and elated, but the dean didn’t buy it. He looked Willoughby up and down, pursing his lips.
“What intrigues me, Willoughby, is how you knew of the contest and why an exception has been made regarding your age. Not to discount the brilliance of your thesis.” He looked down. “I find the essay most stimulating.” The dour man narrowed his eyes and set his chin. “Did they know of your age? You haven’t by chance mentioned our little, uh, secret to anyone, have you?”
The dean was well aware of Willoughby’s solution to the Riemann Hypothesis and the “deal” he had made with the heads of the mathematics community and the sponsor of the million-dollar prize. All of the Academy’s staff had been briefed. Willoughby’s eyes darted around the room. “No. That was the deal…I put my age on the cover bio sheet.”
“Explain to me how you learned about a contest that is generally only open to college graduates?”
Willoughby shrugged. “I, uh, I saw it listed in a magazine,” he said, trying to think of a publication that might run an ad for this type of contest.
“Magazine?”
“Yes,” Willoughby continued, swallowing hard. His brain worked fast. “I saw the ad in a publication from MENSA.”
The dean raised his eyebrows. He seemed almost amused. “You want me to believe that you are a member of MENSA? Since when did the organization start recruiting young boys?”
“I’ve already turned 16.”
Dean Hollifield cracked a smile; “Your point?”
Willoughby hesitated. “Listen, sir,” he gulped, searching for words. He had heard of MENSA by name, but knew little about the organization’s rules or structure. If the dean chose to question him closely, he was in hot water. “MENSA is a private organization for people with high IQs, right? I consider myself in that category, so I applied. I guess if you’re paying, they’re accepting, and I, uh, I included a little donation.” He forced a smile and held his breath.
The dean rocked back in his chair, letting go a loud laugh. Willoughby exhaled, feeling the tension ebb. “MENSA does collect dues, Mr. Von Brahmer, but the caliber of people in this particular organization is rarely at a loss for funds. Perhaps your ‘donation’ helped buy them a tasty lunch, but I don’t think it got you in the door.” He leaned forward again onto his desk. “I would agree, however, that you do fit the MENSA profile intellectually, and it is an honor for the school that you won this competition. I must say I envy you. You will be spending three weeks aboard the windjammer Aperio Absconditus in the company of some of the most brilliant minds of our day. Dr. Davis O’Grady is one of the foremost astronomers on the planet. Dr. Hathaway Simon is a master physicist and Eldoro Chavez is a uniquely talented architect.”
The dean looked down at his paper. “The other winner is a young psychologist with strong academic credentials—a Dr. James Arthur Washington.” He looked up with a twinkle in his eye. “Of course, Dr. Washington is not as young as you.” He looked back down at the paper. “You will also have the chance to meet Sydney Senoya, the world-renowned violinist. She’ll be performing on the cruise. At 16, she’s a true genius. I’ve seen her play.”
As if H.S. would recruit anything else, Willoughby thought. He imagined the picture of the girl (which he had pinned to his bulletin board at home). Why a violinist? Why would they need a musician on the team? Was she just part of the smoke-screen to make this appear to be a genuine academic cruise? Willoughby shook the thoughts from his mind, turning his attention back to the dean’s words.
“…unbelievable exposure for a girl of her age. It should be a most fascinating voyage, provided your parents approve. They do know about the contest, don’t they?” He threw a stern glance toward Willoughby.
“Absolutely,” Willoughby answered. “Klaas is a big supporter.”
“And your mother?”
Willoughby didn’t answer. The dean grinned. “Mothers sometimes take a little work. Now—”
His words were interrupted by a loud commotion outside. Willoughby glanced out the window. A huge boat of a car had pulled up. It was gold, something like a Lincoln Continental, with crisp, white-wall tires and shiny, silver spoke rims. It waited at the curb, idling between two black limousines. Its horn sounded like the trill of an ice-cream truck. The dean cleared his throat. “Your boarding papers and your cash prize,” he nodded, handing Willoughby an envelope. “You’re scheduled to leave from Boston Harbor a week from Thursday.”
“A week from Thursday!” Willoughby’s mouth dropped open. “My classes…” He was distracted again. The car outside the dean’s window was fast attracting a crowd. It had begun to pitch and lurch, hydraulics bumping the front end up, then the back end, then dropping the right side, and then the left. A low-rider? Willoughby thought. Who would dare bring a low-rider to a place like Worthington Hills? A knot formed in the pit of his stomach. Antonio had promised a “surprise.”
Dean Hollifield ignored the commotion, pulling his lips into a tight grin.
“You’ll miss three weeks of school, but I’ve arranged make-up courses. I believe it’s manageable.”
“Of course, sir. Thank you, sir.”
Willoughby took the papers the dean was holding out. “Have fun, Willoughby,” Dean Hollifield said. He took a document from a neat stack to one side of his desk and began scanning it. Outside, the strange horn sounded again. Willoughby mumbled his thanks and then hurried toward the front door. Was this Antonio’s idea of a joke?
“Willoughby!” a familiar voice shouted as he exited the administration building. The side of the car lunged up and Antonio leaned out the window. “Hurry! A fine plate of piping hot enchiladas awaits us!” The side of the car slammed down. Willoughby’s ears burned as he felt the collective eyes of everyone within a hundred yards look his way.
“Love your new chauffeur, Willoughby!” a girl chirped, causing peals of laughter from her friends. It was the cheerleader from the library. “Hey, a Havana limousine!” another boy joked. Antonio laid on the horn. Out of the corner of his eye, Willoughby could see even more kids heading over. He pushed through the growing crowd and quickly grabbed the handle of the passenger door. As soon as he slid onto the seat and slammed the door, the passenger side of the car rose about three feet off the ground and dropped. He fought to keep from being tossed into Antonio, or onto the dashboard, as the back end of the car shot up.
“Would you stop that?” he shouted at Antonio as the car leveled out again. “And please, quit honking that ridiculous horn!”
“So you like my most fantastical car?” Antonio beamed. He turned the key in the ignition and revved the engine. “Don’t hold back—what do you think of her?” He hit a button on the dash and the front-end of the car hiccupped, throwing Willoughby against the head rest.
“I think she should come with a warning label!” Willoughby yelled. He grabbed his seat belt as the car lurched yet again. �
�Antonio! What are you doing—just get us out of here!”
Antonio threw the car into gear and swung it into the street, seemingly oblivious to Willoughby’s embarrassment. “It has 549.37 horses,” he shouted; “and the radio—much bass!” The sound rattled the windows as Antonio turned up the volume and punched the accelerator.
Willoughby fought the g-forces as he reached toward the dash to flip the radio off. Antonio laughed and began to slow the car. They were approaching a traffic light. “I told you! I told you!” he bubbled. “She is magnificent, no?”
“Antonio,” Willoughby said, wiping beads of sweat from his brow, “come on! Where is the real car?”
“Real car?” Antonio looked suddenly wounded. “You insult my Lola?” He bent forward, caressing the fur dash. “Don’t listen to him, Lola! He’s a gringo, he knows nothing about the beauty of a fine, precision machine.”
“Lola?” Willoughby’s eyes narrowed. “Lola, as in ‘…her name is Lola. She is a showgirl’?”
“Barry Manilow! A most excellent song!” Antonio smiled. He began crooning, sounding like a hyena sitting on a jack-hammer. “…with those feathers in her hair, and the dress cut down to there…”
Willoughby slapped his forehead. “Antonio! You’re brilliant and unbelievably wealthy! Why are you acting like, like—”
“Like a humble Spanish-American barber who respects his people and his culture? Why do people like you believe a man cannot be humble and respectful of his people despite wealth or achievement? Tell me this, my friend; would you have been willing to confide in a snobbish and conceited architect?”
Willoughby leaned back heavily in the seat. After a moment of silence, he sighed. “There has been so much, I don’t know—hidden stuff. I meant no disrespect for Spanish-American culture. I only thought—”
“You only thought I was pretending. You thought that I would change who I am because someone noted that I have brains and gave me the chance to have wealth. I would never do that, my friend. I am the same person I have always been. My shop may offer a different setting from my buildings, but it is a setting I relish and genuinely love. The hind quarters of a burro may be more muscled than you suppose, but how does that make the face less friendly?”