by Mark Frost
“Likewise,” said Will. “What’s a provost marshal?”
Lyle seemed amused by the question. “We have rules in the residence halls. I don’t make them, but I am charged with enforcing them. Reluctantly on occasion, but at all times, I can assure you, with alacrity.”
He reached over and unzipped Will’s bag. Will thought about stopping him, but a worried look from Brooke dissuaded him.
“You can start by giving me your cell phone and laptop,” said Lyle.
“Why?”
“School policy,” said Lyle. “They’re not allowed on campus.”
“No phones, no texting?” asked Will, addressing Brooke as much as Lyle. Brooke confirmed, with a subtle shake of her head. “I’d like to hear the reason.”
“Students at the Center are encouraged to communicate through more traditional methods,” said Lyle patiently. “Using the neglected arts of face-to-face conversation and the written word. Or, if need be, our system of courtesy telephones, placed conveniently throughout the facilities.”
He pointed to an old-fashioned black phone on a corner cabinet that looked like it had been gathering dust since 1960.
“That seems, nothing personal … completely insane,” said Will.
“Everyone feels that way when they first arrive.” Lyle held out his hand, palm up. Dead serious. He wanted Will’s gear, and he wanted it now.
Will tried to stall. His iPhone he could part with, but he couldn’t afford to lose the phone Nando had given him. “Okay. The phone thing I can see in theory, but no laptops?”
Now Lyle sounded annoyed. “The school provides every student with a customized tablet for their personal use. Our IT staff will transfer all your data onto its hard drive—”
“What if I prefer my own?”
“—built with components and software developed in our labs. Considerably more sophisticated than this dreck from your trendy suburban retailer. Isn’t that right, Miss Springer?”
“Yes.” With her eyes, Brooke urged him not to press this.
“When do I get them back?”
Lyle made a visible effort to stay calm. “They’re securely stored and returned to you at the end of term.”
“I’ve got a bunch of stuff on my phone I need to back up to my hard drive,” said Will. “Address book, calendar, personal files—”
“Go right ahead,” said Lyle. “Now.”
Will’s laptop was his most precious possession, a luxury his parents had scarcely been able to afford. He glanced at Brooke again. She looked panicked: Please cooperate. Will took out his MacBook and iPhone, cabled them, and started a sync.
With Lyle watching him, Nando’s cell phone felt like it was burning a hole in his front pocket. He resisted an impulse to touch it while Lyle stared holes in him.
“Can I keep my iPod?” asked Will. “Or do we have to transfer everything back onto vinyl?”
A laugh burst out of Brooke, which she quickly stifled. Lyle didn’t react. He moved to the cabinet in the corner of the room, unlocked it, and collected some printed material.
Will reached into his pocket and pulled out Nando’s cell phone. While Lyle’s back was turned, he pressed it into Brooke’s hand and squeezed her fingers around it. Wide-eyed with alarm, she hid it behind her as Lyle walked back to Will and gave him a booklet and a letter.
“Your copy of our Student Code of Conduct,” said Lyle. “And I need your signature on this release form, which stipulates that you will comply with and be bound by all the rules and regulations herein.”
#68: NEVER SIGN A LEGAL DOCUMENT THAT HASN’T BEEN APPROVED BY A LAWYER WHO WORKS FOR YOU.
Lyle offered a pen from his pocket. Will ignored it.
“Great,” said Will. “I’ll take a look and get back to you.”
Lyle studied him, searching for insubordination, but Will just smiled.
“I’m going to examine the rest of your belongings,” said Lyle. “You’ll find the legal authority for this on page six, article three: Arrival Inspection. Along with a detailed list of banned and forbidden objects and substances.”
Will glanced at Brooke. She confirmed with an anxious nod.
“I’ve got nothing to hide,” said Will.
“Empty your pockets,” said Lyle.
Will turned the pockets of his sweats inside out. Lyle opened his bag and poked around, delicately, using the pen. He fished out Will’s dark glasses, then came up with the ones Dave had given him on the plane. Lyle examined them avidly.
“Are dark glasses on the banned list?” asked Will.
“Why do you have two pairs?”
“Rule number ninety-seven: Regarding eyewear and underwear: Always travel with backups.”
“Where did these come from?” asked Lyle, looking through the lenses.
“Boutique label.”
“I don’t see any label.”
“That’s what makes them so legit. It’s a West Coast thing.”
Not entirely convinced, Lyle put both pairs back in the bag. He brought out Will’s Swiss Army knife and held it in the palm of his hand.
“Violation,” said Lyle, smirking. “This is a weapon.”
“Sorry to quibble, but that’s incorrect. May I?” asked Will, lifting the knife from Lyle’s hand. “It has a blade, yes, but that was originally included so soldiers could open cans of field rations.” Will unfolded each tool. “It also has a chisel, scissors, a bottle opener, a screwdriver, an awl, a wire stripper, and a key ring. They give it to guys who already have rifles, bayonets, and hand grenades. It’s not a weapon; it’s a toolbox, and I’ll call and argue that to the headmaster right now if you take it.”
Fuming, Lyle set the knife back in Will’s bag. After more probing, he lifted out the folded hand towel. Setting it on the table, he unrolled it, revealing the remains of the broken bird.
Damn. I keep forgetting that’s in there.
Lyle held out a questioning hand, as if this time he didn’t even need to ask.
“Science project,” said Will. “From my old school. I’m still tinkering, so I couldn’t bear to part with it—”
“What is this?” asked Lyle.
“What’s it look like?”
“It looks like a mechanical bird.”
“Yes, exactly what I was going for. Fist bump.”
Lyle ignored him. Will sensed Lyle really wanted to confiscate the bird—wanted to confiscate anything—but was fishing for a reason.
“Don’t tell me mechanical birds are on the banned list,” said Will.
“Surveillance equipment is.”
“Surveillance equipment?”
“That’s a camera, isn’t it?” asked Lyle, pointing to the eye.
“That’s flattering, Lyle, but you have wildly overestimated my engineering ability. I couldn’t even program the doggone thing to tweet, let alone fly. I’m hoping somebody here can teach me how to—”
Lyle drew himself up and locked eyes with Will. Will felt a strong, unpleasant pressure in his head, like a steel band had dropped and tightened on his skull, followed immediately by a sensation that someone was poking at the edge of his brain with a penknife. The wound on his head throbbed painfully and threatened to get a whole lot worse. Will didn’t want to show he felt anything, so he turned to Brooke. She looked pale and sincerely frightened.
And suddenly Will understood why: Lyle Ogilvy played some kind of mind music, the way Will knew how to do, but unlike Will, he apparently felt no qualms about using his power on other people.
Will tried to evade Lyle’s psychic prodding by pushing a blank picture at him. It didn’t seem to affect him, but something stirred inside Will, like an electric current twitching to life. He sensed more power there but had no idea how to use it.
As he struggled, his perception of Lyle’s pressure shifted, a new field of vision opening before him. It was as if he could see and hear whispered suggestions oozing out of Lyle, floating toward him like a volley of slow-moving bullets. Poisonous fragments of
thought embedded in soul-piercing jackets aimed at his mind:
Let go … stop fighting … let me in … don’t resist … I’m your friend … trust me …
Will recoiled. Instinctively he knew that once one of Lyle-the-Strange-o’s “bullets” drilled into him, he’d find himself doing exactly what Lyle wanted, without a clue about why. No wonder he scared the crap out of kids like Brooke.
The thought of this arrogant cretin intimidating Brooke pushed Will over the edge. His anger ramped up the twitching circuitry in his mind into a unified surge of power, and the mind picture he’d been trying to project assumed the shape of a bright, impenetrable shield. It felt a little like trying to steer a runaway truck by kicking the tires, but somehow Will swung the shield in Lyle’s direction.
Their energies collided. Lyle’s bullets shattered as they hit Will’s shield. At the moment of contact, Will knew that whatever mojo Lyle could throw at him was ten times stronger than his own. A violent shock wave ran back into Will, like he’d touched a live wire. But Lyle felt a kickback, too, and as his eyes lit up in shock, Will realized something:
He’s never been challenged like this before.
Lyle’s eyes redlined with anger. With his new awareness, Will could see Lyle’s power regroup into a dark and dangerous mass. If his prior intent had been to probe, now he meant to punish.
Will knew he’d have no chance this time. So instead of trying to block him, Will feinted forward, then yanked his shield back and to the side. Like pulling a chair out from under someone halfway sitting down. The hammer blow of Lyle’s fury blew past him, as if a freight train had missed him by an inch.
The faintest breath of wind rippled a few strands of Brooke’s hair. On the wall behind them, a framed photograph of the Center sagged ever so slightly off center. The energy in the room sizzled and then vanished with a snap.
They stood there looking at each other, exactly as before. They’d hardly moved a muscle during their psychic jujitsu.
Lyle smiled confidently, showing his canines. “I’m quite certain somebody here can teach you something.” He placed the bird back in Will’s bag.
A tone sounded, indicating Will’s iPhone and MacBook had synced. Lyle disconnected them and placed them in a plastic tray.
“As soon as the data transfer is complete,” said Lyle, “your new tablet will be sent to your quarters. Miss Springer will show you to them now.”
Lyle nodded at Brooke, who opened the outer door. She couldn’t leave the room fast enough. Will zipped up his bag and winked at Lyle.
“See you round campus, pal.”
Lyle didn’t respond until Will reached the door.
“West. Let me offer some personal advice: At the Center, we say that problems exist only in order to inspire us to find solutions. Don’t be an inspiration to me.”
Lyle disappeared into his inner office. Will walked outside and joined Brooke. After a few steps, he staggered and had to brace himself against the wall. The same blackness and nausea he’d felt at the airport washed over him, although this time it was much worse.
“Are you all right?” asked Brooke.
He grunted, holding his head. She leaned against the wall beside him, close. Still afraid.
“How did you do that?” she whispered.
How much did she see, or sense, of what went on in there? Will wondered.
“Do what?” he whispered back.
“Stand up to Lyle that way. I’ve never seen anybody manage it before.”
#91: THERE IS NOT—NOR SHOULD THERE BE—ANY LIMIT TO WHAT A GUY WILL GO THROUGH TO IMPRESS THE RIGHT GIRL.
“I don’t like bullies,” he said.
She pressed Nando’s phone back into Will’s hand. He slipped it into his pocket.
“Come on, let’s get you upstairs,” she said, taking his arm. “Your head’s bleeding.”
POD G4-3
Brooke decided Will shouldn’t take the stairs, so a large, lumbering elevator conveyed them to the fourth floor. Will held it together for Brooke’s benefit but felt as if someone had scooped out his insides and dumped him down a well.
The elevator deposited them into a central lobby full of light and brightly colored couches. Corridors ran out from the lobby like spokes from the hub of a wheel. She helped him down one of the corridors. Shorter passages fed off to either side. Turning down the last one on the left, Brooke took out a key card. They approached a white door marked with red raised letters: G4-3.
“Four floors to each hall. Twelve pods to a floor. Five students to a pod.”
Will quickly did the math: 1,360 students at the Center.
She scanned the card through a box above the handle. An electronic tone warbled. They entered a large octagonal central space, punched with wide skylights that cheerfully brightened the room. Clusters of comfortable couches and overstuffed chairs in muted colors softened the sharp architectural lines. She guided him to a dining table with five chairs that sat outside a small, efficient kitchen.
“Sit here,” she said, easing Will into one of the chairs. “Be right back.”
She disappeared through one of five doors that led off the great room. Will looked around. Built-in bookshelves lined the walls. A single step led down to the heart of the room, where large pillows and throw rugs surrounded a round rock fireplace. Two old-fashioned black phones sat on opposite ends of the room. There were no TV or computer screens in sight, which made the room seem strangely timeless.
Classical piano music played from inside one of the closed bedroom doors. Someone was practicing, someone exceptionally skilled. Brooke returned with cotton pads and hydrogen peroxide. She opened the bottle and soaked one of the pads.
“You don’t have to do this,” said Will. “I can go back to the infirmary.” His head still hurt, but the weakness had started to fade.
“Two years as a nurse’s aide—I think I can manage,” said Brooke. “My mom’s a doctor. Tilt your head this way.”
She leaned over, brushed his hair out of the way, and removed his bandage. When she set it on the table, Will saw it was solid red. She dabbed peroxide gently on his stitches; he willed himself not to react. She bit her lip as she concentrated.
“Looks like the stitches held … and the bleeding’s stopped.… Doesn’t that hurt like hell?”
“No,” he said.
“Liar. I’d be screaming.”
“Nurse’s aide, huh?”
“Shut up.” Brooke finished cleaning the wound and prepped a new bandage.
“How’d you end up here?” asked Will.
“My dad’s an alumnus. We never really discussed my going anywhere else.”
“So it had nothing to do with your test scores?”
“My scores were great, but legacy kids also have an inside track. I’ve known I was coming here since third grade.” She applied the new bandage. “That’ll do it. Don’t tell another soul you have that cell phone.”
“I won’t if you won’t.”
Brooke looked seriously at him. “No joke, Will. I saw Lyle find a BlackBerry on a freshman last year. The kid got a nosebleed that wouldn’t quit.”
And I’ll bet Lyle never laid a hand on him. Will cringed at the memory of Lyle’s attack. “The wrong people always get put in charge,” he said.
“I should have warned you about Lyle. Next time you’ll know better.”
Next time I’ll be ready.
“I’m sorry, did you say something?” she asked.
“No.” Okay, this is happening a lot lately.
Brooke gave him a long look, then set the medical supplies on a counter and turned formal tour guide again. “So this is our shared space. Communal kitchen. Bedrooms are through each door. You’re over here.”
She led him to a door marked “4.” Inside was a surprisingly large furnished room with irregular angles, pale blue walls, and dark hardwood floors. It was furnished with a single bed, nightstand, and sturdy desk with a futuristic meshwork chair. One of the black phones sat o
n the desk. A chest of drawers sat in an open closet. A large bay window looked out over the woods, away from campus. The only other door led to a private white-tiled bathroom.
“The blank canvas design is intentional, by the way,” she said. “You’re expected to make it your own. Are you hungry?”
“Starved.”
“Take your time. I’ll see what we have in the kitchen.”
She closed the door behind her. Will set his bag on the bed. Tested the mattress. Firm but not too firm: the perfect balance. The room felt pleasant but utterly neutral. He might have been anywhere in the world.
This is where I live now.
He’d faced this moment many times before. He was used to starting over.
But never alone. Never without my parents.
Now that he was here—and safe—the enormity of his loss came rushing at him. He wrestled those feelings down before the anguish overwhelmed him.
I’m not going to grieve. I’m not going to give whoever did this to us the satisfaction. I know they’re still alive and I’m going to fight until I find them.
He’d been dropped into this new life now. He had to stay strong and keep moving forward. That’s what his parents would want him to do.
#50: IN TIMES OF CHAOS, STICK TO ROUTINE. BUILD ORDER ONE STEP AT A TIME.
Will dried his eyes, took a long look in the mirror, and didn’t like what he saw: exhausted, pale, beaten down. He put away his few clothes in the closet. Set the mechanical bird in the top drawer of the dresser and folded the towel over it. The framed photograph of his parents and Dad’s rules went on the bedside table. He hid the cell phone under the mattress and plugged in its charger behind the bed.
Will took a shower. Instant hot water blasted from an adjustable showerhead under solid pressure. Careful not to get his hair wet, he washed off the wear and tear of the road. Somewhat revived, he changed into his spare jeans, a white T-shirt, sweater, and his bomber jacket. Which more or less exhausted his wardrobe.