While You Were Gone

by Amy K. Nichols

  “We should get to work.”

  He rolls his eyes. “But the code was so easy.”

  It takes me a while to find the note he passed to me at the press conference. I finally find it in my bag, smashed between a binder and a biography of Rembrandt. “I thought it was going to be something important.” I toss it on the table.

  He looks left and right, then whispers, “It is important.”

  “It’s just letters and numbers.”

  “Those letters and numbers could change your life.” He raises an eyebrow and nods slowly.

  “Yeah, well, you could have changed my life by getting me in trouble. If my dad had seen you passing me a note—”

  He waves away my complaint. “You’re just stalling now.”

  “Fine.” I unfold the note and read it again. And again. Then shake my head. “Still don’t get it.”

  He falls back in his chair. “You’re hopeless as a spy.”

  “News flash: I’m not trying to be a spy.” I flop my science binder open and pull out my study guide. “I’m trying to be an artist who can pass her science class.”

  “Not nearly as fun.”

  Last month I helped him prepare for his test on art during the Cold War, when the movement toward protecting Americans from countercultural ideas began. He aced it, of course, because he had me in his corner. Now I’m the one who needs help. This unit on atoms is just not meshing. It’s not that I’m bad at science. It’s just that my brain works better with images than words, and Warren is really good at translating scientific jargon into pictures. “We really should get started.” I slide my study guide across the table.

  “First promise you’ll try to figure out the code.”

  “Fine.” I raise my right hand. “I promise. Now, can we…?”

  He moves his glasses down onto his face and looks over the study guide, muttering words as he reads. “Matter…atoms…polarity…” He sets it down. “Electromagnetic repulsion. Fascinating stuff.”

  “Enlighten me, Einstein.”

  “Atoms are ninety-nine percent empty space. They get their shape from the negatively charged electrons spinning around the nucleus. Now, the human body is made up of approximately seven octillion atoms—”

  “That’s not a word.”

  “Yes it is. Seven octillion atoms, which means you are mostly empty space.”

  “You’re mostly empty space.”

  He scowls. “Pay attention. Everything is made of atoms, so everything is mostly nothing. Empty space. And that means you’re not actually sitting on that chair.”

  “Is this that thing where you’re just showing off how much you know? Or does this actually have to do with my test?”

  “Listen.” He sticks out his hands like he’s holding an invisible ball. “The closer atoms are together, the more they repulse each other. Like when you try to force magnets to touch pole to pole. You feel that resisting force between them, right? So, the same thing is happening right now between your butt and that chair. It feels like you’re sitting, but you’re actually floating above it.”

  “Suspended by the repulsion of my seven—what was it?”

  “Octillion.”

  “Seven octillion atoms.”

  “Exactly. Which means there isn’t really such a thing as touching.” He puts his hand flat on the table. “I’m not actually touching this. There is an infinitesimal amount of space between the atoms of the desk and the atoms of my hand.”

  “But you feel it.”

  “And yet, I’m still not actually touching it.”

  He continues working his way through the concepts, and forty minutes later, I feel like I have enough of a grasp to take the test.

  “Coulomb’s law is the foundation of electromagnetism. And electromagnetism is the foundation of the new Skylar system.” He hands me the study guide. “Coincidence?”

  I think back to the explanation they gave during the DART demo, before Nina passed that wand over my head. “You mean, you think we’re studying this stuff now because of that?”

  He gives a small shrug. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you start to see it cropping up more and more. Introduce an idea, then disseminate it through the populace until it becomes a new norm.” He looks at his watch and begins packing up his things. “That’s how I’d do it, at least.”

  I gather up my stuff, too. “If you’re such a skeptic, why do you work for them?”

  “I don’t work for them.” He zips up his backpack. “I’m an intern.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  He thinks a moment, then says, “Let’s just say I’m doing my part to ensure the promise of our future.” He grins, knowing I’d recognize the line from Dad’s speech. “Seriously, though, it’s the ultimate gig for a science student. Huge opportunity. Security systems are just one aspect of DART. There are lots of programs people don’t know about. Stealth technologies. Microbiological weaponry. You name it.”

  “Do you work on those, too?”

  “If I told you that, I’d have to kill you.” He slings his backpack over his shoulder and we walk together toward the exit.

  He stops at the art wall, in front of a small painting of a rose. “Is this one of yours?”

  “Yes.” I’m still not happy with the way I painted the shadows beneath the petals.

  “You know what you should do? Paint mash-ups of art and science.” He crashes his hands together like an implosion. “That would be cool.”

  “Probably wouldn’t get approved.”

  “Approved shmooved.” He holds open the door and we walk out into warm midday air.

  “Until next time, Eevee Solomon.” He makes an exaggerated bow and saunters down the sidewalk. When he’s almost out of earshot, he turns and yells, “Don’t forget the note!”

  The school welding shop roars with dozens of motors and machines running at once. Germ guides a length of metal tubing through the roller. It winds around in a wide arc. When it’s done, he passes it to me and starts on the next one. I measure and mark two and a half feet, then make the cut using the band saw. My brain tells me over and over to pay attention, but the rattle of the machine puts me in a kind of trance. My thoughts spin like the blade, on an endless loop.

  This morning, three more girls stopped to talk to me when I got to school. That’s five so far. Definitely a new record. That never happens to me back home, unless you count them calling me a burnout or a loser. Still, I would trade all the girls I’ve ever talked to in either world for the chance to see the grocery store girl again.

  “Hey!” Germ’s voice snaps me out of my daze. He slides the last piece on the table and measures the tile we’ve chosen for the top. “Earth to Ogden.”

  I switch the machine off and carry the cut pieces over to the worktable.

  “You looked like you were trying to lose a finger,” he says. “You okay?”

  “Zoned out for a sec.”

  The teacher, a wiry guy with a Fu Manchu mustache, gave us an hour to create a stable structure. Other teams are building toolboxes, racks. Looks like one team is making a bench. We chose a table. And so far, so good. I’ve never done this kind of stuff before, and I’m watching Germ for cues, but it seems like I’ve got the hang of it. Like it comes naturally. I pull off my work gloves to wipe the sweat from under my safety goggles. My hands are grimy, but it’s a satisfying grunge. It feels right.

  If Palo Brea were more like this, I probably wouldn’t ditch so much. Less lecturing, more doing. And doing real stuff, especially.

  “We still on for tonight?” Germ grabs his welding helmet. I grab mine, too, and slip the band onto my head, wincing when it rubs the bruise.

  “Yep.” I line up a length of the metal tubing with the upside-down table frame and flip my visor down. Germ leans in and takes the first weld. My visor window reacts to the bright glow, then clears so I can see. The metal sizzles and pops as he weaves the wire through the seam. I watch him closely, studying how he moves. When the leg is secured al
l around, he flips his helmet up and blows on the welder tip like it’s the barrel of a gun. Then it’s my turn.

  We trade places and I take a deep breath while he lines up the next leg. When he gives me the nod, I set the welder tip in place and flip my helmet down. I press the trigger, but the wire misses the metal and spools out. A total dud. I groan and press the tip closer into the corner where the leg meets the frame. Hold my breath and press the trigger again. This time it catches, sticking to the metal and melting the two pieces into one. I watch the orange glow through my visor and stitch the wand like Germ did, guiding it around the table leg. When I reach the end, I pull the welder away, flip up my visor and watch the weld cool from orange to black. It isn’t as pretty as Germ’s work, but hopefully it’s as good as Danny’s.

  Wednesday before civics class, I take a break and sit outside under a eucalyptus tree on the lawn next to my dorm, McConnell Hall. The day looks colder than it actually is. From my bag I pull an apple and Warren’s super secret spy note. It’s become a welcome distraction from everything going on.

  The last one he gave me was way easier: a backward number 1, a square, and a backward 2. Back to square one. This puzzle, though, has me stumped.

  I take a bite of apple and read through it again.

  I look out across the lawn, watch a grackle hop by and read it again. Maybe if I let my eyes go unfocused, it’ll pop out at me? No. I take another bite of apple and think about Confidante instead.

  Ever since Dad mentioned putting it back together, my brain’s been noodling around with an idea. Even if I could glue it back together with resin or PVA, the pieces are damaged beyond restoration. But what if I do something different? Stitch them together, maybe, or wire them into place. It wouldn’t be anything I could submit to the jury, but it might be cool to have for my own collection.

  The bell rings and students stream out onto the sidewalks. Time to get to class. I take a last bite and look down at the note.

  Something clicks.

  The second letter-number combination is a word.

  Castle.

  The numbers are letters.

  Mystery. Castle.

  What’s a mystery castle? And why is Warren telling me about it in code?

  The silence of the library feels louder than the racket of the school hallways. Civics is happening in a lecture hall on the other side of the building, but I decided to come here instead. The note is now burning a hole in my pocket. I’ll worry about what I missed in class later. I walk down the carpeted steps into the cocoon of velvet and mahogany and move through the towering shelves of books toward the information desk. The librarian looks at me over her readers. “May I help you?”

  I keep my voice low. “This is a strange question, but have you ever heard of something called a mystery castle?”

  “Is it in Phoenix?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Have you searched online?”

  “No.” Too risky. But not if she does the searching for me.

  “Let me run a keyword search through our collections first.”

  “Thanks.”

  She types on her keyboard, hits ENTER and scans the screen. “Here we are.” In perfect script, she writes the location of the book on a slip of paper. “If this doesn’t turn out to be what you’re looking for, let me know.” She slides the paper across the desk.

  “Thank you.” I read the notation. Another code to decipher: 979.1 TIMESPA—Adult—Book.

  “The history section begins four stacks to your right. Toward the end.”

  I thank her again and walk through the shelves, reading titles and reference numbers as I go. Now and then I step over a student sitting on the floor, engrossed in reading. Finally, I see the 900 section. I trace the reference numbers on the spines, then crouch to the lowest shelf and find it. A History of Architecture in Arizona. I set my bag on the floor and sit down.

  The book is old. The pages are yellowed and have that stale smell of time and too many fingers turning them. The table of contents reveals nothing, so I go to the index and search through the Cs. Carnival. Cars. Castle.

  Castle, Mystery, 81.

  I flip to the page and read.

  In the ’40s, a man moved to Phoenix because of health problems. He had a lung disease that would be helped by the salt air. He didn’t have enough money to move his family, so he came here alone. Every day he missed them, especially his daughter. With what money he had, he bought some land at the foot of South Mountain and built his daughter a castle out of rocks, bottles, scraps of anything he could find. One day she’d come to live with him, and when she did, she would live in a castle. He died, though, before he ever saw that day come.

  Sepia-toned photos show the odd formations of the building. Pillars of rock, windows of multicolored bits of glass. What a strange place.

  I pull the note out and read it again. Mystery castle. If the 3s are Es, then w3d means wed. Wednesday.

  That’s today.

  If 5s are Ss, then maybe 2s are Zs. So 2ı30 means…zieo? That can’t be right. Maybe they’re just numbers. An address? No. A time. Military time: 2ı30 is 9:30 p.m.

  Mystery Castle Wed 9:30 p.m.

  This isn’t a puzzle. It’s a coded invitation. But why?

  Because it’s a secret.

  I quickly fold the note and look over my shoulder, but there are only books staring back. I bury the paper deep inside my bag and return the book to its place on the shelf. If I check it out, my name will be associated with it. It’s a long shot that anyone would make the connection, but why take the risk?

  “Was the book helpful?” The librarian’s question startles me when I pass her desk.

  “Um”—I make a sad face—“no, it wasn’t quite what I was looking for.”

  “Do you want to try online?” She points at her computer.

  “No.” I back away. “That’s okay. It doesn’t really matter.”

  “Watch out for the—”

  I bump into a cart and yelp so loud everyone stares at me. I straighten the toppled books and whisper, “Sorry,” before rushing for the doors. So much for not drawing attention to myself.

  After school, Germ comes over to work on the secret plan to make our mark on the city before Skylar goes live. Too stuffed from dinner to move, I lie on the bed and flip through the drawings in Danny’s sketchbook. Germ sprawls out on the floor, pencil in his teeth, staring at the ceiling. His eyes move when he thinks. “The thing is, we have to make sure no one recognizes our work. I mean, you’re known for your faces. I’m known for my letters.”

  “You are?”

  He lifts his head off the floor and snaps, “Yes.”

  Oops. “Just messing with you, man.”

  The sketchbook is full of people, animals, monsters. I turn a page and suck in my breath. It’s her. Dark hair, bright eyes. My throat goes tight. Should I ask Germ who she is?

  He mutters something I can’t understand.

  “What?”

  He takes the pencil out of his teeth. “Stencils.” He sits up on his elbows. “What if we do stencils? Not as fun as free-form, but we can paint it quickly and no one will know it’s us.”

  “I don’t remember the last time I used a stencil,” I say, still staring at her.

  “Dude, we used them last week at the mall.” He raises his eyebrow. “Still can’t remember?”

  I shake my head.

  He taps a rhythm on the floor and stares at me. Then he looks back at the ceiling. “The hard part is deciding what to make.”

  “Well…” I set the sketchbook aside and stretch my legs up the wall so my head falls back over the edge of the bed. “What do we want to say?”

  He drums the pencil. “That Skylar is bad.”

  “ ‘Skylar is the devil’?”

  “A devil face with Skylar over the eyes?”

  “A red circle with Skylar crossed out?”

  We both go quiet. What are we trying to say? I try to think up the right image. My mind
flashes to the time Brent caught me sneaking into the foster home after being out all night. He was waiting for me in my room. Leapt out of the dark and pounded the crap out of me. “This is about control,” I say, still seeing his fists flying. “When you’re afraid, you’re easily controlled.”

  “Maybe something like ‘Don’t be afraid’?”

  “ ‘Don’t let them control you’?”

  “ ‘Stop giving them control’?”

  “How about ‘Fear equals control’?”

  “That’s good.” He turns to a blank page in his notebook and starts sketching. “Equals like an equal sign?”

  “Yeah. Don’t you think?”

  He nods. I watch his pencil pull lines across the paper. Each one is exact, fitting with the next. He really is good.

  In no time flat, he’s done. “Something like this?”

  The word fear is shaky, like the letters are scared. Two thick parallel lines make the equal sign. And the word control is heavy and solid, with cracks breaking the invisible ground beneath it.

  “Dude.” I sit up and my head spins. “That is awesome.”

  He sets the paper down. “What if we get caught?”

  “But we’ve done this with RD.” I tread carefully. “Right?”

  “This feels different.” He grasps his elbows around his knees. “They always had our back, you know? With this, we’ll be on our own.”

  “They didn’t on Friday when we almost got blown up.”

  “Good point.” He shakes his head. “Listen, we can’t do this anywhere near my dad’s beat, deal?”

  “Your dad is a cop?!” It’s out of my mouth before I realize what I’ve done.

  Germ’s face changes from confusion to anger. He stands up and throws the pencil to the floor. “That’s it. What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “Nothing.” I try to shrug it off.

  “Huh-uh. Something’s not right. Start talking.”

  My mind scrambles to come up with an excuse, but when you’re best friends with someone the way Danny is best friends with Germ, you know things like the fact that his dad is a cop. I run my hand over my too-short hair and stare at the FEAR = CONTROL sign.