by Jim Kroepfl
“I’m new,” is all I can muster.
“New?” a Hispanic-looking guy echoes.
The tall guy I saw shooting baskets when I first arrived rises from the couch and comes over with his hand extended. “I’m Stryker. What’s your discipline?”
It takes me a second to figure out what he means. “Art,” I answer, shaking his hand. “I’m a painter.”
“That’s not a Nobel field,” says an Asian girl with heavily lined eyes, three piercings in her right eyebrow and dyed silver hair. Not silver-gray. Not silver-white. Silver. It gleams like newly polished metal.
I can’t start off letting them think I’m cool with being the designated punching bag. “That’s only because da Vinci isn’t around to make it one. It’s up to me.”
A pimply-faced guy snorts in what sounds like appreciation, then jots something in his notebook.
“The Darwinians must have a good reason for adding a new field,” says a tiny girl with glasses that make her look even smarter than she probably is.
“If Art is now included as part of this Program, then Art is welcome to join us,” Stryker declares, making it clear his decision is final.
I can’t tell if he’s being friendly or dissing me, but I pull up a chair and maneuver it next to the girl with the sunset-red hair.
“Sorry, no one told us that another Nobel would be joining our class,” the Hispanic guy explains.
“They needed a lucky number seven. My name is … Orfyn.” It’s the first time I’ve ever introduced myself using it. It feels right.
“Is that your real name?” The Asian girl makes it sound like a dare.
“It is now,” I say with more defensiveness than I wanted to portray.
“Interesting.” She looks at me in a way that makes me wonder if she knows who I am. “I’m Anna.”
“Where are you from?” I ask her.
“The unshaven armpit of California. L.A.”
She couldn’t have heard of me. I’m not that famous.
“Anna is our Nobel for Physiology,” Stryker explains.
“I’m Alex. Physics,” says the Hispanic guy whose skin is darker than mine. His smile is wide and welcoming, and I know right away we’ll be friends. When Alex stands to fist-bump me, I read his shirt. Entropy isn’t what it used to be. That’s supposed to be a joke—I think.
“Don’t let Alex demonstrate what he calls his Wile E. Coyote Theory of Gravity on you,” Stryker says to me.
I fake chuckle along with the rest of them. I am so out of my league.
Stryker points to the girl with the glasses who’s been so nice. “This is Jules. She’s Economics.” Then he jerks his head at the guy whose nose is buried in his notebook. “And that’s Marty, our very own Word Man.”
“Hey,” Marty says without looking up. He has a major case of bedhead that I’m pretty sure wasn’t styled to look that way, and he looks younger than the others. Maybe fourteen.
Stryker finally gets to the person I’ve been eyeing this whole time. “And last, but not least, is Lake, our Nobel for Chemistry.”
Her eyes remind me of a clear mountain lake, but there’s a sadness in them. I hold out my hand. After a long moment, Lake takes it. I swear a rush of energy surges between us. Did she feel it, too? I may not know how to perform brain surgery—like they all probably do—but I know one thing: this is a girl I’m going to paint.
“Who are you merged with?” Anna asks me.
“Bat …” I realize too late that I never learned his last name. “Just Bat. You know, like Rihanna or Bono.” I think I pulled it off.
“Never heard of him, but I’m sure he’s somebody amazing if they merged him with you,” she says, then turns to say something to Lake.
Now that I think about it, Bat’s house is filled with masterpieces, but I’ve never seen his work.
“Where did you study?” Jules asks me.
“Under a bridge.” It’s the truth. Long story.
Stryker asks, “The Ponte Vecchio?”
“Uhm, no.” So what if I didn’t go to some fancy art school? I don’t have anything to be ashamed of. People get into my work. “I’m a street artist.”
“Good one,” Alex says. “Like they’d ever select a vandal for this Program.”
“Some of that stuff is pretty cool,” Anna says.
“I hate how those people destroy the beauty of our cities,” Lake says.
“I know!” Jules seconds. “It’s so disrespectful.”
My shaky confidence plunges even further. I’d always kept what I did a secret to protect St. Catherine’s, and, yeah, to keep me out of jail, but I never thought I’d need to keep it a secret here. I’m not disrespecting. I’m turning ugly places into something beautiful.
“When did you get here, Orfyn?” Alex asks.
By now, I’m almost afraid to answer. “A week ago.”
“And you’ve already merged?” Lake asks.
“Yeah,” I answer, trying not to make it sound like a question. Maybe merged means something different to them.
Stryker looks at me oddly. “Art would certainly use different parts of the brain than our disciplines.”
Another strike. I’ve been trying to tell them the truth, and they laughed. Even worse, they looked down on me. If I’m going to live with these people for the next five years, I will not be that guy—the freak, the outcast, the loner. A Bible verse Sister Mo loves to repeat pops into my head: Even a foofool, when he keeps silent, is considered wise. I don’t even care about the wise part, but to survive here, I need to keep my past a secret.
“I called this meeting because it’s important that the seven—” Stryker winks at me, making me wonder if he knew all along I’d show up today “—of us help each other navigate through this unique experience.”
“I think that’s a wonderful idea, Stryker,” Jules says, looking like she’s already planning their wedding.
“Thanks, Jules. Actually, Lake is the one who showed me how important it is to work together.” He smiles at her a bit too long.
“I propose we meet in the dining hall at noon on Mondays,” Alex says. “That way, we can eat lunch at lunchtime.”
Is that a joke?
Anna’s expression makes it obvious she thinks his suggestion is the stupidest ever. “It’ll never happen. I slept through my alarm and barely got here on time.”
“Good work, Anna. You’ve identified our first group assignment,” Stryker says, and I have to hold in my grin. “We each need to work with our Guardian to figure out how to wake up when we choose.”
Do I have a Guardian? No one said anything about that.
“I vote for no hand over the mouth,” Lake says to Stryker, and they share a look.
My stomach lurches. Do they have something going on?
Stryker turns his eyes away from Lake, though I can’t seem to. “The first item we need to discuss,” he says, “is whether everyone is having abnormally long sleep cycles.”
That hasn’t been happening to me. Do I dare admit it?
Everyone else nods, except for Marty, who’s absorbed in his notebook. Stryker looks at me questioningly.
“I’ve only dreamed twice, so I’m not sure yet,” I hedge.
Jules says, “We’re here to change the world. Who cares if we’re sleeping a little more?”
“I agree,” Anna says. “The longer we work, the sooner my Mentor and I will figure out how to deactivate the trigger for autoimmune diseases.”
And I thought I was intimidated before.
I look at Lake under hooded eyes. What amazing thing is she working on? Suddenly, keeping the humanity in Art doesn’t sound all that earth-shattering. And when are Bat and I going to get started?
“I’m all for a good snooze,” Alex says. “But I haven’t played my guitar in weeks.”
“For real?” Anna asks. “Why would you want to waste time on music instead of discovering a renewable energy sou
rce?”
Alex must understand, but do the others feel the same way about the arts? Why did they add Art if it isn’t a Nobel field?
“Everyone should sleep for as long as their Mentor deems is necessary,” Jules says.
“Within reason,” Lake adds.
“Let’s not forget that our Mentors are only conscious when we’re interacting with them in our dreams,” Stryker adds.
Jules looks at Stryker like he’s surprised her with an engagement ring. “Exactly. It’s not like they can watch TV or work out while they’re waiting for us to fall asleep. We need to respect their needs, too.”
Until now, I’ve never thought about what Bat did when I’m awake. Nothing, which isn’t all that different from what he does when we’re together.
The others start debating about the optimum sleep versus awake time. I zone out and spend my time stealing glances at Lake, who is spending more time observing than participating.
When Alex holds up a finger in the air, I’m expecting to hear something brilliant. “Let’s throw a party!”
“We shouldn’t waste time on trivial things like that,” Anna says.
“We all defied the risks to become the first Nobels,” Alex says. “In my culture, we celebrate our triumphs.”
“And now we’ve got the new guy to pull it together,” Stryker says. “All in favor?” He holds up his right hand, and everyone else does the same.
“Uhm … ” I want to protest, but I can’t think of a good reason why I can’t do it. Now that I’ve merged, I’ve actually got a lot of time on my hands. But I have the feeling Stryker’s reason for picking me isn’t to raise my status.
I’m about to tell them how I’m too busy when Lake looks at me. “I know this sounds implausible, but I’ve never been to a party. I mean, with people our age.”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Anna says snarkily.
“I’ve always had more important things to do,” Lake says, looking hurt.
“Then it’s about time, Lake,” I say. “I’ll throw you a killer party.”
Game on, Stryker.
When everyone is heading out, Lake comes over to me. “Thanks for volunteering,” she says with a smirk, since we both know I was sabotaged. “And don’t let them get to you. We’re all out of our element.”
Orfyn
All great parties have a theme. The only one I could think of comes from the creepy stories Sister Mo told us about Jamaica: full-moon parties, duppies, and voodoo. She always spoke in this apocalyptic lilt, and when a nun tells you that you really do need to watch out for zombies, you’d better believe her.
I knew just the place to hold ours. The Darwinians set up a studio for me in the school’s old art classroom, and they filled it with all the supplies I could ever wish for: oils, brushes, pencils, canvases, easels, spotlights. I prefer walls instead of canvas, so I’ve never painted there. Until now.
The music will be reggae, of course, but instead of the expected Bob Marley, I chose stuff they’ve probably never heard of, like The Abyssinians and Toots & the Maytals. The cooks got into it and agreed to make jerk chicken, fried plantains, and coconut tarts.
I’m headed to the kitchen to check on things when I spot Jules in the dining hall. She must have just gotten here, since she’s only taken one bite out of her burger.
She smiles and pats the seat next to her. “Keep me company while I’m eating.”
Jules has never made me feel like I don’t belong here—other than telling everyone she hates street art. But I don’t think she believed me, so we’ve been getting along.
“How’s the party planning going?” she asks.
“Great. It’s going to rock.”
“I knew Stryker chose the right person. Anything I can do to help?”
This is the first time anyone’s offered, which I guess is okay. They’re all really busy. “I’m still trying to figure out the drinks. I want to make something special.”
“Let me take care of it.”
I notice the book lying next to her: Capitalism and Freedom. “It’ll get in the way of your work.”
“Sarah has given me a ton of stuff to learn, but they always say, ‘If you want something done, ask a busy person to do it.’”
“Thanks. That’s really nice of you.” I mean it; she is nice. And she’s cute, if you like the kind of girl you see cheerleading at football games. I reach over and touch her arm, like I’m thanking her. And … nothing. The electricity between us is about the same level as when I open a refrigerator, unlike what I felt with Lake.
“The theme is Jamaican Beach Party,” I explain.
Jules claps excitedly. “I love it! I have the perfect outfit.”
“I hadn’t thought about having everyone dress up. Great idea. I’ll let the others know.” I’m really glad I ran into Jules.
“So how’s everything going with your Mentor? Bat, is it?” She leans forward, and I get the feeling she’s not just being polite. She really cares.
“Everything’s good.” I still haven’t seen Bat’s work, because we keep getting distracted with his stories behind the masterpieces on his wall. The guy knows more about art than I knew there was to know.
“Is he what you expected?”
I have to laugh. “Not exactly. But he’s okay.”
“What are you working on?”
Good question. We haven’t done anything but hang out and talk. When are we going to get started? I don’t want Jules to think I’m a slacker. “We’re brainstorming right now.”
“Measure twice, cut once, right?” She chuckles.
I don’t have a clue what she means. “Yeah, right.”
“I can’t wait to hear about the great work you’re going to create. Keep me updated, okay?”
I will, once I know what Bat and I are up to. “Sure. I still have a lot to do to get ready for the party. I’d better get going.”
“Me, too.” She picks up her plate. “See you at the party.”
“Hey, I feel bad. We were talking so much you never got the chance to eat.”
“It’s okay. I wasn’t that hungry.”
I watch as she dumps the burger in the trash. Sister Mo would have had a thing or two to say about that.
Anna shows up fifteen minutes before the party is supposed to start, which is hilarious since she’d dissed it.
“Hey,” she says, without a smile. Her interpretation of beach-party-wear is skin-tight leather pants and a black T-shirt with a skull that has blood dripping out of its eye sockets. She actually looks pretty cool.
“You’re early. I’m still finishing up.”
“Pretend I’m invisible. Everybody does.”
I chuckle, even though I’m not sure she meant to be funny. I set a blank canvas on an easel so anyone who wants to can try painting. To get things started, I sketch a stick figure holding a brush with the words “Paint Me.” No need to show off.
Anna strolls the room, inspecting my work. On three of the walls, I painted a dense jungle. The trick is to have the light hit all of the leaves from the same direction, or no one will buy the illusion, as Bat told me. My final touch was to point a couple of spotlights at the walls, making the room feel hot and tropical.
Anna brushes her fingertips against the fourth wall where I’d painted a beach with ultramarine-blue surf. I added a few palm trees and beachgoers, including Sister Mo in her nun’s habit looking for shells. “Who’s this?”
“Don’t! It’s not dry.”
“Sorrrrrry.” She breaks into a grin that gives me the creeps. “I know you’re the famous street artist. Is Bat one, too?”
I’m not admitting anything to her, and I’m not really sure what kind of stuff Bat paints. “You said you’re from California.”
“I spent last spring break with my grandparents. They live in The Bronx. Can you believe it?”
I’ve always thought The Bronx would be a nice place to grow up, but I’v
e only painted there three, maybe four times. What are the chances?
She raises her multi-perforated eyebrow. “I saw how you were looking at Lake. I wonder what she’d think of your secret.”
“It’s not a secret,” I say, as if I could care less that I’ll be the outcast if the others find out.
“Nice try. What’s it worth for me to keep my mouth shut?”
“I grew up in an orphanage. I don’t own anything.”
“Then you’ll owe me.”
“Owe you what?” I say through clenched teeth.
“I’ll let you know when the right opportunity comes along.”
That’s when the others show up for the party. I check out their faces, but no one is acting like they overheard Anna blackmailing me.
My attention zooms to Lake. The light blue shirt tied at her waist makes her eyes pop. My heart does a backflip.
“It feels like I’m at the beach!” she says with a huge smile.
Mission accomplished.
“Isn’t Orfyn’s style unique?” Anna’s eyes send the message loud and clear that she wants me to squirm. I can either let her ruin my party, or I can ignore her. Not a tough choice.
“Nice job, Art.” Stryker is wearing a suit the exact same shade as Mr. Blue’s, which is the best outfit here. I’d bet Mr. Blue would wear a suit even on the beach.
Marty—who I wasn’t sure would come—is wearing this hilarious shirt with monkeys swinging from palm tree to palm tree. “I love Jamaica,” he says.
“Never been.”
“Great jerk chicken.”
“We have some over there.”
He smiles for the first time since I’ve met him. “Cool.”
Jules looks great. She’s wearing a Hawaiian print dress and a crimson flower in her hair that looks real. How did she get something like that here?
Jules says, “I made a special drink for everyone. They’re over here, labeled with your names, but I made enough so you can try the others, too.” She invented some great ones, like a Black Hole for Physics—a mix of all the sodas she could find—and a Starry Night for me—grape soda, vanilla ice cream and pop rocks.
“This is almost perfect,” Stryker says while turning a three-sixty.