by Jim Kroepfl
“A painter can play with perspective,” Bat says. “But can you shift the scene one hundred and eighty degrees?” His chubby fingers hit a half a dozen keys, and suddenly I’m looking at the back of the same trees. “Can you alter the light to reflect the time of day?” The sun slides lower on the horizon, casting long shadows. “How about make a plant grow?” I watch as a dandelion rapidly goes through its life cycle, ending with its seeds drifting in the wind.
It finally dawns on me that Bat created this game. “It’s cool, it really is, but no one would consider it art.”
“A lot of people don’t call what you do art, either. But I always did.”
Okay, now I feel like a total jerk. “I’m sorry, Bat. I really am. It’s just that you’re supposed to be my Mentor. We’re here to do something important.”
Bat pulls himself out of the recliner, heads over to the screens, and stares into the forest behind the screen. “Let me ask you this. Why did you paint what you did?”
“I wanted to blow people’s minds.”
“Then my advice as your Mentor is: go paint something that blows someone’s mind.”
When I wake up, my first thought is that Mr. Blue had to have known the truth. Why did the Darwinians choose Bat? Everyone else has a Mentor who’s trying to make the world better. Then I get it. Gaming programmers make a ton of money. My pride at being chosen withers and dies faster than Bat’s dandelion. The Darwinians never wanted me. They only needed a sixteen-year-old, and it was a whole lot simpler if that body belonged to an orphan.
If all this is true—which I’m pretty sure it is—the Darwinians sold out, Mr. Blue lied about why I’m here, and Bat bought my body. I’m nothing like the others.
I can never let them know.
Lake
Another marathon dream session.
Even though I lost the entire morning, it was worth it. I’d been working on something that, for once, didn’t require mouth-breathing. Sophie had me testing our octopuses’ intelligence by timing how long they took to escape from various containers. An octopus can thread itself through a hole not much larger than the diameter of its eyeball. George, my favorite, won hands down. They’re fascinating creatures. They have three hearts, and their blood uses copper rather than an iron-based carrier for oxygen. Sophie warns me not to become attached because they’re purpose isn’t for companionship. But how can I not? They’re surprisingly affectionate.
Sophie still hasn’t figured out she only lives in my dreams, but we’re getting along fairly well. She only pursed her lips twice today—a new record. And Deborah is impressed with my progress. Luckily, she attributes it to my scientific proclivity and not to the fact that Sophie still believes she has the power to flunk me.
I nuke a bowl of oatmeal in my microwave and savor the gristy aroma that reminds me of home. Grandma Bee has eaten it every morning for as long as I can remember. I hope every once in a while Dad gets up in time to chat with her over coffee. She likes that.
I grab my hat and book, planning to read under the shade of the immense oak tree. When I open my door, I discover someone on his knees. My heart rate doubles.
“Careful,” Orfyn warns. “This side is wet.”
My optical nerves are hit with an explosion of colors. The outside of my door now has a painting of downtown Pittsburgh on it, even though I don’t recall ever telling him where I’m from. On the floor lies a photo of the skyline, which he’s perfectly captured. Except instead of the city’s true grays and browns and tans, he’s painted it in vibrant blues and oranges and purples.
Orfyn looks up with a smile. Until now, I hadn’t noticed how his golden-green eyes glow against his light brown skin. “Marty seems homesick, so I’m painting everyone’s hometown on their door.”
As soon as I learned about his discipline, I made a promise to myself not to fall for him. “That’s very thoughtful,” I say, making sure to sound polite, not flirty.
“One of Sister Mo’s favorite verses is, ‘The generous man will be prosperous, and he who waters will himself be watered.’ It took me years to figure out it’s about a lot more than just money.”
“Who’s Sister Mo?” I ask.
“She runs the orphanage where I grew up. Her full name is Sister Moses the Black.”
“Is Moses the Black a saint?” I sound like I find him fascinating, which is giving the wrong impression. I need to be acting aloof and disinterested.
“He was an awesome saint. There are so many great stories about his life,” he says, stealing my chance at a quick getaway. “He was this huge black dude who lived in the fourth century in Egypt. Moses started out as a robber and ended up a monk and a priest. I guess you never know how life is going to turn out. Look at us!”
I chuckle along with him and find myself sitting on the floor, crossing my legs to match his. How did that just occur?
“Mind if I fix this bridge while we talk? The perspective is a little off.” He grabs a rag, pours some walnut oil on it, and erases the bridge I thought looked perfect.
This is the time to leave, except I’m transfixed. His long fingers barely move, yet the brush dances across my door as he recreates the Fort Duquesne Bridge in bright pink. Orfyn has me entranced as he tells me story after story about Moses the Black. He accomplished so many wonderful things, I can’t believe I’ve never heard of him.
“How did you become such a skilled storyteller?” I ask.
“I was one of the older kids at the orphanage. It was my job to get the little ones to sleep. You can only read Goodnight Moon so many times.”
“It sounds like you miss Sister Mo and those kids.”
“It’s hard sometimes. They were the only family I ever had.” He starts dotting the river with yellow specs, making it appear to sparkle. “Do you miss your parents?”
I use my standard line, which cuts off having to get into the painful parts. “My grandmother raised me.”
“What happened to your mom and dad?”
I start to examine the hem of my jeans.
“Sorry,” he says. “You don’t have to answer that.”
I’d normally joke to deflect the pain, or ignore the question, but he’s not like anyone I’ve ever met. He carries himself differently than the guys I know, as if he can’t wait to discover what’s around the next corner. And he doesn’t act cool; he just is. He also happens to be cute, none of which is helping me keep my promise to myself. But he seems genuinely curious about my life. We are going to be here for years, and it would be strange not to know anything about each other.
“My mom died of cancer when I was seven. My dad … he spends his time with his regrets.”
“What happened, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“My dad was a professional musician, but he had to quit the band when my mom got sick. I once asked him why he didn’t join another one. He said you only get one shot and he’d had his, but life got in the way.” I don’t agree with his excuse, but one day, because of us and future Nobels, everyone might get their second shot.
“It’s great that you have your grandmother,” Orfyn says, oblivious that talking about Grandma Bee is what causes me the most distress.
How much time do we have before she stops remembering who I am? That was the most difficult part about deciding to come here. I’ll probably never see her alive again. Even though she was aware of that fact, Grandma Bee insisted I accept their offer to become a Nobel Candidate. She didn’t want me to lose this amazing opportunity because of her illness. I duck my head and blink away tears.
Orfyn gently touches my arm. “Hey, what’s your favorite color?”
Shivers run through me. What is wrong with me? I’ve been doing the opposite of what I promised myself, and now my body is betraying me, too. I grew up with an artist, and I will not bind my emotions to another. I have firsthand experience of what life is like when their dreams don’t pan out.
Dad would constantly boast about his trump
et playing. And then he’d become severely depressed because he wasn’t as successful as the people he believed weren’t as accomplished as him. During those times, Mom couldn’t do anything right. I used to hide in my closet so I couldn’t hear her cry. The only happy times for me were when he was on tour.
He grew worse after she died.
“I need to get going,” I say.
“I’m almost done. I just need to know your favorite color.”
“Green.” It’s red. Why did I say green?
“Tell me which shade you like best.” He mixes together blue, yellow, and white paint on his palette, then does it a second time. But the two greens appear completely different. “The left one is the color of spring leaves in the sunshine,” he says. “And the right one is how Central Park’s grass looks after it’s been mowed. Which do you like better?”
I can practically feel the sun’s warmth on my cheeks, and I could swear I smell freshly mown grass. I never realized color triggers one’s senses. I need to explore this concept further. I point to my choice.
He paints Lake in spring-leaf green at the top of my door. “Now I won’t have any problem finding you.” When his golden-green eyes grab hold of mine, my breath catches, and my skin feels effervescent.
Warning bells clang in my head.
Artists are dreamers, and one thing I’ve learned from my dad—and it could be the only thing—is you can’t rely on them when things get tough. I am not falling for a guy who probably thinks responsibility means selecting the appropriate shade of green.
Down the hall, Anna emerges from her room.
“Hi, Anna,” I greet, silently thanking her for the interruption.
She passes by as if we’re invisible.
I shake my head. “I’ve tried to be friendly, but she doesn’t seem to like me.”
“Her loss. I think you’re great.”
No! No! No! I hurriedly get to my feet. “I’m sure you want to get started on someone else’s door.”
He stands, thankfully taking my hint. “I’m in no rush. I like watching paint dry with you.” His adorable smile is precisely why I need him to leave. “Want to get some ice cream?”
A chocolate-dipped soft serve sounds heavenly, but this conversation has proven I need to keep my distance from Orfyn. “I can’t right now. Thank you for my door. It’s beautiful,” I say, trying to sound grateful but not interested. I’m fairly confident my delivery is closer to schizophrenic.
I tear myself away and dash down the hall, sensing his hurt eyes following me.
Stryker
Her head is down as she comes barreling down the hallway. I thrust out my hands to keep Lake from taking us both down. She smells sweet, like sun-warmed strawberries. My heart rate starts working double-time.
“Sorry,” Lake yelps. “I was, uhm, lost in thought.”
I make myself let go of her. “Anything you want to talk about?” My eyes shoot to the ceiling as a reminder to keep her response neutral.
Her eyes go wide. “No!”
Interesting. What secret is she withholding? Lake hasn’t told me anything about her life. But if I ask, then she’ll expect me to answer those same questions. I came here to escape my past.
And to prevent it from happening again.
“I mean, no, everything is fine,” she says, which is obviously a lie.
I can’t begin to describe the color of her hair. Every time she moves, it reminds me of staring into a midnight bonfire on my family’s beach, which only resurfaces the memories I’ve been trying to suppress. Alicia loved that beach.
I make myself look away. “I should get going.”
“Have you eaten yet?”
“Just finished,” I lie.
“Want to keep me company?”
I do, which is the problem. “Bjorn and I were in the middle of something, and I want to get back to it.”
Her smile fades. “I understand.”
I should leave, but it’s as if her eyes have a magnetic power and I can’t pull away. “What were you working on last night?”
Her face lights up as she tells me about George and the other octopuses, growing more animated when she shifts into the consistency of dead human brains.
“What does Bjorn have you working on?” she asks.
Lake thinks past herself. Alicia was like that, too. A shiver runs through me when I picture her face.
Lake is looking at me expectantly.
“We’re studying the Art of War by Sun Tzu. Bjorn has a brilliant take on it.” I’m not saying it for the benefit of those listening. He knows about my past, and he’s trying to make sure I don’t make the same mistakes again.
Lake’s smile warms away my shivers. “This is an amazing experience, isn’t it?”
“Sure is.” No need to scare her any worse until I know what’s going on.
Before they sealed my air duct, I discovered there’s a second team of scientists, and they’ve taken a lot of precautions to isolate us from them. Since Bjorn has no way of letting them know what I know, I asked him about them. For the first time, he wasn’t forthcoming, saying that it has nothing to do with our work. That worries me.
As Bjorn has been teaching me, I need to question everyone’s underlying motive. What’s the purpose of keeping them from us? I don’t want to alarm the others until I learn what they’re up to.
“You sure you don’t want to hang out for a bit?” she asks.
“Can’t right now. See you later,” I say to urge her along.
“Another time then.” She takes a few steps, then stops and turns to me. “Stryker, I’m glad we’re here together.”
My guts twist. I cannot allow myself to have feelings for Lake. My natural inclination is to push her away by acting like a jerk, but I can’t make myself hurt her like that. She deserves better. I have to cram what I’m feeling down deep, where I’ve buried everything else.
I force myself to smile. “Me, too. You’re a good friend.”
Five years is a long time to pretend you don’t care.
Lake
I’m riding the subway.
The three girls across from me have their noses buried in their phones, so in this dream we’re not in the eighties, which is a first. I scan the faces. Sophie isn’t on the train. When we pull into the station, Grand Central is written in tile on the wall.
What is happening?
A rush of people scramble to board, but my Mentor isn’t one of them. Where is she? The doors slide open and close at each stop as we swiftly travel beneath New York City, but Sophie doesn’t appear. Did she decide to fire me? I thought our dream session went well last night.
“Lake!”
My anxiety dissipates, and I turn around. Instead of Sophie, a guy with a fade haircut and a wide smile is heading toward me. I’m doubly surprised when Orfyn leans down and gives me a quick kiss on the lips, as if it’s perfectly natural. Why does he think he has the right to kiss me? He slides in next to me and throws his arm around my shoulders.
I remove it and place it in his lap, then press myself into the wall. “What are you doing here?”
“I thought the plan was to picnic in Central Park.”
“Picnic?”
He holds up a take-out bag. “Paninis and coleslaw. Great, you brought chips.”
I follow his eyes and see barbeque kettle chips in a plastic bag on my lap that wasn’t there before. Of course. Orfyn’s strange behavior so flustered me, I forgot this is a dream. But that realization only adds to my confusion.
“Orfyn, why are you in Sophie’s dreamspace?”
He moves closer and winds a lock of my hair around his finger. “Who’s Sophie?”
“Stop it!” I tug my hair from his grasp. Why is he acting this way? “She’s my Mentor. And right now, I should be working with her in our lab. You know all this.”
“The next stop is ours,” he says.
We don’t have a stop because t
here is no us. I sit up straighter, and my eyes scan the newest passengers, but Sophie isn’t one of them.
“Call in sick,” he says, with a mischievous smile.
I’ll get right on that.
He stands as the train slows. “You’re coming, right?”
I can’t blow off my Mentor to picnic, especially with the person I don’t dare spend time with.
“Come on, Lake. You deserve a break. You work too hard.” His golden-green eyes hold promises of fun.
I have been putting in the hours, and I’ve never been to Central Park. Am I actually considering it?
Orfyn holds out his hand. “It’s a beautiful day, and I promise to get you back in an hour. Two, tops.”
I suppose one hour won’t interfere with my work, especially since Sophie is still missing for some reason.
I tentatively place my hand in his, and Orfyn pulls me up.
“This isn’t a date,” I clarify. “We’re simply eating together.”
He chuckles. “Yeah, right.” He wraps his other arm around me. “You look beautiful today.” He leans down and presses his lips against mine—and this time it’s not quick.
My mind is telling me to stop, but my body disobeys as it intensifies into a we’re-the-only-people-in-the-world kiss. His cinnamon-walnut oil scent envelops me as I lean into him, losing myself to the sensation. His lips make my body feel like it’s filled with twinkling lightning bugs. I’ve never been kissed like this before.
I jerk away. Orfyn is not my boyfriend.
And he shouldn’t be in this dream.
“This is wrong.” I dash through the subway’s closing doors.
I wake with a start. Moonlight shines through my window, and I check the time. I’ve only been asleep for an hour. I touch my lips, but they’re not swollen from Orfyn’s kisses. Because none of it was real.
I take a long, hot shower, attempting to wash away the memory of him. What just happened? How could Orfyn appear in my dream? And where was Sophie?