by Peter Clines
The Look settled most of them down. Tyler kept whispering to Emily, the green-eyed honors student he’d been pursuing in his awkward way since Easter. Mike let them talk. The kid had three and a half minutes left in the school year to score.
“One thing you learned this year.” He glanced across the young faces. “Olivia.”
She drummed her thin fingers on her textbook. “ ‘The Fall of the House of Usher’ is about a guy going insane because his twin sister died.”
“Died?”
“Well, he thinks she died, but he really buried her alive.”
“Good,” he said. “In the general sense. Not that you should all bury your siblings.”
Half the class chuckled. One boy cleared his throat. “Mr. Erikson, can we go now?”
“We’re trying something different for the last day, Zack. They’re going to ring a big bell at the end of the period. What’d you learn?”
“I hate English class.”
“Great, I’ll tell Mrs. DeNay to expect you in French next year. Ethan?”
Ethan was a tall kid. Even taller than Mike, who stood at six feet. He’d been one of the computer geeks until he beat three of the school’s track and field records as a freshman. Now there was talk in the teacher’s lounge of tempting him to the basketball team next year. “Thoreau wasn’t alone out in the woods.”
“More specific,” said Mike. “Are you talking about his dog?”
“No, I mean he wasn’t out in the middle of nowhere. He was, like, a mile from town.”
“Good. Time for two more. Hannah?”
The brunette cheerleader looked up from her text messages. “Ummmm…‘The House of Usher’ is about a guy who—”
“You just learned that a minute ago. Tell me something else you learned.”
“Uhhhmmm…” She glanced at the other students around her and down at her desktop. “Oh, wait, getting tarred and feathered is really painful, and it can kill you.”
He nodded. “Where’d you get that?”
“The Hawthorne story. Major Molly-something.”
“ ‘My Kinsman, Major Molineux.’ ” He tipped his head to her. “Very good, Hannah. I didn’t think you were paying attention that day. One left. Justin?”
Justin swept back his shaggy hair. “Mr. Erikson really does have a photographic memory.”
“Nice. Did you learn anything related to early American literature?”
At the edge of his sight, the door swung open, letting a bald figure in a gray suit slip into the room. Mike let his eyes dart left long enough to see Reggie Magnus. Reggie smiled and leaned against the wall next to the side blackboard. Mike focused his attention back on his student.
“I…uhhhh…”
“No pressure, Justin,” said Mike, “but no one can leave this room until you answer.”
A groan echoed through the room as the boy grabbed a double handful of hair.
Mike pulled a pen from behind his ear. He reached behind himself without looking and dropped it nine inches into an oversized Nerd Herd coffee cup that sat on the edge of the desk. It clattered against the sides. “Come on,” he said. “Thirty seconds and we can all go home for the summer. One thing. Just tell me one thing you learned this year.”
Justin looked up. “Ichabod Crane isn’t really the hero of ‘The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.’ ”
“Explain.”
“He’s, like, the British. You told us that when you said we couldn’t just watch the TV show to learn the story. You said that sometimes the bad guy is right there in front of us.”
Mike smiled, the bell clanged, and the students lunged up with their all-but-empty messenger bags and backpacks. “Have a good summer, everyone,” he said. “I’ll see you all in three months. Some of you in just two weeks for summer school.” He pointed a finger. “Justin, two points for you.”
The teenager’s face tried to find a middle ground between a blush and a smirk. “Thank you, Mr. Erikson.”
“Thank you, Justin. It was a pleasure teaching you. Now get the hell out of here.”
The last bodies washed out of the classroom, and Mike turned his attention to his friend. Reggie had drifted to the back of the room. He was in the downward swing of his latest diet attempt, wearing an older belt and a loose shirt to hide the pounds he’d put on over the past months. He was wearing a dark blazer over the shirt, which meant this visit was somehow business related. Reggie couldn’t talk business without wearing a coat of some kind.
Mike cleared his throat. “How are you?”
“Not bad, not bad at all.” Sunlight from the window gleamed on Reggie’s black scalp. He’d been shaving it since his hair started thinning in college, long before bald was fashionable. “How are you doing?”
“I’m good.”
“Not too much pressure here?”
“Nothing I can’t handle.”
“Good.”
“You know it’s trespassing to come on school grounds, right?”
“So you keep telling me.” Reggie ran his finger along a stack of Norton Anthologies. “After donating two computer labs, I think I get to count as staff.”
“Faculty. And it doesn’t work that way.”
“Really?”
“They’ve got a firm ‘three computer lab’ rule in our district,” Mike said, closing his laptop. “Plus, I’m pretty sure it was DARPA that donated the labs, not you.”
“As far as most of these folks know, I am DARPA.”
“You sound so cool when you say it like that.”
Reggie shook his head, then stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Mike. “Jerk.
Mike squeezed back. “Loser.”
“What’s up with you?”
Mike scooped up an eraser and brushed it back and forth across the chalkboard. LAST POP QUIZ OF THE YEAR faded to streaks, then to dust. “Well,” he said, “I think I’ve convinced three kids to give high school one more year before they drop out. Talked another five into taking the AP tests. And I’m in the lead to direct the drama club’s fall musical.”
“What are you doing?”
“I was hoping for The King and I but it’s probably going to be Little Mary Sunshine.”
“The one about the girl on the road trip with her family?”
“Completely different.”
Reggie sighed and shook his head. “God, what a waste.”
“Hey, it was all we could afford.”
“I wasn’t talking about the play.”
Mike tossed the eraser back in the trough. “What then?”
“You know what.”
He slid his laptop into his briefcase. “If it makes you feel good, we can pretend we haven’t had this discussion a dozen times and you can tell me again.” Two teacher’s edition textbooks he hadn’t opened in eight years followed the laptop into the briefcase.
“Do you know what three of the smartest people in America are doing right now?”
“Right at this very moment?”
“One of them started working with NASA when he was sixteen,” said Reggie. “One’s an autodidact who spends his spare time working on P versus NP. And the last one’s hiding from his potential by teaching high school English in a little bumfuck town in Maine.” He picked up the bright red Swingline stapler from the desk and tossed it back and forth between his hands. “We both know this isn’t who you are. You’re better than this. You could be doing so much more.”
“There are,” Mike said, “three basic problems with your statement.”
“Enlighten me, please.”
Mike held up a finger. “There could be lots of smarter people out there who haven’t had an IQ test or made their results public. There’s also a bunch who’ve either exaggerated or downplayed their test results. You’re making an assumption based on a very limited and somewhat skewed pool of data.”
“Fair enough. Next point.”
A second finger. “There’s a huge range of possible IQ results depending on the test and the subj
ect. You’re assuming I have a high IQ because I did well on one test nineteen years ago. I could be the biggest idiot on Earth who just happens to test well.”
“I’ve known you too long.”
A third finger. Mike used the hand to gesture at the classroom. “I don’t think being a high school teacher is a waste of my time or potential.”
Reggie shook his head. “Let’s be honest. You’re hiding here.”
The two fingers on either side dropped away. “Fuck you.”
“You’re not my type.”
“I think college proved you don’t have a type past ‘female,’ and even that’s been questioned a few times.”
“Fuck you.”
“See?”
“Asshole. Want to get some dinner?”
“It’s not even four o’clock.”
“I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”
“The last day of school just ended. This is kind of like a holiday. They’re having drinks in the teacher’s lounge. And then more drinks over in Ogunquit.”
“You’ve got an old friend in town. They’ll understand. Especially an old friend who donated two computer labs to the school system. They’ll probably insist you come out with me.”
“You’re being a jerk.”
“Yes. It’s in my job description. Paragraph six, subsection two.”
Mike sighed and brushed a last few things into his desk. It looked clean enough. “Who’s buying?”
“Me,” said Reggie. “This is a business trip.”
“Ah, on the taxpayers,” Mike said with a nod. “So, really, I’m buying.”
“Shut up.”
Mike picked up his briefcase. “Let me go say goodbye to some folks, maybe have a beer, and then I can get out of here.”
“Tell me there’s somewhere close where we can get a good steak.”
“Good’s a relative term. All that Department of Defense money’s probably spoiled you.”
“Did I call you a jackass yet?”
Mike shook his head. “Nope.”
“Jackass.”
“It’s too late to start kissing up.”
THREE
The walls of Captain Turner’s Steak and Lobster Hut were decorated with plastic lobsters, dusty buoys, old traps, and lengths of rope that had grown brittle with age. Each table was draped with a red and white checkered tablecloth held in place by a collection of condiments and a large candle in a red jar. The placemats had step-by-step instructions for how to eat a lobster.
The hostess greeted Mike by name and gave him a genuine smile. There were only a handful of other people in the restaurant, but Reggie insisted they sit away from the bar and against the wall. They’d given their drink orders to a young waitress who said hello to “Mr. Erikson” as she offered Reggie a menu. She brought their drinks and answered Reggie’s questions about the surf and turf special clipped into the menu. She smiled at Mike again before walking away. “Old student?” asked Reggie.
“I think so, yep.”
The bald man bit back a laugh. “You think so?”
Mike sipped his rum and Coke. “So, come on,” he said. “What’s this all about?”
Reggie set his own drink down. “Take the battery out of your phone.”
Mike looked around the restaurant. “Seriously?”
“Protocol. You expecting an important call?”
“No.”
“So don’t be a pain in the ass. Take the battery out and we can talk.”
Mike popped his smartphone out of its case and pried off the battery cover. “What about yours?”
“Mine’s better. It’s got six different security systems.”
“I bet I could get into it,” said Mike. He stacked his disassembled phone in the middle of the table.
“I bet you could,” Reggie said. “That’s why I’m here. I’ve got a job offer for you.”
“Another one?”
“Yes. How many is this now?”
Mike picked up his glass. “Thirteen since you joined DARPA, nineteen total since we’ve known each other.”
“Lucky thirteen, then.”
“I think it’s cool that you keep flying up here so I can reject you in person. Is it another cryptography thing?”
“No.” They tapped glasses.
“Robotics? You’ve got four or five robotics things going on, right?”
“You’re sure eager to know what you’re turning down.” He glanced around. “Do you think we can get some rolls or something until the food arrives?”
“They generally have a bread basket. So is it robotics?”
Reggie shook his head as the waitress appeared with the promised basket of bread and a small bowl of butter balls. He smiled, but kept his mouth shut until she left. He pulled out an end piece and tore off the crust with his teeth.
“You’re taking the cloak-and-dagger stuff seriously this time.”
“This time it matters.” He spread some butter on his second slice of bread. “Here’s the deal. You come work for the agency this summer as a freelancer. Three months. I’ll start you as a special consultant, but we can bump it up, depending on what happens. Minimum, you’ll take home about forty thousand after taxes.”
“Are you drafting me?”
“Pretty much, yes, if you think you’re up for it.”
Mike laughed and tore off a piece of bread.
“I’m serious,” Reggie said. “This is the big one. I need you on this.”
“That’s what you always say.”
“This time’s different.”
“Why?”
“Because this time you’re going to say yes.”
Mike poked his knife at the butter. The ball spun in the bowl under the blunt blade. “Two hours ago I was one of the smartest guys in America. Now I don’t even know what’s going on in my own head.”
Reggie took a sip of his drink. He looked around the restaurant, then back to the disassembled phone on the table. He leaned forward and lowered his voice.
“There’s a project we’ve been funding in San Diego,” he said. “You know who Arthur Cross is?”
“The physicist?” Mike nodded. “You gave me a copy of The History of What We Know for Christmas last year, remember? Is he part of this?”
“Yes. How do you think I got you an autographed copy?”
“It’s autographed? I never opened it.”
“Of course you didn’t.”
Mike shrugged. “Why would you get a book for someone who’s not a big reader?”
“Because it was a New York Times bestseller that everyone was reading, and I had a chance to get you an autographed copy.”
“Whatever.”
“Cross is the head of the Albuquerque Door project,” Reggie said. “It’s in danger of being canceled, for a couple of reasons. I need you to evaluate it and show it’s safe and viable so I can get another year of funding for them.”
“The Albuquerque Door?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you’ve piqued my curiosity.”
“Good.”
“So what kind of project is it?”
“I can’t tell you here.”
“Oh, come on,” said Mike. “I took my phone apart and everything.”
“Sorry. Come down to Washington next week.”
“I can’t.”
“Come down and sit in on a panel with me. No stress, no pressure. You can meet Arthur and his team and hear it straight from them.”
“Why can’t I hear it straight from you?”
“Because they can explain it better.”
“I can’t just take off. I have a job.”
“It’s the last day of school.”
“I have a summer job. Do you know what teachers make?”
“I do,” Reggie said. “I also know what you make fixing amusement park rides over the summer. And I know what I’m offering you is about five times as much for a third the time.”
“If I take the job,” said Mike.
&n
bsp; “You’ll take it.”
“I wouldn’t get down there and find out this is another battlesuit or invisibility cloak?”
“It’s called optical camouflage. And no, it isn’t. Are you coming to Washington or not?”
Mike’s finger tapped against the glass. “Maybe. Why me?”
Reggie opened his mouth and snapped it shut as the waitress stopped by to check their drinks. She assured them their food was minutes away and flitted back to the bar.
“What’s her name?” asked Reggie.
“Who?”
“The waitress.”
“Siobhan. She introduced herself when she took our drink order.”
“And?”
“And what?”
Reggie extended a finger, then swiveled it to point after the waitress. “What else?”
“Why does it matter?”
“I’m answering your question and turning your maybe into a yes. What else do you know about her?”
Mike sighed. The ants were already loose in his mind. They carried memories of sights and sounds in their mandibles like pieces of colorful leaves. “Siobhan Emily Richmond,” he said. “Born December twenty-ninth, graduated in two thousand eleven. I had her in my class in two thousand nine to two thousand ten and she got a B+ because she messed up a test on early-twentieth-century authors. Didn’t like Catcher in the Rye at all. She had three boyfriends in high school, ended up back with the first one senior year. Went to UNH for a year and a half but had to drop out when her father, James, died in a car accident. She likes Katy Perry, the color green, was obsessed with Supernatural, and drives a two thousand seven Honda Civic—also green—that she bought from a woman down in Kittery. Her little sister, Saorise, should be in my class in two years. That enough for you?”
“From anyone else that much information would be kind of creepy.”
“It’s a small town.”
Reggie tapped the table twice. “That’s why I need you out there.”
“Because I live in a small town?”
“Because you do things like that the way other people breathe.” He poked the tabletop with his finger. “Seriously, it’s like building the world’s greatest supercomputer and then using it to play Angry Birds. You’re wasted here.”