by Lee Davidson
“We are the Schedulers,” he says bluntly.
Oh crap!
“That reaction is appropriate, given the circumstance.”
Did I just say that out loud? “Huh,” is my Einstein reply and my tense shoulders fall in relief that Willow didn’t rat me out. I’m sure I would be in a lot more trouble if they knew about my scars.
“What you did is unacceptable and threatens the core of this program. Mistakes of this nature make it difficult to keep our existence concealed. Certainly you can understand how that would be problematic.”
“Oh, well, there’s the confusion. It wasn’t a mistake,” I reply easily.
All of Landon’s cronies shift in their seats and Landon’s mouth presses into a hard line. He sucks a deliberate breath through his nose like he’s trying to stay calm.
“Meggie was about to get her head bashed in with a whiskey bottle,” I say as an explanation. And a darn good one at that.
“Your actions threatened our entire establishment.”
“My actions saved her life!” Relax, relax, relax, I think to myself.
Landon gains control of his tight fist under his chin, letting his fingers relax. “We will not allow such risky behavior.”
“I get it. It won’t happen again.” So long as Brody keeps his hands—and his bottles—to himself. I think better of adding this part.
“I’m afraid it’s not quite that easy.” Landon leans forward on his elbows. “We are placing you on probation.”
“Fine, whatever. Can I go now?”
“You are suspended from this assignment until further notice.”
It takes a second for my head to register his statement. “What?”
“You are terminated from Meggie’s assignment until we feel confident you have more control over your actions.”
“You can’t do that!” Get a grip on your volume, man.
“As it is your second offense, the panel has decided this is the necessary action needed for you to understand the severity of your conduct.”
“My second offense?”
“Yes. You have received a written warning once already, have you not?”
Dang. The note in my assignment book. “I won’t do it again. I swear,” I lie.
“I’m sorry. The decision has been made.”
My head snaps up. “Come on, cut me some slack here! Meggie needs me.”
When he doesn’t reply, my anger builds. “I can’t leave her! What if Brody gets drunk again?”
The committee surrounding Jonathan and me remains seated and calm like I’m using a normal voice. Breathe, breathe, breathe!
After the minute they’ve obviously given me to collect myself, I turn back to Landon. “What’s going to happen to her?”
“Another Satellite will be put on her assignment until you have more control over your actions.”
I shake my head and laugh. It’s not the right response, but it’s either that or jump over the desk and wrap my hands around Landon’s thick neck.
“We will send word when we feel you are ready to accept the full responsibility of being a Satellite.”
“With what? An owl?” I mock.
The large group remains unsmiling.
“Thank you for your time,” Landon says. “You are free to go.”
“To do what?” I spit out harshly and start toward the doors.
“To reflect on your choices,” he counters back.
I growl my response.
“Please give your tocket to Jonathan on your way out.”
I stomp back to Jonathan and dig in my pocket, slamming the tarnished heart into his open hand. Then I resume my raving-mad pace to the doors. When I finally exit the room built for a giant and return to the human-sized hallway, I slam my palms against the wall.
Behind me, Jonathan uses a consoling voice. “Please realize this is for the best.”
He can’t be for real.
He says nothing else and leads me back through the labyrinth.
“What am I supposed to do now?” I ask him when we’re finally in the Orders hall.
“I’m sure you’ll think of something.” He walks away, leaving me staring, open-mouthed, behind him.
I’m flicking my fingernail on the glass of my frozen calimeter, willing the silver hand to move to at least tell me when break is. I’ve been staring at the useless watch since my last trip down to Benson. I sigh and push myself up from the sofa for another visit because I don’t know what else to do with myself.
The eating hall is empty when I get there, which I already knew because the hallway, elevator and lobby were also deserted. I slowly drag myself back to my room.
In the kitchen, my scars prickle and I’m suddenly overwhelmed with wanting—no needing—to make some kind of connection to Tate. Since I won’t be able to hound Elliott for stories anytime soon, I decide to try my only other option. Who cares if I ignite into flames doing so? I’m obviously not needed around here.
In the coding room, I strip my off shirt so it won’t end up sweat-soaked, and I close my eyes. Everything plays out as expected. After feeling relaxed in my tree stand, the painful paralysis arrives. The flames grow hotter as they climb higher and higher up my chest, to my ear.
“Come back to me,” the fire whispers. “You know how.”
As badly as it hurts, I don’t want to leave. I keep my eyes squeezed closed until the pain is too much and I’m forced to open them. This returns me to the coding room.
Panting and fighting against the flames, I catch a glimpse of my bare, wet skin. It’s like someone used my chest to snuff out the largest cigar ever. I curl on the hard floor and convulse until my temperature cools to tolerable. When I’m able to stand, I yank my jeans off and push my finger into the charred burn on my knee. I have to be the biggest oddity around here. Considering the competition, that’s saying something.
I throw on new clothes and think about chugging a pot of coffee, but I don’t want to risk missing anyone. Now that my calimeter is useless, and because so much time seems to be lost while I’m under, there’s a good chance I coded straight through break.
I almost yell with joy (yes, joy!) when I enter the busy hallway. I ride the elevator down with two other Satellites and cross the lobby while my mind works out the details of a plan. There’s no way this is going to be easy.
Half-hidden behind the third arched entrance of Benson, I fidget with the bottom of my T-shirt, bounce my foot up and down, and wait.
And wait.
And wait.
By the time the first Satellite disappears, the hem of my shirt is torn.
“Hey, you know Willow?” I ask a dark-haired girl walking into Benson.
“Yeah, sure.” Her arm muscle tightens under my grasp.
“Sorry.” I release my hold. “Can you tell her Grant needs to see her in the lobby?”
She nods and blushes.
“Tell her it’s urgent,” I yell after her.
When the girl turns back to me, her face reddens even more.
I rub my palms together and then along my jeans to dry the sweat. The heat from my knee is still radiating.
When Willow gets up and walks through the emptying room in my direction, I push myself to the side of the archway. When she walks into the glass-tiled corridor, I twist around the column into Benson to keep myself hidden. I peek around and she doesn’t disappoint, staring into the lobby from the corridor and shaking her head. She’s so predictable.
When she steps further into the lobby, my mind battles with itself.
There’s no way this is going to work.
Try, dammit!
After a deep breath, I creep up behind her and she gives the cue.
Wait…
Wait…
Wait…
GO!
I reach under her elbow when her hand pulls free from her pocket, barely getting my finger around the dangling chain before she says the comm
and.
Willow reaches for my arm like I knew she would and her volume makes my ears ring. “What in Christ’s name are you doing?”
“Thanks for the ride, babe. I owe you one.” I smack a kiss on Willow’s cheek to make her even more furious and lunge through the wall. Willow wouldn’t be Willow if she didn’t chase after me. I’m hoping the kiss was enough distraction to give me a lead.
I sprint across Tate’s front yard. Jumping into the air as soon as my feet hit the pavement, I play the fastest memorization game in the world to burn the aerial view of Tate’s house in my mind.
“Stop!” Willow is shouting behind me as we fly over the cookie-cutter houses in the gridded neighborhood.
I push myself faster and the neighborhood below is replaced by the green and tan curves of a golf course. When I’m over a cluster of more houses, I bank left on instinct and drop my elevation into the area that’s part forest, part field and dotted with black lakes.
When my feet pound the grass of the dam, Willow is still in the sky, streaking like an airplane contrail, except purple instead of white. I sprint across the thin piece of land that separates the twin lakes to hide in the thick, wooded area.
What’s the plan, what’s the plan? runs through my head with each steady breath. I weave further away from a hiking trail through the dense forest and lean against one of the fatter trees for a minute.
I cautiously jump up to the tops of the trees for a better view, just in time to see the purple streak bank a one-eighty, sending Willow back in the direction we came from. That’s a winner, folks.
Back under the canopy of the trees, I’m feeling successful. The forest continues on with the party like I’m not here. Tree limbs creak under the weight of the hyper squirrels, and birds flutter and chirp around me. A small doe walks through the trees, just barely turning her head my way when she passes. I slide down the rough bark and settle onto the dirt ground. Now what?
A couple hours later, when the sun is gone and the crickets are awake, I weave through the trees back to my landing spot on the dam. My night vision becomes unnecessary in the clearing because the moon is as effective as stadium lights. At the edge of the closest lake, a jumping frog ripples my reflection in the water. The water settles and the moonlight gives my skin a sickly blue tint. Even though my muscles are large and defined, my pale skin is an unwelcome reminder of the diseased body from my past and I turn away quickly.
The uneasy feeling that I’ve been here at this lake has me pacing the bank. This could be the place Elliott talked about, Make-out City, but the memory doesn’t root like it should. The story itself resonates so little that I still can’t help but harbor doubts that Tate and I were really an item. The pull I now feel towards her, however, makes me think otherwise. I spend the entire night searching my head for a solid memory, hoping something will stick. Unfortunately, my head remains empty. Oh, the fun Willow could have with that one. Man, she’s going to kill me, which is all the more reason being caught is not an option.
Just before the sun rises after a forever-long evening, I switch my mind to Meggie instead of Tate.
After about ten minutes, it occurs to me that this train of thought doesn’t help at all. I’ve failed Meggie. No way do I regret what I did, though. In fact, I’d do the same thing a hundred times over to keep Meggie from getting hurt. My stomach twists with the realization that I might never see her again.
Crunching gravel interrupts my horrifying, worst-case-scenario game of what could happen to Meggie. When a rusty, brown Ford stops, my overactive imagination accepts the reprieve. I massage the bridge of my nose while the vehicle’s driver, a white-haired man, pulls a tackle box, a fishing pole, and a chair out of the bed of his truck.
Because I have nothing else to do, I plant myself on the ground in a mix of clover and grass a few feet away. While the man reels in half a dozen nice-sized crappie, I cover the blades of grass around my legs with my blue filter and pull the roots, one by one, from the earth.
When the sun is finally overhead, I get up. A circle of dirt that was green two hours ago compasses my picnic spot. Oops.
“See you later,” I say to the old man like he can hear me.
An easy hop puts me thirty feet over his white head. A few seconds after leaning sharply forward, the lake-spotted area is behind me and the golf course and neighborhoods are blurring below. Not willing to take any chances, my feet hit the pavement a few streets away from my destination and I search for a hiding place. A pink Barbie clubhouse wouldn’t be my first choice, but it suits my purpose.
Having made it this far it would be devastating to get hauled back, so I try to make the best of my shelter. My shoulders curve inward to stay hidden within the tiny space. At least the playhouse is bigger than the backseat of Meggie’s first car. A little, anyway.
A smile creeps onto my face while I’m squatted down and waiting for my signal. Oh, if Billy could see me now; the princess tea set beside me would send him into overdrive.
By the time the signal finally comes, hours later, my nerves are shot and I’m craving coffee.
Less than a mile away, Willow and Liam streak into the sky. I’m in the air and moving over the houses before they’re out of sight, figuring I have a minute, maybe two, max. The adrenaline my pounding heart pushes through my veins does nothing to help my nerves.
Finding Tate’s house from memory of the grid system isn’t difficult because of the dry-rotting deck. I lower myself to the ground at the appropriate time, landing in her backyard. I’m through the kitchen wall and up the stairs in a matter of seconds. I pick the first door on the left. No good, bathroom. Door number two, however, is a winner.
I stop short and mimic Tate’s frozen stance by the dresser. The silence makes the entire situation feel surreal, almost unnatural, but my scars don’t heat up so I shouldn’t complain.
My boots feel like they’re nailed to the floor and it’s not until I stop looking at Tate’s face in the mirror that I’m able to move closer.
Over her shoulder, I recoil from the image on the taped-together photograph and my hand clamps over my mouth to smother my gasp. Could that ashy monster really be me beside the bright and beautiful Tate?
I check the mirror to be sure there’s no traces of that past disease. My reflection beside Tate’s appears more balanced now, though she still has the lead…even with the black eyeliner. What would this girl have seen in a guy like me?
My increasing heart rate forces me to snap out of memory-lane mode (which consists of no memories at all) and jump. I’m through Tate’s ceiling, but have used too much force and am on the roof instead of in the attic. The purple and green colored dots in the sky are doubling in size, tripling…
I suck in a breath and bounce lightly to drop through the shingles, hoping the glowing lights haven’t seen me. The fiberglass insulation in the attic remains motionless under my boots, and the dust, thick enough to roll into a snowman, stays settled. I move to a rafter and perch on one of the two-by-fours with my legs swinging under me. Listening for voices below, so far I hear nothing but silence.
I focus my energy on the wood beam beside me and trace my finger through the dust. After making a G, I complete the rest of my name. I add & Tate. My name and hers fit surprising well together.
When Willow’s voice carries through Tate’s ceiling, her tone is not cheerful. “I can’t believe he would just leave his Tragedy hanging.” Long pause. “Actually, never mind.”
I think of Meggie and have to force myself to stay in the attic. How could Willow think I would leave my Tragedy alone by choice?
She goes on. “We’ve got to find him. Any ideas?”
“The bloke’s lost his mind,” Liam’s voice muffles.
“You have no idea.”
“Oh, I reckon I have a bit of an idea.”
While they go on about how crazy I am, I’m overcome with the urge to sneeze. Really? Come on, I’m dead! The dead should not sneeze! I co
ver my mouth and pinch my nose closed.
No dice, I’m gonna blow. Desperate, I leap through and off of the roof, flying as far as I can before the first sneeze belts out. Followed by another. And another. So much for my hiding spot.
As I’m dropping back down to Tate’s, Liam appears out of the siding and falls effortlessly to the ground.
Brake, brake, brake!
I freeze twenty feet above him and hover without breathing.
Ah Choo!
Seriously?!
Liam’s head snaps up. “Grant!” he hisses.
With the advantage of already being in the air, I push forward and don’t dare look back. I lower when three large oak trees get closer and I whiz through them, hoping they’ll offer camouflage. I hit the ground so fast my legs have to work in double-time to keep my upper body from crashing forward.
Jumping into the closest house puts me in someone’s kitchen. Using the yellow curtain over the sink to stay hidden, I see Liam’s green streak continue on.
Whew, saved. For now, anyway.
The closeness of the houses work to my benefit and I move through the walls quickly, making my way in what I think is the general direction toward Tate’s. Most of the kitchens are full of dinner time activity and the evening news fills a few of the small living rooms. I move faster when I reach a bedroom hosting a make-out session.
Only knowing what Tate’s home looks like from above means I have to go up. Here goes nothing. The very moment I realize I’m floating over the house right next door to Tate’s, her laughter carries through her open window. That’s not what gets my attention, though. It’s Willow’s voice that catches my off guard.
“I don’t believe it,” she says.
Thinking of only my heating scars, I lose my concentration and fall to the ground while I rub at my T-shirt and jeans in effort to conceal the rancid, burning smell of flesh. Willpower I didn’t know existed keeps me from leaping into Tate’s bedroom. A dangerous move like that would be the end of Tate and me…whatever we are.