by Lee Davidson
“I don’t see why not.”
I’m sucked away from the smiling trio and hear the metal boom of the door. After a light rumble, the wall circles around me again.
The motion finally halts. “Please proceed to 1993,” GPS Jeanette says.
I step through the door and breathe heavily scented air. I try to force thoughts of Tate out of my head, but the overwhelming peppermint smell makes it difficult. A spindly Charlie Brown-looking Christmas tree fills the tiny room. On the floor beside it, Mya is painting her already clownlike face with more makeup. Her dark hair is to the middle of her back now, and her face looks even thinner when she pouts into the lighted mirror.
Near Mya, Ryder pushes a truck through an explosion of wrapping paper. His spaghetti arms and legs are too long for his red pajamas. As he plows the paper into a pile, he vibrates his lips to effectively produce the motor’s noise.
“Ryder, I think Santa left something else for you,” their dad says, sporting plaid pajamas and more gray in his hair. “Look what I found in the garage.” He holds up a squirming ball of fluff.
Ryder rockets up. “No way! Is he really mine?” he asks, grabbing the yellow puppy from his dad.
His dad grins. “He’s all yours.”
The dog drenches Ryder with slobber. Yuck.
“You did good,” Mya whispers to her dad, who sits beside her on the floor.
He winks back at her. “How about you? You made out decent, huh?”
“Best Christmas ever!” she exclaims, smiling. Then she asks Ryder, “What are you going to name him?”
“Granite,” Ryder says immediately.
“That’s a great name.” Mya looks away from her dad when she sees him blink away tears.
After being unceremoniously yanked away and dumped back inside the stone room again, I yell, “Is it necessary to remove me so abruptly?”
I’m answered with a spinning wall. When the door positions itself, GPS Jeanette instructs me to proceed to 1995.
Metal spoons clink together in an otherwise quiet room. Ryder’s dad and Mya are behind a table with three others, filling plates for a long line of haggard faces. Granite, now huge, almost runs through me. Ryder, lankier than ever, follows him. They stop at one of the tables, and the people shoveling meat and bread into their mouths pause expectantly. Granite’s tongue hangs to the side, and his tail beats against a metal folding chair.
Ryder pushes a dark curl behind his ear and removes a stack of cards from his vest pocket. He places one of the cards into the ribbon of the top hat he’s wearing. After everyone pulls a card from the deck, he pulls his own from his hat and turns it over to show the crowd. He asks a girl with a dirt-smudged face if her card matches his. Her reveal wins him applause.
After a formal bow, he and Granite move to the next table, and I’m sucked away.
My next year, 1996, puts me back in the soup kitchen. The room has changed. It’s now covered in all things red and green, including a scrubby tree in the corner. Now it’s the lack of peppermint in the air—because the scent would be appropriate here—that has me thinking of Tate. Oh, how that girl loved Christmas!
The large crowd around me converses in accents so thick I may as well have landed on Mars. Granite sits patiently while Mya folds a large red bag and puts it under her arm. She pulls a bone from her pocket and tosses it in the air. Without moving from his spot, Granite snaps up the bone before it hits the ground.
“That was a great idea, Dad,” Mya praises.
“I’m still amazed at how many gifts we collected. We’re fortunate to be part of such a giving community,” her Dad says. Mya agrees.
“How about you, Ryder? Did you have fun?” their dad asks.
“Yeah! Did you see how many families showed up for presents?” Ryder, even taller and skinnier than before, plays keep-away with Granite by jerking a red ribbon up before the dog snaps it.
“I sure did. I’d say it was a great success.”
“Do you have the flowers for Mom?” Mya asks more solemnly.
“I’ll go grab them.” Their dad disappears into a room in the back.
Ryder gives up and lets Granite have the ribbon. “Do you think Mom watches over us?” he asks Mya in a whisper.
“Are you kidding?” She nudges his side. “I bet she’s totally trying to figure out how you do those great magic tricks.”
Ryder squares his shoulders and lifts his chin proudly. “They are pretty good, huh?”
Mya hugs him. “Absolutely.”
“After we visit Mom, I’m going to show Gramps my newest trick. I bet he’ll never figure it out.”
“I bet you’re right,” Mya agrees.
I’m pulled backward through the door and it slams closed. The wall finally settles with a ding.
“Please proceed to 1997,” GPS Jeanette says.
“Shut up, you little wimp—or I’ll punch your face in!” I hear, before I even step through the door.
Next to the slide, a red-faced, husky boy towers over a boy half his size.
“Leave me alone,” the smaller boy says, more to the ground than the giant.
“Or what?” Husky demands.
“Or I’ll tell.” The small boy’s voice hitches.
Husky pushes his finger into the boy’s chest and warns, “If you do, I’ll make you wish you hadn’t.”
“Leave him alone!” a new voice shouts.
Husky tosses a glance over his shoulder. “Stay out of it, Ryder.”
“Leave him alone,” Ryder yells again.
“This is between me and him. Go back to where you came from.”
“He didn’t do anything to you.” Ryder places himself between the boys. Size-wise, he’s the perfect combination of the two.
“Look at you,” Husky growls to the smaller boy. “You deserve to be punched just for looking so stupid.”
Ryder shakes his head and puts his arm around the frightened boy. “Come on, let’s go.”
Husky grabs the small boy’s shoulder and pulls him back. “I said butt out!” he barks at Ryder.
Ryder frees the boy from Husky’s grasp and pushes him gently to the side. “And I said let him be!”
After Husky shoves Ryder, Ryder launches himself at Husky, taking him out at the knees. After shuffling back up, red-faced Husky hurls himself at Ryder again. This time, Ryder catches him in a bear hug and throws him to the ground like a wrestler.
A whistle blows in the background. “Boys! Boys! Stop it!” a woman commands, running to them. “Both of you, come with me—now!”
Before I can judge how much trouble Ryder’s in, the vacuum sucks me from the scene.
“Thank you, Grant. This completes your first session. Please return after training,” GPS Jeanette states calmly after the door thunders closed.
Her words don’t register until I’m yanked into the blackness overhead. Like before, I twist through the invisible needles, my lungs screaming for air. Not soon enough, I land on my feet, gasping. As if I dropped it, the book smacks against the wood floor and flops closed.
After catching my breath, I grab the book and toss it on the trunk. I’d swear it feels lighter.
I pour a cup of coffee and consider coding, but then Willow’s face replaces Tate’s in my mind. The little freak would have my neck for sure. Although, being dead already, how much damage could she really do?
I rub my jaw. Her punch did hurt the other day.
I decide I might as well check out Benson for lack of anything better to do. My mind is still contemplating Ryder when I step out of the elevator.
“Hey, kid—watch it!” I hear when my chest smacks Willow in the face. She’s traded her flip-flops and jeans for steel-toe boots and cargo pants. I can only assume the lace on her black tank is suppose to make her feel girly.
“Sorry, lost in thought,” I mumble.
“You’re lost, all right.”
“Whatever.”
“I was just coming up to get you. Figured you could use a diversion,�
�� she says.
I puff out a breath. “You’re not kidding.”
“Aw, this isn’t proving to be too much for poor little Grant?” she sings, as if I’m a three-year-old.
Tuning Willow out, I follow her into Benson and then to the back of the room. Leaving her standing at the green Jell-O, I cross to one of the meat tables and bump Rigby’s elbow.
“What’s up, man?”
“Getting some fuel. What’s up with you?” he asks.
“Same. Any luck with Clara?”
“Eh, can’t tell. She seems uninterested, but isn’t that what girls do? The whole playing-hard-to-get thing?”
“Beats the heck out of me.” I pause, thinking. “My girl, Tate, seemed that way at first. But, I’m sure her attitude wasn’t an act.”
Rigby chuckles at that. “You’re being cool about me and Clara. I mean, I’m not complaining, but how could you not want her? She’s frigging hot!”
I smirk. “She’s got nothing on Tate.”
“Your former girlfriend?”
My stomach clenches. “No,” I try to answer calmly. “My current fiancée.”
“You mean previous fiancée,” he corrects, making me flinch. “Wait—you still remember her?”
I look around to be sure no one is listening and nod. “Everything, man. But I’m terrified that my memories are going to dissolve any minute.”
I definitely have Rigby’s attention now. “How about other stuff? You remember your parents?”
I contemplate this for a minute. “My dad was an ass. Does that count?”
Rigby considers. “Is that all you’ve got on him?”
“No. I remember working with him.”
“What about your mom? What’s she like?”
“She’s a saint. I still remember her and the things we did together. My mom and I have always been much closer than my dad and me.”
“Well, if you do lose your memories—and from the way things sound around here, you will—you’ll adjust. Everyone else is all right. I mean, look at me,” he jokes. “I’ve still got my swag.”
I swallow, ignoring his wisecrack. The idea of forgetting my family—or even worse, Tate—is scary. I can’t imagine life without her.
“I hate this place,” I say quietly.
“It’ll get better. Give it some time,” Rigby assures me, but he’s wrong. No amount of time will make it better.
After we go through the food line, we join the others already sitting at one of the tables.
Liam glances at me. “About bloody time you showed up. We were just discussing your first day of training.”
Rigby coughs his laugh into a camouflage sleeve, and I give him a dark look before addressing Liam. “I can leave if you’d like to continue.”
“I told you.” Anna smirks to Liam. “He didn’t think it was so great.”
I playfully push on Anna’s shoulder. “You selling me out now? You’re supposed to be my girl.”
“Your girl?” Owen interjects.
“Chill, Owen. Not like that.” What I should have said is, Heel, boy. I strategically sit beside Willow so Rigby has to take the empty seat next to Clara.
“He’s still in denial about being blocked. I’m that good.” Willow winks at Clara.
“Don’t sweat it, Grant. I was chosen to be blocked in my first session, too.” Clara throws her white-blonde hair over her shoulder and moves her chair to put an extra inch between herself and Rigby.
“We weren’t chosen,” I sneer, noticing Rigby’s disappointment a second before he recovers.
“I volunteered.” Willow disguises her amusement behind the thumbnail she’s biting. Liam and Owen cackle like hyenas.
“I always knew you were off,” Owen says when he catches his breath.
“You should have seen his face. It was priceless.” Shane unbuttons a starched cuff and rolls it meticulously over his forearm. “Seriously, though, Willow—who volunteers for that?”
“I thought it would be a good learning exercise for the kid.”
“More like you thought you’d show off your brilliant moves,” Liam argues. “Better watch yourself, woman. The tables are going to be turning soon.”
Willow snickers. “I doubt that.”
“Yeah, probably not with you as his teacher,” Liam agrees.
“Watch it, Liam. You know I have mad skills.”
“That’s right, I almost forgot. Willow the Amazing, is it?” Liam asks.
“The Almighty,” I correct.
Owen joins in the fun, circling his ear with an index finger and then pointing at Willow.
“Don’t be haters just because I’ll be leaving behind a reputation you could only dream of.”
Clara laughs. “She’s got you there.”
“Catch up with me on the field, kid,” Willow orders, leaving behind a full tray of food minus the green Jell-O. She walks toward someone I don’t recognize.
“Who’s that?” I ask, aiming my stare at a modern-day Hercules with an eyebrow bar.
“That’s Reed,” Clara answers.
Willow and Reed whisper something and then disappear through one of the archways.
“Duty calls,” Owen says, touching his calimeter. He winks at Anna and vanishes.
“Smell you cats later,” Liam says, also disappearing.
“Let’s head out. I’d like to speak with Jonathan before training today,” Shane directs to Rigby.
Before leaving, Rigby flashes a Hollywood-worthy smile at Clara, even taking the toothpick out of his mouth to do so. Clara’s oblivious, though, because she’s staring at me. I’m beginning to notice she does this frequently. Apparently, by Rigby’s now sour expression, he notices, too.
Jordan and Anna follow Rigby and Shane out of Benson.
Clara sighs reluctantly when it’s just her and me left at the table. “I’d better head back, too.”
“Can I ask you something?”
Her crystal-blue eyes widen. “Sure, anything.”
“What’s up with Willow? I mean, I don’t doubt her skills, but what’s this talk about her reputation?”
“She hasn’t told you?”
I give her a blank look.
“I guess I can’t say I’m surprised. She talks big, but in reality she’s pretty modest.” Clara pauses. “She is amazing, you know?”
I hold back a laugh. “I’ve been hearing that a lot.”
“Because it’s true,” Clara retorts. “A few years back, Willow fell off the map. Three weeks without a single word from her, if you can imagine that.”
I wish!
“When she returned, we drilled her about it so incessantly that she began coming around less and less. One day, Owen overheard a conversation between her and Jonathan. Maybe ‘overheard’ is the wrong word. Anyway, Willow threw out the word Rebellion. You’ve heard of that, right? When Tragedies go bad?”
“Yeah.” I half laugh and bite into my bottom lip. “But why’s this Rebellion thing such a big deal?”
“Tragedies are so called because they’re teetering between the right and wrong paths. That’s why we’re needed. If they start heading in the wrong direction, they could alter many lives along the way, not just their own. Once a person becomes a Rebellion, the world around them has already begun to shift. Think of a Rebellion as a domino. Then push it over when there are thousands behind it, each representing another life. Get the picture?”
I lean back in my chair with my hands knitted behind my head. “Certainly one person’s actions can’t affect that many people.”
“Oh yes, they can. And once those dominos start falling, the task of standing them back up becomes harder and harder. In no time, that single line of dominos branches into two and then four paths, eventually stemming out like a starburst. At that point, the task becomes impossible.”
“All right, I think I get it. So what’s this have to do with Willow?”
“So, Owen—well, he can’t keep a secret if his life depended on it. I still don’t kno
w how he keeps his own assignments under wraps. Anyway, he told anyone who’d listen what he’d overheard. Willow denied it, of course, but we all knew it was because she had to. After that, she disappeared again.”
“So you’re saying Willow was on a Rebellion assignment?”
Clara nods and pauses when a girl walks by. “A few days later, Jonathan called our group to a meeting on the field and admitted just that to us. He said there would be no details given and then basically told us to stop pestering her so she could start coming around again. He also added that if she stayed locked away much longer, she was going to lose her mind.” Clara frowns thoughtfully, staring down at the smooth tabletop. “I think he was kidding about that part.”
Interesting. Maybe that explains why she’s such a head case. “What happened then?”
“We kept our mouths shut about it, that’s what. When Jonathan talks, you listen,” she states matter-of-factly. “It’s been long enough that we can joke about it now. Willow hasn’t, and never will, spill the details about the assignment, but she likes to rub in how good she is to the guys. I can’t imagine the kind of toll a Rebellion assignment must take on a Satellite, both physically and mentally. You should consider yourself lucky. You’ve scored yourself a major Legacy.”
Clara looks down at her calimeter. “I need to get out of here.” Before she slings her blue canvas bag over her shoulder, she pulls a small tube from its front pocket and spreads shiny lip gloss over her lips. The scent hits me. Please tell me she’s not wearing…
“Peppermint?” I croak, and then I mentally slap myself for saying it out loud.
Her face brightens. “I’m impressed.” Then, her eyes narrow on me suspiciously. “Wait—are you gay?”
What? “No! Why would you think that?”
“Most guys don’t know anything about makeup. Plus, you’ve got the whole good looks thing going on.”
Whoa, she can stop right there. I put my hands up, palms out. “Trust me when I say I know nothing about makeup.” Peppermint, on the other hand, is something I’ve had lots of fine experiences with.
“Hey,” I mutter when Clara stands up, figuring that since I’m already feeling awkward, now is as good of a time as any to help a friend out.
She eagerly looks at me and presses her highly glossed lips together.