by Lee Davidson
“You haven’t forgotten her,” she says in a whisper.
I silently pray that I never will. “That’s just because I’m broken or something.” I smile to try and lighten the mood.
“Part of me wishes it had been like that for me with Troy. There are still so many holes in my memory. What if some pieces are lost forever?”
“They’ll come back,” I encourage. I hope, for her sake, that they really will.
She looks back at the girl, and I maintain my silence to avoid saying anything else that might upset Willow.
She elbows my ribs. “Let’s check out before I get all emotional. How about some more maneuvering practice?”
Anything to get out of here. Make-Out City is making my chest ache even more.
“Follow me.” She winks and disappears.
Now or never, I decide, before running headfirst into the pane of glass. Pain of glass is more like it.
When my feet are clear, I turn sharply to avoid the oak branches stretching toward me. I land in the neighboring yard with a thud; felt, but not heard. At least I’m standing. I stay rooted in place for a second, trying to grasp how differently my muscles work here.
When I jog across two lawns to Willow, my body feels light, like it doesn’t want to stay grounded.
“Nice dismount, but your landing could use some work. Overall, though, not bad. Ready?” she asks, pinning her dreads into a knot. The yellow glow from the streetlight makes her look even more freakish. “Take my hand,” she orders.
When I do, she says, “Displace.”
We hurl upward so fast that I’m nauseous again. If the g-forces weren’t pinning my arms down, I’d cover my ears to shut out the screaming wind.
“Woo-hoo!” the frigging maniac yells.
I don’t open my eyes until we stop. Abruptly.
My feet are planted like concrete on Willow’s floor when she releases my hand and circles around me, inspecting me like I’m an alien. “You good?”
Doubting that my voice will work, I nod my answer.
“Cool, let’s jet,” she says, and it’s back to the training field we go.
Pairs of Satellites are blocking, or at least trying to, on the expansive lawn. Even from across the field, Rigby’s face is easy to read. I’d guess this wasn’t his only missed block today. Either that or he’s still upset about Clara. I’m hoping it’s the former and not the latter.
Wynn catches us at the bleachers. “Welcome back! How was your displacement?”
“It’s an interesting way to travel,” I reply.
“The kid’s a natural,” Willow beams.
“Fantastic. Keep it up and you’ll prove Jonathan right.” After a pause, she looks at Willow. “Although, he’s rarely wrong.”
“Rarely?” Willow questions.
Wynn smirks and grabs my right hand with both of hers. “Wonderful to meet you,” she says, bowing strangely. “That’s all I have for you both. Willow, please oversee him in displacing to his Tragedy later today. I expect Jonathan will be back for your next session.”
We say our good-byes, and Willow and I walk back to the building.
“Feel up to coding again?” Willow asks when we’re through the lobby.
Is she serious? Like I’d pass on an opportunity to see Tate. “Sure.”
“You sound surprised.”
“I didn’t think you’d be in a hurry to let me try again.”
She presses the elevator button. “I’m not. Unfortunately, time is no longer a luxury.”
In her room, Willow kicks off her combat boots and heads down the hall. I can’t believe she’s being so cool about this.
I sit on the thin mat, close my eyes, and an instant later, I’m in the place I’m meant to be. I kiss the top of Tate’s head and she sighs. Her hair smells so familiar, so good, but is messier than usual. When she lifts her head to kiss me, I immediately pull back.
I gasp and push against her shoulders. “Tate, your eye!”
Her hand reaches up to her left eye as if she’s understood me. Her bruised, swollen flesh is an awful combination of purple, black, and blue. What the hell happened?
With feather lightness, I rub my finger along her swollen skin. My hand jerks back when she launches from the bed and rips wildly through the room.
“Damn you, Grant! You left me when I needed you!” She violently snatches a frame off my dresser and groans, but when she looks at the picture, she becomes calm again.
Dear God, she’s going all Jekyll and Hyde on me.
I jump off the bed and look over her shoulder at the ridiculous photo. Like always, she looks too amazing in the photo to be with a guy like me. I complained profusely when she made me board the children’s train at the zoo and the look on my face shows that I was not happy. How and why she tolerated my whining is still a mystery.
With her head down, Tate cries softly and a tear splats on the glass.
Her hair curtains her face and I pull the curls back to rest my head on her shoulder. Goose bumps raise on her arm and I try and rub them away. “I’m here,” I repeat in whispers. Desolation and guilt dig into me like eagle talons grip prey. I would do anything to take Tate’s pain and add it to my own, anything to stop her tears.
“No!” she yells, suddenly violent. The frame hits the wall with the sick crunch.
A shiver quakes through me before the lights go out.
“Come on—snap out of it!”
My eyes spring open to find Willow fiercely shaking me.
“You look terrible,” I manage.
She huffs. “Are you all right?”
Still panting, I push my fingers through my wet hair. “I think so.”
“What happened?” she demands.
“I don’t remember.” I don’t remember!
“You were out a long time,” she says.
“Willow, I don’t remember anything.” Panic swallows me. “What’s happening?”
She looks at the floor and won’t answer me.
After a little bit—OK, a lot—of effort, Willow calms me down and insists I rest. So here I am on the ghastly sofa, still feeling drained.
“Do you ever code, or do you just trash the kitchen to relieve your stress?” I ask after twenty minutes of nonstop racket. “If it’s the latter, I was thinking maybe I could give it a try.” Although, by the sound of it, she’s already rearranged the cabinets a hundred times.
“Huh?” She pauses, making me remember how much I love silence. “Oh, sorry—nervous habit. You feeling better?”
“Sure. Relaxing is easy with you around.”
She ignores me. “Think you’re ready to displace?”
“Why not?” Anywhere is better than here. I push myself into a sitting position and spin to watch her over the back of the sofa. A dozen coffee cups of various colors are lined up along the dark counter.
“You’re going to be on your own this time. Are you cool with that? If not, we could go back to Hope’s for more practice.”
The image of Hope and Lover-Boy swirls in my head. “I’ll be fine. Why can’t you go with me?”
“Privacy policy.”
“Oh. Right.”
“Remember that when you return. You’re probably going to want to blab all about it.”
“You know me—such a blabber,” I tease. “So, is this officially the beginning of my assignment?”
“More like a dress rehearsal. If you do well you’ll be released soon, though. You’re far ahead of schedule. Expect some jabbing from the others.”
“For what?”
“For being an overachiever,” she says, running the water in the sink.
“Great. One more thing to draw attention to myself.”
“As if the good looks weren’t enough,” she jokes.
“Funny.”
“You know, Clara’s not the only one around here that’s into you. Plenty of girls have been drooling since you got here.”
“Yeah, I’ve been beating them off with sticks.”
“I can only imagine your response,” I reply, still not believing her.
“I tell them that when you open your mouth, it cancels out all the good looks.”
I pretend to be wounded while I stand. “Thanks a lot!”
“Hey, kid, that’s what I’m here for.” She dries her hands on the checkered towel hanging on the fridge handle and then reaches into one of the cabinets, taking out something small enough to fit in her fist. “Ready?” she asks, walking over to me.
“I guess. I hope my good looks don’t get in the way.”
She punches my arm and then passes me a smooth, pocket-sized stone.
I roll the sparkling granite over in my palm and then juggle the light stone with one hand. “What is it?”
She snatches it from the air. “Your tocket. Don’t lose it.” She holds the rock between two fingers, an inch from my face. “This is your lifeline to your assignment. Got it?”
“Yep.” I steal it back from her. “The size is convenient.”
“The Sorters try to be mindful of the fact that we have to carry these things around all day. Can you imagine a surfboard or giant teddy bear?”
Willow really is funny sometimes. “Who are the Sorters?”
“Tocket hunters. It’s no easy feat, either. The item must be important to your Tragedy yet go unnoticed when it’s missing. Being size-appropriate is another obstacle.”
“So they’re thieves, basically?”
“No, they’re not thieves!” she sneers.
“What would you call them?”
“Convenient.”
“Thieves,” I repeat, mostly because it bugs her. I toss the stone in the air. “So how, exactly, do I do this?”
“Getting there is easy—you just need to say the word. The physical adjustment is the most difficult, but you’ve already fared well in that area.”
“And the word?”
“‘Displace.’ You don’t need to say it loud—a whisper works just as well. As long as you’re holding the tocket, it will take you to its owner. Just remember to take a minute to adjust after you land.”
“How do I get back?”
“Same word, but no tocket. When you’re holding nothing, displacement will bring you home.”
I flinch at the word. Willow notices.
“This is your home now,” she says levelly.
I swallow and bite the inside of my cheek.
“Try not to throw up,” are her last words of encouragement.
I tighten my grasp and say the magic word. The hardwood floor disappears and gravity takes hold. The wind screams louder and louder until I’m sweating in panic. When my feet finally hit solid ground, Willow’s warning rings in my ear. I steady myself, and my breathing, before making any sudden movements.
Despite the dark, my sight couldn’t be better, and I focus on the glistening terrain burying me from the knees down. Because the temperature feels mild, even in my thin T-shirt, it takes a second to register.
“You’ve got to me kidding me,” I say under my breath. I’m barely comfortable maneuvering through normal terrain. This is sure to be disastrous.
After assessing the situation, I lift my foot as high as I can out of the snow and take a step. I fall face forward, buried up to my shoulders in crystal powder.
Pushing off the ground in frustration, I apply too much force and go flying through the air with my legs and arms spinning like a windmill. The plowed street passes under me in slow motion, and I land in a neighboring yard, knee-deep again. This is ridiculous.
I sight in on a driveway and push off the ground, using much less power this time. My judgment is better, and I land at the edge of a high drift, barely on the pavement.
Across the street, the door of a shoebox-sized home with an extra steep roof opens, and Ryder steps under the porch light. He pulls on a stocking cap and buttons his wool coat. “See you later. Lennon, go easy on your mom,” he calls back to the boy in Mya’s arms.
He walks down the sidewalk. In a role reversal from the last time I saw him, it’s now his breath that’s visible.
I judge the distance, jump, and land directly in front of him on the cleared sidewalk. Not bad. He keeps walking and passes right through me. Not good. The sensation feels worse than going through the window, and I lose my balance. I fail to catch myself and land on my butt.
I leap up as Ryder climbs into a gorgeous royal-blue Mustang. The engine purrs rhythmically. I would love to get behind the wheel of that thing. When he backs out of the driveway, the garage light reflects off the New Hampshire license plate. Guess that explains his accent. And all the snow.
It doesn’t occur to me that I should be with him until the taillights shrink in the distance. Crap!
I start running—as if I’m actually going to catch up with a car. Surprisingly, my legs move fast. Extremely fast. In less than a minute, I’m jumping headfirst through the passenger door. I overshoot and land awkwardly, almost in Ryder’s lap. Obviously, practice is still in order. I lean back into the passenger bucket seat, noticing that my breath is unusually even. If I had sprinted half that distance when I was alive, I’d be hurling by now.
The Black Keys blares through the speakers, but despite Ryder’s decent taste in music, he drives the Mustang like my grandma, being excessively cautious even though the roads are clear. I wish he’d break the tires free—she deserves to be driven better. When he turns the car off the deserted road, the headlights illuminate the tops of gravestones. Great. Nothing like partying with dead people after dark.
With the engine cut and the music off, his door squeaks loudly in the still night. My side of the car is pinned by a huge snowdrift. Not that it matters, because I don’t have the luxury of exiting the conventional way, anyhow.
I should probably head back before Willow wigs out, but I have to see why Mr. Morbid is in a cemetery so late. Plus, more practice moving through this absurdity of winter couldn’t hurt. Opting for the side without the wall of snow, I jump through the driver’s door and land gracefully. Well, almost.
I jog along the cleared path, trying to keep myself grounded. My body still feels too light, like it’s going to float away. I stop a few feet behind Ryder.
“Hey, Mom,” he says, kneeling down by one of the headstones. So much for my Mr. Morbid theory. “You should see Lennon. I swear he doubles in size everyday. Dad says he has your eyes. And Mya, she’s so great with him. I wonder if that’s how you would have been with me.” He pauses and rubs snow off the top of the stone. “I know I say this all the time, but I do wish I had known you.” He stands and digs something out of his coat pocket. “Happy birthday.”
Snow crunches under his feet on his way back to the car, and I stare at the headstone. I should head back to Progression (Miss Dreadlock’s surely in a conniption by now), but curiosity pulls me closer to the grave marker to see what Ryder left for his mom. If I hadn’t seen him lay it down, I probably wouldn’t have noticed the object. I pull its twin from my pocket, rolling the granite rock over in my hand. Like the snow, the speckles shine like glitter under the moonlight. Remembering I don’t need it to get back to Progression—I refuse to call it home—I put my rock back in my pocket.
Freezing in horror, my breathing hitches and then stops altogether for a full minute.
When I can finally move, I bend down to the headstone. My eyes blink frantically. The image is wrong. It must be!
I lean against the stone for support and gasp for air. Despite my pleading, the writing stays the same.
May You Rest In Eternal Peace, Wilhelmina Ann Beckmann, January 6, 1959 — November 27, 1988. Forever Willow—Loving Wife, Mother, and Daughter.
10. You were destined for this
“Oh jeez! You look terrible!” The birthday girl places the back of her hand on my forehand, like my mom used to do
to check for fever. “Seriously—worse than usual. Say something.”
Not trusting my voice, I stare back at Willow in silence.
“If you don’t talk soon, I’m calling Jonathan. You’re freaking me out.”
“I’m fine,” I say, praying she doesn’t catch the hitch in my voice.
“Did you displace all right? Please tell me you didn’t have any trouble. The last thing I need is you ending up God knows where, especially on your first solo.”
“No—no trouble. It was fine,” I assure her, feeling a little steadier.
“All right. Well, don’t tell me any more. Remember the rules.”
A loud breath of relief escapes me. Saved by the Handbook for Dummies. The rules hadn’t even crossed my mind.
“Chillax, kid. You really do look awful.” She checks her calimeter. “I’ve got to head to Programming. You’re gonna be on your own for awhile.”
I swallow.
“It’s almost break, if you want company. Jonathan wants to see us today, so I’ll find you later, OK?” She continues to study me.
“Good luck in Programming,” I say, wishing she’d leave already so I can drop the act.
“Thanks, I could use it.”
When Willow’s finally gone, I try to relax, but pacing frantically doesn’t seem to be doing the trick. I can’t will away the image of her headstone.
Of all the Satellites, how did I end up with Willow’s son? This is a huge mistake—it has to be. I’ll just pull Jonathan aside when we meet up with him later, and he can get this mess straightened out. There. Easy.
Squeezing the bridge of my nose and praying that I’m right, my eyes stop on the bookshelf. The faces in the photographs stare back at me. Were any of them responsible for protecting someone so close to their Legacy?
“No, they couldn’t be. This is just a mistake,” I say aloud, because apparently, I have lost my mind.
My eyes stop on the frame Tate made and my thoughts begin to shift, remembering my dreadful hospital stays. Tate refused to leave my side, even through the worst of my cancer-ridden days. My mom was so grateful that Tate could always raise my spirits a little. Even my dad got closer with Tate during that time. My dad! The man who couldn’t get close to a blanket full of static.