by Lee Davidson
When an idea hits me, I glance around the room, expecting someone to be there, watching. Could it work? If I’m fast enough, I can be back before Willow even knows I’m gone.
Before I change my mind, I grab my empty frame from the shelf. “Displace,” I whisper.
The floor falls out, and my stomach drops when I plummet down. I squeeze my eyes closed, pushing both nausea and consequences out of my mind. I open them cautiously when my feet hit the ground, unsure of what to expect.
I’m in my room. I’m in my room! I was hoping for Tate’s, but I can make this work.
An unsettled feeling slides through me. The room hasn’t changed at all. Even my bed is unmade. I’d feel better if the space were transformed into an office or something—anything that indicated my parents were moving on.
As I’m about to jump through the back wall, my bedroom door clicks open behind me. Expecting Willow or Jonathan, I play possum (though I guess I’m not really playing).
I finally turn and then have to remind myself that my mom can’t see me. Thank God, because my mouth gapes open at her appearance. She’s aged at least ten years.
My mom grabs a frame from my dresser, sits on my bed, and brushes her hand along the photo of Tate and me. “Be good,” she whispers and then she cries. A lot. Like she’s going flood my bedroom. She curls on her side, hugging the frame, and buries herself under the mess of covers.
As I sit beside my mom while she sobs, my jeans become spotted with my own tears and my blood boils, because there’s nothing I can do to comfort her.
“Mary?”
My head jerks up, and my mom is returning the frame a second later. She dries her eyes on her sleeve and slips out the door.
I hear my dad’s muffled voice through the wall. “What were you doing?”
“Just putting some things away,” my mom answers, sniffling.
Long pause. “Do you need any help?” My dad’s voice is laced with concern—an alien emotion for him.
“I just need a minute.”
Their bedroom door clicks closed, and a second later, I hear heavy footsteps go down the hall.
Suddenly I’m anxious to get back—worried that Willow will catch on to my absence. Or maybe I’m not ready to face Tate yet. Either way, I can’t risk getting caught now, knowing that I can get here. I’m partly relieved. I don’t think I can stand any more sadness today.
I displace with an upward jerk, and I’m so numb that I hardly notice the discomfort.
“I’m so sorry, Mom,” I whisper after my feet hit solid ground.
The clink of Willow’s bag hitting the floor fills the silent room, followed by Willow’s overenthusiastic voice. “Hey, kid—you ready to go check in with Jonathan?”
“Sure,” I say over the sofa, watching my thumbs race around each other.
She pushes my feet off the trunk. “Cool. Let me grab some tea. You’re looking better. Oh, heck—who am I kidding? You look like rubbish still. Did you head down for break?”
“Nah, I just hung out here. I was tired after displacing,” I say, a little disconcerted at how easily the lie comes.
“It takes some getting used to. You’re doing well, though. Better than I expected. Ready?”
I push myself up, feeling weaker than ever, and pull on my bag. Willow does the same, with mug in tow.
“Where are we meeting Jonathan?”
“Back on the field.”
She walks fast, but it’s easy to keep up with her short legs. The others have already starting training by the time we reach the grass. In the far corner, Jonathan spots us, smiles, and holds his finger up. Not the one my dad always used.
Willow and I watch the others. Surprisingly (at least to me), many of the Satellites still don’t have blocking down yet—Anna, especially.
As promised, Jonathan comes over in less than a minute. “How’s Programming going?” he asks Willow.
She answers in a very un-Willowlike way, meaning her enthusiasm is only about a seven on a scale of ten. “All right.”
When he turns to me, his face fills with concern. “Grant, you look exhausted. How are you holding up?”
“Fine.” My eyes drop to the ground. I hope he’s not suspicious about my coding problem.
“Tell me—how was your solo displacement?” he asks.
I clear my dry throat. “I made it there and back.”
“He’s being modest. He did great!” Willow enthusiastically praises. If she only knew.
“You have excelled in your training, so it’s no surprise that you are the first to be released.”
“Huh?” I ask, bemused.
Willow smacks my back. “He’s clearing you, kid.”
“Congratulations,” Jonathan says. “I have no doubt you will prove to be an asset to our team.”
“Are you sure?” Panic raises my voice too high. I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut. “I mean, I’m not ready.”
Willow, clearly entertained by my response, chokes her tea down. “You’re ready.”
“Please know that I wouldn’t clear you if I had even the slightest reservations about your abilities. Now, I believe there’s only one thing left to do.” Jonathan pulls a small box from his jacket pocket, gives it to me, and shakes my hand.
“Thank you,” is all I am able to say.
He reaches into his other pocket and pulls out a square object no bigger than a postage stamp.
“Say cheese!” Willow wraps her arm around my waist and squeezes my side. “At least try to appear happy.”
I laugh from her tickling pinch just as Jonathan clicks the tiny silver square.
“Willow, I’ll see you in Programming. Grant, if you need anything at all, please don’t hesitate to ask.”
“Um, there is this one thing. Do you have a minute?” My mind races for an excuse to get rid of Willow.
“Willow, I have a private matter I would like to discuss with Grant as well. Please excuse us,” Jonathan says.
Well, that was convenient.
“Sure thing. Catch you guys later.” Willow bounces across the field to a group of Satellites.
Jonathan turns his attention back to me. “Please forgive me. I don’t, in fact, have anything to discuss with you, but I gathered that you preferred to talk in confidence.”
Uh-huh, I bet you did. This guy is seriously a mind reader. Don’t think about Tate, don’t think about Tate, don’t—Crap!
“What can I do for you?”
Remembering what I need, I say, “Here’s the thing—there’s been a mistake. My assignment…” I trail off when I notice Willow laughing animatedly with Jordan and Shane.
“Is this about Willow’s son?”
When I back look at Jonathan, he doesn’t need to be a mind reader. The shock on my face says everything. “How’d you know he was my Tragedy?”
“I know about every assignment.”
Is that even possible? Of course it is. Man, I hate this place! “That’s a lot to keep track of,” I murmur.
“I do all right. I can assure you that no mistake has been made. You were destined for this particular assignment, along with all the others that will follow.”
“What if I slip up and say something to Willow?”
“You don’t give yourself enough credit.”
“And if I make a mistake?”
“You could make a mistake with any Tragedy—Willow’s son or otherwise. I have faith that you will not.” He pauses. “Of everyone you have met in Progression, who would you hate to disappoint the most?”
I don’t answer because it’s obvious.
“I understand your concern; however, I believe you are the perfect choice. Your love for Willow will serve as significant motivation to succeed.”
“Trust me when I say I have no love for Willow.”
His comical expression says he doesn’t believe me. “This plan was laid out before you were born. I promise you this assignment is not a mistake. You were destined for this.”
�
�Thanks.” I struggle to use my friendly voice, since he’s clearly not changing his mind.
“Anytime. I sincerely mean that. I look forward to following your progress.” He stares at me for a minute, says, “Happy Thanksgiving,” and then walks away.
“Uh…you, too,” I finally call back, but he’s already moved across the field, observing a pair of Satellites. Certainly he would have said something if he knew I tried to get to Tate’s. At least, that’s what I’m going to tell myself.
“Well, let’s see it!”
Willow’s perky voice scares the crap out of me. I snap my eyes off Jonathan.
“Sorry.” There’s zero sincerity in her tone. “Let’s see it!”
“See what?”
“Your calimeter, genius.”
“Oh. Right.” I open the black box I forgot I was holding. The sun glints off the calimeter’s square face.
“Sweet!” Willow messes up my hair.
Sweet is right. Even sweeter, though, is that the notches of the silver disks are still far apart. They could freeze right now as far as I’m concerned.
I don’t care when Willow looks at me funny for sniffing the brown band. The smell of the leather is a reminder of home: my parents sofa (which happens to blow Willow’s away—at least, aesthetically), my tool pouches, Tate’s corded bracelet…
Willow interrupts my trip down memory lane. “We’ve got the rest of the day to kill. Want to hang out here and watch the others?”
With no way of escaping, my chances of seeing Tate are zilch. “Why not?”
We sit at the edge of the field, out of the way of the practicing Satellites. Willow kicks off her shoes and rolls onto her stomach. “You gonna gawk at it all day or put it on?”
Unaware that I had been staring at my calimeter, I strap the thick band around my wrist. Perfect fit. Go figure.
“It looks great on you. How’s it feel to be official?”
“I don’t know. I mean, it doesn’t seem official yet.”
“It will. After break you’ll head to your assignment just like all the other Satellites.”
Anxiety and fear grab hold of my insides. “What if I screw up?” I ask Willow. Thinking about her son makes the urge to vomit even stronger.
“You won’t.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because you’ve been trained by the best,” she states matter-of-factly.
“You have a skewed image of yourself,” I try to joke, swallowing down bile.
“Sticks and stones, kid. Happy Thanksgiving, by the way. Got anything you’re thankful for?”
She can’t be serious. “No,” I say dully.
Oblivious to my attitude, she turns her face toward the sun like she’s enjoying the nonexistent heat. “Try to relax and enjoy the entertainment, kid.”
I find Rigby and Shane on the crowded field. After three tries, Rigby succeeds in making Shane sit on the ground. A little further down, Anna and Jordan are hard at it. Jordan’s beyond patient, but Anna, on the other hand—not so much. After watching four attempts, I can no longer take her disappointment and fall back on the grass, thinking about Ryder and my upcoming assignment.
To avoid getting sick, I shift my thoughts from Ryder to Tate. My stomach does a nervous flip at the thought of seeing her—the real her, not the angry, black-eyed Tate from my dreams. But what if she’s physically changed like my mom, or worse, what if she’s a train wreck, too? I’m unsure if I’m prepared to see her in that condition. My worried mind goes into overdrive and the guilt of my secret tugs at me. I push the guilt away, close my eyes, and let my imagination run wild with a happier Tate.
“Congratulations!” a breathless voice says, pulling me from a memory that was just getting to the good part. “They’re saying you’ve beat some record or something—the quickest Satellite to go through training.”
I push up into a sitting position and shade my eyes to see the dark silhouette hovering over me.
“That’s because he had the best trainer ever!” Willow gloats to Anna.
“Fat chance it had anything to do with the trainer,” Jordan says, walking up with Rigby and Shane.
“I don’t know. If Willow was my trainer, I would have blown through training as fast as possible, too,” Shane says.
Willow shrugs them off. “You boys,” she smirks, “always intimidated by strong women.”
Anna’s the only one who finds humor in Willow’s statement.
“Nice cali,” Rigby says, pulling the toothpick from his mouth. Not catching the sarcasm at first, I hold out my wrist so Rigby can examine it. His eyes narrow. “How was your date?” he asks sourly.
“You’re so lucky. I can’t wait to start my assignment,” Anna says, clearly uncomfortable.
“Newbies,” Jordan jokes, shaking his head.
Having scarier things on my mind, I ignore Rigby’s glare. My nerves make my laugh come out wrong, but no one seems to notice.
In Benson, everyone eats but me—even Clara, whose diet usually consists of a single can of Dr. Pepper.
“You’re missing out,” she says. “The Thanksgiving feast here is the best in the world!”
I longingly scan Clara’s plate. It’s overflowing with turkey, sweet potatoes, a couple of rolls, dressing, and cranberry sauce. I swallow, wishing I could enjoy the food from one of my favorite holidays. I don’t dare fuel my stomach, though. Instead, my palms wear out the thighs of my jeans while my leg bounces up and down. Twice, Willow places her hand over mine to stop me and gives her best “chill out” look.
After what seems like just minutes, the room thins out. Terrified, my knee bounces higher.
“I’m outta here, guys.” Clara bounces around the table and plants a quick kiss on my cheek. “Best of luck, Grant. You’re going to be great.” She vanishes an instant later. The warmth crawling up my face is not from embarrassment this time, but rather from Rigby’s emanating hate for me. His chair slides loudly behind him and he stalks out of the room.
Liam ignores Rigby and says, “Good luck, pansy,” before disappearing.
Owen kisses Anna and whispers something to her. Now that they’re public, we all have to suffer through their PDA. “Dude,” Owen says to me when they’re finished, and then he vanishes too.
“You’ll be awesome, I know it,” Anna encourages.
“Ready?” Willow asks, placing her hand on my knee again to stop the bouncing.
“I guess so.”
“When you arrive, be sure to read up on your assignment. Your book will give specific details of what you need to do.”
“What will you be doing?”
“I’ll be in Programming. They tell me my husband will be joining me soon. That’s good news, right? I mean, something I should be thankful for?”
Ryder’s dad. I try to smile, but it doesn’t work. My insides twist into a tighter knot thinking about Ryder’s loss. My old man and I weren’t nearly as close and I miss the grouch more than I would have ever thought possible. Ryder, having a much better relationship with his dad, is surely going to be a mess.
“Dude, relax. You’re getting all pale on me again,” Willow says, but she’s nervous, too. I can hear it in her voice. “I’ll be waiting for you at the next break. You’re gonna be stellar, kid.”
I dig into my backpack, wrapping my hand so tightly around the rock that my fingernails dig into my palm. “Displace,” I force out, only because I can’t face Willow for another second.
The floor disappears, finally giving the sick feeling I’ve had an excuse for being there. I hear a new sound this time—a higher-pitched whistling—but I keep my eyes closed and ignore my stomach.
When I land, I strain to find the source of the distant rumbling. Wet snowflakes hit my face and arms. Their temperature is that of bathwater.
A dark blur slides around a corner and screams past me. Another brushes my side. A third goes through my left hand—and more rumbling is coming. I jump out of instinct and float ten feet over the bluish-white
path while the last snowmobile races by underneath me.
Floating feels natural to my body, but not to my head. I focus on the ground below, and my body slowly drops. I jump again, wobbly, but then more controlled, and stay suspended above the earth much higher than before while my head grows accustomed to the feeling.
When I was alive, the glare from the lowering sun would have been blinding, but now my vision isn’t affected. Paths weave throughout the precipitous mountain of evergreens below me.
The engines cut in the distance. Aside from my own breathing, it’s like someone hit the mute button. A few branches drop their loads of snow, but even that is eerily silent.
Remembering my purpose, I mentally slap myself for being such an idiot. Ryder has to be one of the snowmobilers, or I wouldn’t have displaced here. I lower to the ground and sprint along the trail, but there are too many forking paths, and with the engines cut, there’s no sound to follow.
On my next stride, I push off the ground and soar into the air like Superman. The trees blur below me, and I catch the faintest hint of voices. I slow down by leaning back and follow the left trail. It opens to a flat, white field. Eight snowmobiles and their riders (and hopefully my Ryder) are parked along the far edge.
“You’re full of it—there’s no way you got that kind of air!” a guy says.
“Seriously, man. It was unbelievable,” someone answers.
“Figures it’d have to be when I was in class.”
“Carter, you always miss the good stuff,” a girl says.
“Someone’s gotta get an education around here.”
“Hey, watch it, man.” I recognize Ryder’s voice easily. Now just a few feet away, I lower to the ground.
“I wasn’t talking about you, Mr. Grad School,” the guy says, and the snowball he’s formed splats against Ryder’s head.
Ryder brushes away the remains of the attack. “Oh, you want to start that? You know your mom’s turkey always makes you slow.”
“Hey, don’t talk about my mom!” The guy launches himself toward Ryder.
In an approach similar to his playground attack years ago, Ryder bear hugs the guy, and they both hit the ground. Ryder pops up with a snow goatee and shakes his long hair like a dog.