Once inside the lab, Zach combed one finger through a piece of my hair. “You’re beautiful. Better than all the rest.” Then he kissed me for the second time, and it was just as spectacular as the first.
“C’mon, I have a lot I want to show you,” he said.
He sat down at a small computer screen that looked dirty and outdated, pushed some buttons, and pulled up an interface called Project Zero. Then for some reason, the words Soliloquy 18 popped into my head.
“Wait,” I said.
Soliloquy 18.
“Soliloquy 18?”
“Yep. That’s the password,” Zach said.
The keyboard clicked as Zach typed in a bunch of things, and then a screen popped up with a document. “You were in a coma for four years,” he said. “There was an immense electrical storm at Fuller Park on May 11, 2008. It was your 13th birthday.”
Zach got a funny look on his face like he wanted to tell me something else, but he was afraid to. How bad could it be? I wondered. Unless he told me we were really Siamese twins that were separated shortly after birth, I was prepared for pretty much anything. He just stared at me and raked his fingers through his hair, which messed it up, leaving pieces going in all different directions.
He leaned away from the computer, revealing the following screen: He wheeled his chair aside. “Just… read it,” he said.
--Log June 18, 2008
Data collection on subject Soliloquy 18 begins. Subject: 13 year old female suffered a lightning strike, resulting in a comatose state. Subject is housed at Ellerman Regional Medical Center. Permission given by father of victim, one Walter Turner.
“You expect me to believe this.”
Zach shrugged. “It is what it is.”
“There’s only one problem with this data,” I said, with air quotes.
Zach looked at me with a furrowed brow, a stoic expression that made him look much older than 17. “What?”
“I was never struck by lightning,” I replied.
He frowned, slightly, as he’d just taken a bite of something and wasn’t sure, yet, if he liked it. “Yes, but you were present when these electrical storms were at their peak. You were still a viable subject.”
“Viable Subject? What the heck? In some scientific experiment?” I huffed. “You mean I was some lab rat?”
“No,” Zach corrected. “My dad was trying to help you.”
Funny thing. I didn’t even budge. Didn’t try to pull my hand away, didn’t try to run. At that point, nothing was going to surprise me. “Wow,” I said again. “That’s better than Siamese twins,” I added. An afterthought.
“Huh?” Zach was the poster child for confusion.
“Nothing. Never mind. Anyway, I don’t believe a word of what you’re telling me.” I started to get up. “And I’m getting tired.”
“Wait.” He typed a few letters, and started a music player on his computer. “Listen.”
String up the stars and steal the sky
Today is a dream, today is goodbye
Take it all with you, take every last sigh
String up the stars and steal the sky
Today is a dream, today is goodbye.
It took me a few moments of sitting there, just enjoying the music before it hit me. It was the song Dani and I had listened to, back when we were kids. I sat down hard in the chair in disbelief, just shaking my head.
“You’re not freaking out,” Zach observed.
“Why should I? Crazy is normal at this point.” I sighed, resigned to the fact that I was in way deeper than I ever imagined I’d be. There was definitely some truth in what Zach was telling me.
“And,” Zach continued. “I have been reading all about you. From your… um… brain data.”
“What do you mean?” I admit the fact that someone had not only studied my brain covertly, but had recorded stuff from it, was a bit disturbing.
“The lab contains all the digital files from the patient’s recorded brain waves.” He coughed a little bit, on purpose, it seemed, to ease the tension that we were both starting to feel. “It’s all here.”
“But why me? I mean, how did the doctor know about me? And more importantly, why did my parents give him permission to hook up crap to my brain?” I felt violated for something I never even knew was happening to me. I was getting severely annoyed.
“After the accident, your dad contacted mine. They were old friends. I think your dad knew about his research. Maybe they thought it would help you. Your parents were desperate for answers.”
I felt like crying and I couldn’t decide if it was because I felt sorry for my parents, or I was just fed up with my life. “Great.” Being a sci-fi special of the month was the last place I thought life would take me. But then, freaky is as freaky does.
I still wasn’t convinced, but you had to give him credit for trying. “Ok,” I hesitated. “So what, my brain waves were recorded for science. Yeah me.” If I was involved in some intricate scientific experiment involving comatose me, brain waves, and lightning in hopes of reviving me, what was the point of talking about it now? It was all over. Yet, there was something else. Zach had clearly said it was related, somehow to him, and by default, apparently, to me. I took a deep breath. “So, what does this have to do with me and you?” I asked, finally. “Why are you telling me about this? Why not just leave it alone? I could have lived without knowing any of it.”
“Because I love you,” Zach said. “I know it sounds weird, but it’s true. You won’t understand it yet, not until…”
“Until I trust you,” I offered.
“Right.” Zach started punching more keys on the keyboard.
“Zach, a document on the computer isn’t going to convince me—” I protested.
Zach reached over and placed his fingertips over my mouth. “Shhh,” he soothed. His eyes were so soft and approachable just then; I couldn’t look away or say a word. There were faraway places in his eyes. Worlds, even.
“Are you ready to read about Project Zero?” He asked.
Don’t ask me how or why, but at that moment, I believed, with every thread of my being, that Zach Webb indeed knew things. And as much as it scared the wits out of me, he probably did know everything about me. The only question was—how? And more importantly, why?
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I replied.
Floating
Project Zero: File 6-18-2008, Subject Tess Turner
My first thought: Am I dead?
Then, I start thinking about myself—not the boring stuff like my name, address, phone number, but like about me. I start thinking about what’s on the inside, like what, for example, makes me have thoughts to begin with. Why, for example, did I just think up the words, “Am I dead?” It’s because I’m very much alive. A dead person can’t have thoughts. And a dead person most certainly cannot think about having thoughts.
There’s something else I’ve discovered about myself. You’re probably not going to believe it. You might think it’s either really, really cool or really, really scary. But to me, it’s just normal. It’s normal, but somehow freaky all at the same time. I’m a walking contradiction, but that’s ok by me. It just means I’m complicated. And what would the world do without complicated things? Well, for one, we’d have nothing to analyze or discuss or argue about. In fact, we would all be pretty darn boring. When you get right down to it, it makes life sort of interesting, my being such a mixed up mess.
Don’t get me wrong—I’m not telling you this because I want to be analyzed. Because believe me, I do not like to be analyzed. That’s the last thing I need. My friend Dani is always analyzing things to death, and it drives me crazy. Like, once I was going through my sock drawer trying to pick out what to wear with my favorite sweater, and she literally drove me nuts. The sweater was this weird shad
e of pink like the color of a grapefruit, with these swirly black and white designs on it that sort of looked like penguins, if you think Picasso and/or a blender. I swear Dani pulled out every pair of socks I owned. Those would work if I had black shoes, but only if I had black shoes. These would work because they were almost the right color of pink and no one would notice anyway. And why not wear two different socks, start a trend? Seriously made me want to scream. She is always doing stuff that drives me crazy.
Dani and I have been best friends since the second grade when she ran, huffing and puffing, all the way across the playground, right up to me as I stood there, hands jammed in my pockets, waiting for Kenny Beck to get off the swing. I really didn’t care much about swinging, but I didn’t have anyone to play with, and I wanted on that swing. I wanted it bad. You know the feeling when you’re standing in line at the girl’s room in kindergarten, hopping from one foot to another, just hoping you’ll make it in time? I was intent on having that swing because I didn’t want to stand there like a big, friendless dork in front of the whole school.
Kenny Beck looked at me with a sneer and hooted, swinging higher. He wasn’t planning on getting off that swing anytime in the next century. Jerk, I thought. Little dorky twerp. My mind raced with all the names I could hurl at him, but I was too shy to utter a single one, so, I just stood there, shoving my hands deeper into my pockets. I pulled out a gum wrapper from one of them and looked at it for like nine hours. At least, I thought, it looks like I’m busy. Reading a note, from my best friend. Yeah.
I looked up as Dani bounded toward me, her eyes like saucers. At first, it made me wonder. What did she want with me? Dani wasn’t the most popular girl in school. Then again, neither was I. I was just as much a loser as she was, technically speaking. I couldn’t decide what was worse, standing there with the class geek or being branded a loser for all eternity. There was a distinct possibility I’d be labeled a loser either way. I started to turn away, but then all I saw was that mouthful of metal, grinning at me, so it didn’t seem like such a big deal. So I decided to smile at her. Going to Loserville was bad enough, but going alone was a fate worse than death.
“I LOVE your shoes,” Dani said, pointing. “So cool!”
They were an old pair of sneakers that had been handed down from my cousin and I didn’t even like them, but I thanked her anyway and told her I’d bought them in Chicago last year when my dad took me for a Cubs game, which was a total lie. Then I made up some story about some swanky department store that had a comb for sale for three hundred dollars, just to make myself look cool. “A comb!” I said. “Who buys a three hundred dollar comb?”
Dani just looked at me skeptically and shrugged. “I dunno,” she said. “The President?”
“The President doesn’t make that much money,” I replied. “My dad said so. Oprah makes ten times what the President makes.”
“Ok, so Oprah then. She’d buy a three hundred dollar comb. She’d buy ten of them, I bet.”
We both snickered and looked in opposite directions. Then, we looked at each other and broke into a giggling fit. I was laughing because such a stupid story had actually turned into a worthwhile conversation. I don’t know what she was laughing about. All I know is, we were friends from that moment on.
Pretty much, Dani was my best friend ever. My only friend.
So anyway, back to what I wanted to tell you.
Believe me, I don’t even want to say this out loud, or put it out here for all eternity, but if I don’t, no one in this stupid world will ever really know who I am. And that would be the worst thing that could happen. Ever.
So here’s the thing: I float.
I know what you’re thinking. So. Everyone floats. I learned that when I was five years old. In swimming lessons. First year.
But listen. I float on air.
You weren’t expecting that, were you?
I’ve never told anyone about this, but if you want to know the truth, I’ve always really wanted to. But I’m a big chicken when it comes to stuff like that. Being a freak is bad enough, but being a freak that floats—well, that’s just too much. I’m like nine feet tall, too. Well, not really, but I’m the tallest kid in class—maybe the whole school—maybe even the world. Am I ever going to stop growing? My parents say that all the time, with a smile, of course. They don’t think I’m weird at all, but I guess that's because they're my parents and it's not really their place to think I'm weird.
But being a ridiculously tall girl who floats? Now that’s just weird.
I’m guessing that right about now you're trying to decide whether to believe me or not. You are all but ready to close the book and put it back on the shelf. You are thinking about all the things you know, all your experiences, all the scientific facts, weighing them against the likelihood of anything I’ve said being true. That’s fair. I’m not so sure I believe it myself. But right now it doesn’t matter if anyone believes me. What matters is that by the time I finish this story, I will have decided, once and for all, if I am real. I will know the truth. And you can’t argue with the truth.
Invisible
Project Zero: File 6-25-2008, Subject Tess Turner
I have a feeling that you might know what it feels like to float. You ever get so busy trying to do something and it’s just not working out, so you feel like crying all of a sudden? Your punching what you think are all the right buttons, but the darn machine just won’t do what you want it to? That’s what floating is like. Frustrating beyond belief. Makes you want to cry.
For one thing, no one recognizes me. Once I floated right by Mr. Graves, my science teacher, and he didn’t even blink. Which was fine with me because I had a secret crush on him, and it would have been majorly embarrassing. But, what if I’d wanted him to see me? What if, by some crazy notion, I’d wanted to be noticed? Even if I’d wanted it, I couldn’t. It was completely and utterly out of my control.
Secondly, floating is all I know how to do. Sure, I know how to play Mario Brothers, and make crochet, and peel an orange, but it’s the only thing I know how to do that’s different. No one else, as far as I know, floats. It sort of makes me feel special, in a weird kind of way. And I spend a lot of time doing it. I lose all track of time.
This is where it gets interesting. I have started imagining things, and most of it is bad, like floating over a sea of flames—nothing but fiery waves as far as I can see, a sky full of angry black clouds. Scary things. Broken things. And for some strange reason, Dani is there with me. And did you know my heartbeat speeds up just thinking about it? Fear from nothing. Mind over body. How crazy is that? My imagination takes over. I want to turn if off so badly. I’d stop floating forever for one day of simply ZERO—nothing in my head except cells and neurons and all the other biological gobbledygook in there. A tropical vacation without the beach and palm trees. Just silence and wind. Quiet calm. But of course, all I can do is imagine it. Because really my brain is going haywire.
Sometimes, I wonder what would happen if someone suddenly saw me. And believe me, it’s a scary thought. Even though I know it’s probably not going to happen, I can pretty much scare myself silly with these things. I can come up with complete scenarios in there. Enough to write a stupid book. My heart skips a little when I imagine being caught floating. People would point and stare. Laugh, perhaps. Some might even run in fear. Mass chaos.
I have already decided that someday I will stop floating, but I know it’s not going to be easy. Don’t ask me why or how, but I will do it. Because sometimes, I feel like I’m wasting my time. Even though no one seems to mind.
Here’s a wild thought: What if I'm invisible? What if that’s what this is? Let me think about this. Invisibility: The quality or state of being present, but unseen; i.e., undetected. I don’t think anyone sees me. And if no one sees me, I must be invisible. And do you know what that means? Invisibility would qualify as a super human power—a
practical, useful, and therefore unreal state of being. So, maybe this is not real. Maybe none of this is true after all.
I do this all the time… second guess myself. And all it does is depress me. And when I get depressed, there is the lightning. I float into a big, wide open field and the sky is alive with light, a fluttery red glow behind a veil of clouds. The shape and color of my life, thrown like random sparks, skid marks in the sky. Somewhere I’ve never been and never seen, everywhere around me. And I just stand there. I stand there staring and I can’t believe it. I made this—this crazy scene. Me. Or my mind, rather. No one told me how. It just happened. What the heck?
The truth is, I know how to do lots of things. And I know it has something to do with the lightning, but I can’t tell you why. In fact, I think that’s where all my problems began.
But none of that matters now.
From a Dream
Project Zero: File 6-26-2008, Subject Tess Turner
So back to this floating thing.
I think it was the first thing I ever really did on my own. I mean, something more meaningful and complex than tying my shoes or making my bed. It started simple enough. I floated out of sleep, right through my room and into the night. I didn’t even say goodbye to my parents. I hope they forgive me for that.
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