Catalyst: (Elevated Saga Book #2)

by Daniel Solomon Kaplan

  “Maybe not caring is a benefit,” I mutter under my breath..

  CHAPTER TWO

  The celebration at school lasts the entire afternoon, and Elliott’s grandmother, Mrs. Ford, demands we have a special dinner at her house. Recently, she decided her goal in life was to spoil my family as much as possible by constantly inviting us over for dinner. Every time, she makes a more elaborate spread of food. Tonight is no exception. Even considering the extra guests of Shelly, Zach and his Dad, Mr. Birtwell, the spread seems to have doubled from the usual selection. My mouth waters at the roasted turkey with stuffing, mashed potatoes, gravy, and vegetables.

  “It looks wonderful,” I say, grabbing the serving spoon for the mashed potatoes.

  Mom stops my hand. “You sure you want more?”

  “Let Rose enjoy her food, she takes after me,” Dad says, displaying his round stomach.

  Mom gestures her head towards Elliott. I glance down at his plate, shuddering at his sensible portion in comparison to my skyscraper of mashed potatoes. Deciding it’s probably not a good idea to look like a pig, I put the spoon back. Mom smiles.

  “If there’s one thing I love about you Rose,” Mrs. Ford says, “it’s that you can eat. So many girls these days starve themselves trying to look like an Eater. Nice to see you’re not obsessed with your figure.”

  My stomach shrinks two sizes. Glancing down, my plate now looks even more outrageous. I remember the jeans hanging in my closet that I can no longer pull past waist. How much weight was I gaining at these feasts anyway?

  Mr. Birtwell takes a swig of beer. “That’s right, men like a little meat on their bones. Somethin’ to grab onto, if ‘ya catch my drift.”

  “I’ve heard that,” Mrs. Ford says. “Most guys don’t go for skinny little things anyway, isn’t that right, Elliott?”

  She taps Elliott’s chair and his face contorts as his brain tries to think up an appropriate response. I laugh inside, knowing the trap she set for him. If he agrees they don’t, he’s implying I’m fat, but if he disagrees, he could make me self-conscious.

  I decide to put him out of his misery. “I think most guys think that confidence is most appealing anyway.”

  He nods silently. Smart guy.

  He nudges me with his foot, and I nudge him back. Mrs. Ford sighs loudly. I’m not too stupid to figure out she constantly invites me over in an attempt to pair me with her son. Based on how Elliott smirks back at me, he doesn’t mind either.

  Zach buries himself in the mashed potatoes. He hasn’t said anything all evening.

  “Everyone is talking about the game, Zach,” Mrs. Ford says. “I would have been there, if they would just put some shade in those bleachers. I can’t stomach being blazed on by the sun for hours.”

  “It’s no problem, Mrs. Ford,” Zach says quietly, before returning to his mashed potatoes.

  “Zach’s a little worn out,” Shelly says.

  “No wonder, after hauling butt across the sky like that,” Mr. Birtwell says. Then his face breaks out into a huge grin and he lifts his beer bottle above his head. “To my son, the best dang Flier in the whole world!”

  We salute Zach, most of us with root beer, and he turns crimson.

  “That move out there took guts, kid,” Mr. Birtwell says. “I’m proud of ya.”

  “Thanks, Dad.” Zach says.

  “No, I’m serious, a play like that takes a real man to make. A red-blooded, hairy-chested, muscle packing—”

  “I think you’ve made your point quite clearly, Dad. No visceral detail of masculine body parts needed.”

  I stifle a laugh, knowing it would only embarrass Zach further. Mr. Birtwell smiles and slugs down his beer bottle. He burps and it sounds like an engine backfired inside the dining room.

  “That’s some good stuff,” he says, examining the bottle.

  I try my best to not watch Mr. Birtwell as he dives back into his ribs like a ravenous hyena. Zach buries his face in his hands.

  I lean over to Zach. “It was a shrewd move.”

  Zach lightly shakes his head. Something is up.

  “You sure you’re ok?” Shelly asks, rubbing on his arm. “You’ve been so quiet.”

  Zach grabs her hand and sets it on her lap. “I’m ok.”

  “If everyone is done,” Mrs. Ford says, “I’ll be clearing the plates for dessert.”

  Mr. Birtwell throws his napkin on his plate and stands up. “And I insist I help.”

  “No need, please.” Mrs. Ford pushes him back down. As she gathers the dishes, she leans down to whisper in my ear, “Big oaf like him would likely break them all anyway.”

  I snicker as she stacks the plates before carrying them out of the room. A moment later, a loud cough comes from the kitchen.

  “You ok, grandma?” Elliott yells into the kitchen.

  Her coughing stops, replaced by the clanging of dishes placed into the sink. Mrs. Ford reenters the room, her face a deep red.

  “Are you sure you’re fine?” Elliott asks.

  “Yeah—I’m—”

  She coughs again several times. Her body flails as she convulses with the strong coughs, which force her to sink back into a chair. Her hands grip the table as the fit continues, growing even more intense.

  Elliott jumps out of his chair and runs over towards her. “Grandma!”

  She raises a hand to try to calm him down. After another minute of nasty coughing, she settles down.

  “Sorry,” she says. “Must have swallowed wrong or something.”

  “Baloney. You’ve been coughing a lot lately,” Elliott says. “You need to see a doctor.”

  “All they’ll tell me is I’m an old bat,” she says. “People with one foot in the grave cough. Just how it is.”

  “Tell me about it,” Mr. Birtwell says. “Sometimes I wonder who hung the creepy paintings of the skeleton in my house, before it hits me I’m just looking in my own mirror.”

  He laughs obnoxiously before realizing no one is joining in. We continue to watch Mrs. Ford, and I’m relieved to see the color in her face slowly return to normal.

  “Will you all stop staring at me,” she says, grimacing. “Get out to the living room and I’ll bring out some ice cream.”

  “I’m feeling quite full,” I say, holding my stomach. Truthfully, ice cream sounds good now, but I keep thinking about those jeans hanging in my closet.

  “You ok?” Elliott asks. “You never turn down ice cream.”

  Great. So he thinks I’m a glutton too.

  “Just not in the mood for ice cream,” I say.

  Elliott nods. I can tell he doesn’t believe me. He has this sick way of knowing what I’m thinking sometimes, which makes it impossible to act sly. As we walk towards the living room, he leans down to whisper into my ear.

  “By the way,” he whispers. “Don’t starve your curves away on account of me.”

  He flashes a mischievous grin and raises his eyebrows flirtatiously. My cheeks turn pink.

  “Changed my mind, I’ll take some ice cream,” I say.

  I could be a good girl and skip dessert tomorrow. Besides, I’m pretty sure those jeans had a big hole in them anyway.

  “Make sure it’s on channel 4,” Mrs. Ford tells us as we head to the living room.

  Zach walks slowly behind us and I get the feeling he wants to tell me something. He tilts his head to make sure no one is nearby before leaning down to whisper, “I was trying to lose.”

  “What do you mean you were trying to lose?” I ask quietly.

  “The game. I don’t want to play it anymore.”

  “And you won’t.”

  A loud doorbell interrupts our conversation.

  “Oh, I knew they were coming, I just knew it!” Shelly squeals and punches Zach playfully in excitement.

  Zach breaks away from her and runs over to Mr. Birtwell. “Dad, you didn’t invite them here, did you?”

  “They wanted to know where you were,” he says, walking over to open the door. Standing on t
he front porch stand three tall men in charcoal suits. The same three distracted men in suits from the game. Zach takes a deep breath.

  The tallest one beams directly at Zach. “You did very well today.”

  Zach barely manages a nod.

  Mr. Birtwell nudges Zach. “He’s talking to you, son.”

  “Thank you,” Zach blurts out.

  “Yes,” the man says, “my name is Donald.”

  “Hello, Donald,” Zach says coldly.

  “We’ve been discussing it,” Donald says, “and even with the limited season you had, you managed to impress us quite a bit.”

  Mr. Birtwell snorts. “Quite a bit huh? Knocked the briefs clear off your butts more like it.”

  Donald clears his throat. “At any rate, we’ve determined that you would be welcome to join us at Volare. We’d love to have you.”

  Mr. Birtwell jumps over and reaches out to shake the hands of the three men. “And he would be happier than a dog in a fire hydrant factory to be there.”

  Zach turns pink and Shelly averts her eyes from Zach’s Dad, whose violent handshake threatens to rip off Donald’s arm.

  “Zach, you’re awfully quiet,” Donald says, attempting to keep his voice calm through the aggressive handshake.

  “Oh, he’s just shy that’s all,” Mr. Birtwell says.

  Donald frees himself from the handshake and wipes his hand off on his jacket.

  Zach sighs. “You’ll be expecting me in August, I suppose.”

  “No,” Donald says. “Look, Zach, I’m vouching for you. But normally we don’t pick anyone without a full season under their belt. Our coach wants to meet you in two weeks.”

  “Boy, we’d better get packing,” Mr. Birtwell says.

  “Dad, it’s two weeks.”

  “Two weeks can just, poof, disappear before you know it.”

  Donald smiles. “Alright then, we’ll send your materials. See you at Volare.”

  The door shuts and Mr. Birtwell starts hollering and frantically cheering. “I knew it! I just knew it! Full ride scholarship, that’s what it is, a full ride! Told ya that spikeball would be just the ticket. A star Flier, that’s what you’re born to be!”

  Zach stares at the door, mouth open in disbelief. “The coach could still say no.”

  Mr. Birtwell laughs. “Yeah, and I could grow a mushroom on my nose.”

  Shelly leans over and gives Zach a kiss on the cheek. “I’m so proud of you.”

  Zach tries to smile. “Thanks.”

  They hug and Shelly’s face lights up in excitement, while Zach continues to stare into space.

  “You made sure the TV is on channel 4, right?” Mrs. Ford yells from the kitchen.

  “Yes Grandma.” Elliott rolls his eyes. He didn’t need reminding since she regiments her television schedule stricter than a military manifesto. Monday is “Undetermined House,” Tuesday is “Power Trade,” and today, Wednesday, is “Guess My Ability.” All reality television shows. Or, as Elliott calls them, “Fishtanks for the Gullible.”

  The living room is sweltering hot, like the rest of the house. Mrs. Ford refuses to lower the temperature. She says she gets cold easily, but I’m not sure how anyone could consider 78 degrees cold. I take my seat next to Elliott on her couch with its worn out glowlilies print.

  We turn the television on just in time to hear the catchy theme song for “Guess My Ability.” After the host steps on stage to thunderous applause, shadowy forms of Elevateds take the stage. Since the show relies on the contestants solving whose ability belongs to which person, they deliberately pick abilities that don’t have visible features.

  Mrs. Ford glances at the screen as she hands out bowls of ice cream. “She’s a Scanner. I can tell.”

  “How can you figure that out so fast?” I ask.

  “The way she’s standing.”

  “You know, you’re right,” Mr. Birtwell says, some ice cream dripping off of his face. “I never trust those Scanners.”

  “Neither do I,” Elliott says, winking at me.

  I feel a pit in my stomach. “There’s a way that Scanners stand?”

  “Yeah, it’s like that.” Mrs. Ford gestures at the woman. “Hard to describe exactly.”

  No one has ever told her about my ability. Did she figure it out? Elliott grips my knee, trying to steady my nerves, I imagine, but it just makes me more uncomfortable. I move my knee away.

  After a series of questions, I cringe when the contestant also guesses she is a Scanner. The host asks the Elevated to reveal herself, and I breathe a sigh of relief when electrical sparks emit from her fingers.

  “Sparker? They must’ve coached her,” Mrs. Ford says. “Getting stingy on this show, they want to make sure they don’t pay out often. Cheap trick.”

  I want to ask more about how a Scanner is supposed to stand, so I can avoid it, but I don’t want to risk bringing attention to myself. While a commercial for an all-you-can-eat heap for Eaters plays, Elliott leans over and lowers his voice to a whisper.

  “How about we walk through Fowler’s Grove tomorrow night.”

  I whisper back, “I can’t, too busy studying.”

  “You impress me, Rose.”

  “How?”

  “Carrying on, living like nothing has changed.”

  “I just fake it well.”

  “Ok, well, how about after graduation?”

  “Not sure. That night is the finale of Elevated Love. Curious to see who Shelia chooses.”

  Elliott grimaces. “Really?”

  “No.”

  He playfully punches my elbow. “Jerk.”

  On the television, another Elevated takes the stage.

  “Inker,” Mrs. Ford says after less than a second.

  “You can’t figure it out that fast, Grandma,” Elliott says.

  “I’m telling you, she’s an Inker.”

  “Nah, she’s a Hearer for sure,” Dad says.

  “Why makes you say that?” Mom asks.

  “Isn’t it obvious? Hearers are always more attractive,” he says.

  She blushes and leans back into his shoulder while he strokes her hair. I don’t mind my parents acting a little lovey-dovey around me. After all, they had years of catching up to do. When they asked if I wanted to stay at Elliott’s house so they could have a second honeymoon of sorts, I was more than happy to say yes, even though it meant sleeping on this lumpy couch for a week.

  The Elevated turns to reveal her power when the screen flashes to a breaking news report.

  Mrs. Ford groans. “This better not be another dull speech from the President.”

  An attractive blonde sits at a desk. She wears a stern expression and speaks each word with extreme clarity. “Police are investigating a mysterious death of an archeologist, found dead in his house earlier today.”

  “Great, a sensational murder report,” Mrs. Ford says. “Even better.”

  “The victim’s name is said to be Roger Wesson—”

  Dad perks up. “Roger Wesson?”

  “Know the guy?” Mr. Birtwell asks.

  “No—it’s—just—”

  “The body was found without any wounds or injuries. Medical examiners haven’t been able to determine cause of death.”

  Mr. Birtwell chortles. “Not much of a story here, is there?”

  “But the most shocking discovery was a cryptic message written on the wall.”

  The screen shifts to a shot of the room, nearly pitch black except for letters, which glow on the wall in bright blue. As the camera pans out, the message becomes clear.

  “How in the—” Elliott says.

  I clutch his arm as I read the eerie letters spelling out an even creepier message:

  “Fear the Catalyst.”

  We stare at each other, searching for answers. Elliott figured there were other Catalysts. I had hoped they were underground, living hidden in society. Not broadcasting themselves on television.

  “Catalyst,” Mrs. Ford says. “That’s what—”
r />   “Causes something to happen,” Zach says. “Unusual message.”

  We glare at Mrs. Ford and shake our head. Dad gestures towards Mr. Birtwell, who burps even louder than before. Chocolate ice cream drips down his neck.

  “Hey, you got a bathroom I can use?” he asks.

  “Down the hall on the right,” Elliott says.

  “And wipe your neck, Dad,” Zach says.

  Mr. Birtwell moans as he lifts himself off the recliner, which retains a deep imprint of his body. He staggers down the hallway, lifting his shirt up to scratch his belly. Right after the bathroom door closes, Mrs. Ford mutes the TV. “A Catalyst is what you are, right Elliott?”

  “Yeah,” Elliott says.

  “Why should they fear someone who can make them Elevated?”

  Dad sits up. “Catalysts also can kill Elevateds instantly if they zap them.”

  Mrs. Ford’s jaw drops. “You never told me that! Wow.”

  “Sorry Grandma, I—”

  She raises an eyebrow. “You’re what they call a bad ass?”

  If Mrs. Ford had a filter, it conked out years ago.

  “Tanglewood Drive,” Mom says, pointing at a graphic on the screen. “That’s only a few miles away from here.”

  We get quiet when Mr. Birtwell reenters the room.

  “Everyone OK in here?” he asks, scanning the room suspiciously.

  “I think it’s time we headed home, Dad,” Zach says.

  “Good idea! Then we can start packing.”

  Zach rolls his eyes before laughing. I can only imagine his Dad will have him living out of suitcases over the next few weeks, just to make sure he’s ready for Volare. Zach waves goodbye and they head out the door. Mrs. Ford unmutes the television, and the report continues. Within a few minutes, it becomes clear that they plan to stretch it out over the whole evening. No one interviewed knows what a Catalyst is. The popular speculation is a psychotic killer is using it as a calling card .

  “Does anyone in the government know about Catalysts?” Elliott asks, after another uninformative interview with a GEMO officer.

  “Don’t think so,” Dad says. “I think Maddock wanted to keep them as under wraps as possible. Didn’t want to cause a panic.”

  “So there’s another one?” Mom asks.

  “Appears so,” Dad says. “Unfortunately, this one doesn’t look very friendly.”