“Nah,” I replied confidently. “Too scared.”
“What about you?” Jackson turned and looked right at me with his beautiful blue-green eyes. “Doing okay?” His hand touched my shoulder. I felt this jolt of electricity run through me. Not the painful kind of jolt that Jackson could shoot out of his fingertips. This was amazing and warm and made me go weak in the knees. Was this what it felt like to crave someone’s touch so badly that it made you ache all over? I’d never felt this way about anyone before. Then I began to wonder: Was he just being nice and cordial? Or did his touch mean something more—that he really liked me romantically, the way I liked him? As if it were even possible that a hunk like Jackson would ever want an insecure mess like me.
“Depends on your definition.” I tried to affect a casual tone to cover my nervousness. Jackson removed his hand from my shoulder, as if he knew exactly what I was thinking. “I’m back to my normal self, at least for the time being. Though I have to admit, invisibility does have its advantages.” I shrugged coyly.
“I can imagine,” Oliver quipped.
“Better watch what we say, Oliver,” Jackson snapped with a sly smile. “Never know who might be watching.”
“Don’t worry. You’re both safe,” I countered, my eyes locked with Jackson’s. “Anyway, it’s the ‘now you see me, now you don’t’ that’s driving me crazy. I don’t know if I can survive three more periods till the end of school.”
“Maybe you can get your father to write a doctor’s note,” Oliver suggested, half joking, half serious. “ ‘Please excuse Nica from school. She’s not all there today.’ ”
“Very funny,” I replied, not the least bit amused. “I can just imagine the conversation.” Truth was, I didn’t even want to think about having such a discussion with my father. Ever.
“Well, start rehearsing,” Jackson said. “Because guess who’s in the nurse’s office now.”
“My dad’s in school? Today?” I stared at Jackson in disbelief, my mouth hanging open like I was about to retch.
He nodded sympathetically. “I saw him when I passed by the administrative offices before lunch.”
That immediately got me thinking about why my dad had shown up at school today of all days. He’d never mentioned he was coming in during the car ride this morning.
“Maybe it’s just a coincidence, but wasn’t my dad here after the last pulse too?” I asked Jackson, recalling my run-in with Dad in the nurse’s office the day after my ride on his bike.
“Yeah,” Jackson nodded, looking at Oliver and me. “I think he was.”
My stomach twisted into knots. I felt queasy. There was no way I could calmly make it through the rest of the day with the whole disappearing issue hanging over my head. Stressing about why my dad was there and whether he might summon me down to the nurse’s office for another parental chat would probably push me over the edge. I didn’t want to be poked and prodded and grilled by my father.
Oliver shook his head sympathetically and sighed. “And you thought your day couldn’t get any worse.”
I would soon find out just how much worse it could get.
• • •
Before lunch was over, Oliver, Jackson, and I agreed to reconvene at Jackson’s house after school and figure out what to do next. There were so many unanswered questions. For instance, why no one in Barrington was publicly talking about the pulse at all. It was as if there was a conspiracy of silence. We also needed to figure out why it was affecting the four of us. It didn’t seem possible that no one else was aware of what happened. They all seemed trapped in a kind of communal denial. This hanging in limbo was unnerving, especially now that we had these big secrets, which we were too afraid to discuss with our own parents for fear of being exposed.
In the meantime I had to figure out what to do about my father. I cycled through my list of limited options. Ditch school and hide out until the whole disappearing issue disappeared that night. Not the best plan, since the school would notify my dad of my absence and then I’d be in even more hot water. Or I could pretend to be sick and hope they’d send me home to recuperate. An even worse idea, since my dad would insist on finding out exactly what was wrong with me. Which left me with one less than optimal solution: Face Dad head-on. A risky move, but at least I wouldn’t be caught off guard and I’d hopefully have some control over my body.
As soon as the class bell rang, I headed directly for the nurse’s office. I rehearsed exactly what I would say to my dad in my mind so as not to be rattled when I saw him. I planned on playing it cool and casual. Maybe even make a joke about him checking up on me again at school. But then I thought better just be direct and ask what he was doing here.
When I arrived at the nurse’s office, I was surprised to find that my dad wasn’t there. In fact no one was around. Not even the nurse. I felt relieved that I wouldn’t have to face my father until dinner. I just needed to hold it together until later tonight when my newfound “ability” would hopefully disappear.
I turned on my heels and exited the empty office, when I nearly collided with my guidance counselor, Mrs. Henderson. I’d been dodging her for a couple weeks now, not really in the mood to discuss my future life plans when I was barely able to make it through each day. Today I wasn’t the only one who had something else on her mind. Mrs. Henderson appeared distracted and upset. Her eyes were red, and it was obvious to me that she had been crying.
“Mrs. Henderson, I didn’t see you.”
“Sorry, Nica,” she said, quickly wiping her eyes. “I should know better than to walk and text at the same time.” She forced out a laugh and plastered on a bright smile while slipping the cell phone into her pocket. “By the way, I haven’t seen you in a while. I sent several e-mails to you, but you never got back to me,” she said, sweetly but pointedly.
“Sorry about that. I’ve just been really busy with school.” I flashed a smile, hoping to conceal my nervousness. I wanted to flee, but I could sense she had no intention of letting me get away so fast.
“Is everything all right? Are you feeling okay?” I felt like she could see right through me.
I froze for a moment, trying not to panic. Did she suspect something? Then I realized she was referring to the fact that I was coming out of the nurse’s office.
“Oh. Yeah. Fine. I heard my dad was visiting. Guess I missed him. Bye.”
I started to walk away, when Mrs. Henderson said, “Actually, you’re in luck. Dr. Ashley’s still here.”
“Oh. He is?” I bit my lower lip and turned around. My hope of a quick escape suddenly evaporated.
“Yes. In fact I saw him going into Principal Hellinger’s office not more than five minutes ago.”
“Thanks. I’ll track him down.” I really wanted to go, but Mrs. Henderson stepped in front of me and deliberately blocked my path.
“How are you doing otherwise? Still adjusting to this place?” She placed a hand on my shoulder and looked at me with deep concern.
“Me? I’m . . . fantastic.” I shifted uncomfortably and felt unnerved by the way she was staring at me. Was this an intimidation tactic she’d picked up in guidance-counselor school?
“I remember when I first moved here from Chicago eighteen years ago, I wasn’t quite prepared for the whole small-town experience,” she confessed. “Your mother was very welcoming. She introduced me around.”
“My mother?” I was thrown by this unexpected curve ball of information. “I didn’t know you guys were friends.” Much less that my mother had played Susie Homemaker and rolled out the welcome wagon to new arrivals. My world was shrinking by the hour.
“Friendly,” Mrs. Henderson clarified. “But she went out of her way for me nonetheless. And I’d like to do the same for you.”
“Thanks. But I’m okay. Really.” Truth was, I felt distinctly uncomfortable.
“Listen, Nica,” Mrs. Henderson said, not giving up. “I know you’re a sophisticated girl. You’ve traveled around the world and lived in many places
. I did the same after college. Europe, Africa, and Asia. Then I married my husband, Ben, and settled down here. It was a major adjustment.” Her expression visibly darkened as she scanned up and down the hallway to make sure we were alone. She then looked back at me and spoke. Her voice was soft and low, like she didn’t want anyone else to overhear. “Barrington isn’t like other towns. It’s . . . different.”
Her voice reminded me of the way my father had spoken to me about Barrington that first night I’d arrived. Except that the look I saw in Mrs. Henderson’s eyes was one of unmistakable fear. As if she knew something that scared her. Maybe I was reading too much into her behavior, but the way she acted was extremely disconcerting. Still, I’d feel incredibly relieved to have an adult I could talk to and confide in. Someone who would acknowledge and understand all the weird shit that I was going through. But maybe Mrs. Henderson’s pushiness was about something else. Maybe she was just one of those needy adults who wanted to prove they were still hip and cool by “relating” to a teenager. Maybe all she wanted was a girlfriend she could tell her marital woes to—as if I really wanted to hear any of that. Or maybe her motives were more nefarious? She might be trying to lure me into her confidence.
“You know, I really better get going,” I replied, stepping around her, definitely in no mood to spill my guts. “Hate to miss my dad again.”
And off I hurried down the hallway, feeling Mrs. Henderson’s eyes watching me the entire time until I circled the corner. Once safely out of her view I slipped into the nearest stairwell, avoiding Principal Hellinger’s office and my father.
As I dashed up the stairs, I paused to text Oliver about my close encounter of the strangest kind with Mrs. Henderson. “. . . based on the test results . . .” I heard a familiar voice coming from the floor above me. I stopped to listen. It sounded like my father. He was talking in a hushed tone with another man who had a deeper voice. Principal Hellinger? I wasn’t sure. They were having a private conversation—more of a disagreement, actually. I hung back to listen, staying out of view. Then I crept up a couple more steps and peered up through the railing, keeping hidden. I saw that my dad was in fact talking to a trim businessman in a jet-black designer suit. The man had a full head of dirty-blond hair that was beginning to turn gray. He looked like an aging prepster from one of those fancy Ralph Lauren ads: an older, more distinguished version of Chase Cochran, which made perfect sense when my father called him Richard. I realized that he must be Richard Cochran, Chase’s father. The apple didn’t fall far from that tree.
Chase’s father kept pressuring my dad for access to “all test results.” I couldn’t imagine what kind of tests they could be referring to, but my dad balked at Cochran’s request. He insisted on analyzing the blood tests first himself before sharing the results with Cochran.
Blood tests? Whose blood tests were they talking about? And why would my dad be sharing any blood-test results with Richard Cochran, CEO of Bar Tech Industries? I stood there in shock, trying to comprehend the implication of their discussion. My own father, a respected cardiologist, seemed way too tight with Richard Cochran, arguably the most influential man in Barrington. Besides running a Fortune 500 megacompany, Cochran was also a generous benefactor to our high school and numerous worthy causes. And my father was possibly sharing private medical information with him. Private information about students at school, some who were my friends—maybe even about me. I was utterly confused.
The class bell rang. In a matter of seconds the stairs would be flooded with students, which meant an abrupt end to Dad’s conversation with Richard Cochran, not to mention my eavesdropping. As their secret meeting broke up, I darted back down the stairs to avoid detection.
• • •
“Maybe it’s just a freak coincidence?” I was arguing with Jackson and Oliver while pacing around Jackson’s garage. “Like lightning striking twice in the same place.” I was seriously groping for a reasonable explanation of why my father might be violating the Hippocratic oath.
“A coincidence that a day after the pulse hits, your dad is back at school drawing blood from students again?” Jackson pulled his head out from under the hood of his prized Mustang long enough to shoot me a skeptical look. “It’s got to be connected to Bar Tech. As does Cochran’s extreme interest in those blood tests.” He wiped the sweat off his brow with a rag and then turned his attention back to tinkering with his engine. I had to admit he looked kind of hot in just a tight tank top and his trademark faded jeans.
“I kind of agree, Nica,” Oliver said. “You need to look at the facts.”
“I can’t believe my father would do something so awful like betray patient confidentiality,” I exclaimed, defensive and still more than a little distressed by what I’d overheard in the school stairwell that afternoon.
“I’m just glad he hasn’t gotten around to taking mine yet,” Oliver muttered, looking visibly relieved.
“Mine either.” I felt an incredible sense of relief as well.
“And I just never showed up,” admitted Jackson. “But it’s only a matter of time before they force us to comply.”
“What would Bar Tech care about blood tests, anyway?”
“They’re into all sorts of top-secret stuff,” replied Jackson. “High-tech medical equipment. Satellites. Who knows what else?”
“Okay. Maybe I’m missing the obvious,” Oliver said, trying to process this latest wrinkle, “but what’s Cochran’s connection to all this exactly? And what’s your dad looking for in the blood samples?”
“There must be something detectable in the blood,” Jackson conjectured. “A marker.”
“Like a special gene,” I added. “Or something in our chromosomes. Proof that we’ve changed. And that maybe other kids have changed too.”
“How’s that even possible?” Oliver asked, shaking his head in confusion. “I mean, it’s not like we were born with these abilities. The pulse just made them happen.”
“Maybe the pulse left a scar on us,” I theorized.
Oliver nodded and joked, “You mean like the lightning bolt branded on Harry Potter’s forehead?”
“Only it’s inside our bodies,” I countered. “In our blood.”
“Which means they must already know about the pulse,” added Jackson, as he slammed his car’s hood shut and wiped the grease off his hands. “And what it’s capable of doing.” His eyes sparked as if he’d just had a revelation. Before I could even ask what it was, he was hurrying back into his house, leaving Oliver and me standing in the garage without a clue as to what had just happened.
“I swear.” Oliver audibly sighed, shaking his head, hands thrown up in exasperation. “That dude annoys the hell out of me sometimes.”
“Yeah.” I nodded, not wanting to admit to Oliver how much I was into Jackson. “Always ten steps ahead.”
It was true that Jackson could be infuriating. He was cagey and guarded, never revealing too much, though I suspected he knew way more than he let on. Even more frustrating, I never knew exactly where I stood with him. Or how he felt about me. There were moments when he’d touch my arm or look me in the eye and I felt like we were connected. Then there were other times when he’d barely acknowledge my presence and push me away. Still, all that mystery and uncertainty drew me to him. I couldn’t control my feelings. When I was around Jackson, I felt electric, alive. So while I was irritated by all his secrecy, I started to follow him through the door into his house, hoping to peel back yet another layer of the Jackson mystique.
“Where are you going?” Oliver asked.
“Inside.”
“He’s gonna get pissed.” Oliver sounded annoyed at me.
I imagined Jackson being startled—and then like in some cheesy movie I’d grab him and give him a soulful kiss. I can dream, can’t I? But all I said to Oliver was, “Oooh, I’m scared.”
Oliver trailed behind me, grumbling how he hated being treated like a kid brother.
• • •
I foun
d Jackson upstairs in his bedroom. “That’s colorful. Why are we looking at last night’s weather conditions?” I inquired, impatiently staring at a large computer monitor, which sat atop a long glass table. The screen displayed an array of US satellite weather maps detailing humidity percentages, precipitation, temperature readings, barometric pressure, wind velocity, and electromagnetic radiation calculations.
“Eleven thirteen p.m., to be exact.” Jackson pointed to the huge spike on the EMR graph I had e-mailed him earlier. He was standing next to me while Oliver (ever the nerd) manned the Bluetooth keyboard. Jackson had the latest-generation Mac Pro. Faster, bigger, and more powerful than any computer Oliver or I owned.
“That’s when the pulse hit,” I responded, stating the obvious, as I finally got a good look at Jackson’s bedroom. I half expected the walls to be plastered with photos of Dana Fox and crazy news clippings like a paranoid stalker might have. Instead Jackson’s inner sanctum was unnaturally neat and resembled a tastefully decorated hotel room—all browns and beiges. Not your typical teenage boy’s pigsty of dirty laundry, smelly sports gear, and posters of half-naked swimsuit models named Alyssa or Kenza. Except for a half dozen snowboarding trophies crammed on the top shelf of a bookcase, Jackson’s bedroom was devoid of personality. Weird. As if Jackson didn’t want to leave anything personal or incriminating lying around. Which I realized was pretty paranoid as well.
“EMR is way off the chart, as expected,” shrugged Oliver, hoping for something more illuminating from Jackson.
“Check out October twenty-third.” Jackson peered over Oliver’s shoulder as Oliver dutifully entered the data. An array of graphs flashed on-screen, which Oliver scrolled through.
“The night I took dad’s bike for a little spin,” I muttered sarcastically. “How could I forget almost getting arrested? Not to mention my first pulse.”
“EMR spike appears identical to the one from last night.” Jackson restated what we already knew.
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