“Text me—if you need anything.” I realized there was a genuinely cool girl underneath all Maya’s intenseness.
Maya nodded, then walked out the front door down toward the sidewalk. I watched her until she turned the corner. As long as she could maintain her calm and not get upset or angry with anyone, she’d be okay until the effects wore off. Of course, that was true for all of us.
• • •
“I heard you were at school today,” I brashly announced to my father while we were eating dinner. “Assisting the nurse again?”
My dad had picked up a roast chicken at the market along with couscous and green bean salad. I barely had much of an appetite (okay, I’d helped Maya finish off the caramel popcorn) but did my best to eat enough so that I wouldn’t call too much attention to that—or to my prickly mood. I was annoyed before he said anything, because I knew he wasn’t honest with me.
“I help out Mrs. Robbins when I can,” he answered evenly, without a hint of emotion.
Liar! I couldn’t believe my father could lie so easily. “Seems like the kids around here need an awful lot of checkups,” I jabbed back.
“An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure,” he responded with a knowing wink. “It’s important to stay proactive.”
“Does it have anything to do with that research study you’re conducting?” I asked, trying to play it cool and casual.
“Does what?” he answered, seemingly immersed in removing all the skin from his chicken breast before eating it.
“Whatever it is you’re hoping to prevent,” I replied. “What’s your study about anyway? Sexually transmitted diseases?” I couldn’t believe that I was being as direct as I was and confrontational.
“No, it’s not about anything like that.” My dad shot me an exasperated look, unamused. “Why the sudden interest, anyway?”
“I’m just curious why you need to take everyone’s blood.” I tossed out that hot-button question to see if it got a rise out of him.
“If you must know, I’m conducting a genomic cluster study. Not all the nucleotides within the human genome are part of our genes. In fact parts of our DNA don’t serve any obvious purpose. This so-called ‘junk DNA’ may contain unrecognized functional elements.”
“Functional as in what?” I wanted specifics. My father’s explanation sounded plausible but also highly suspicious. Maybe there really was a marker in our genes indicating that the pulse had affected us.
Before I could press him further, his cell phone buzzed. He glanced at the display.
“Sorry, honey,” he said, getting up from the table. “The hospital.” And he exited the kitchen to take the call.
I crept into the hall to eavesdrop and see if he was lying to me again. But when I heard my dad ordering medication, I realized he was in fact talking to one of the hospital nurses.
• • •
I barely saw my dad the rest of the evening. He spent most of the night sequestered in his study on the phone. I tried to spy but could barely hear more than his soft murmuring behind the thick wooden doors. Okay, just my luck—my dad was a quiet talker.
Left to my own devices, I texted Maya to make sure she was okay and hadn’t suddenly changed her mind or done something impulsive like blab to Chase or her parents. Ty no problem w/rents, she texted back. Maya had thankfully survived dinner with her parents and younger brother without any unwanted drama. Relieved, I reported the good news back to Jackson and Oliver. Jackson got annoyed that I’d made a unilateral decision to tell Maya what was going on. He thought she was unpredictable and untrustworthy. I apologized, not wanting Jackson to be angry with me. I reminded him that a few hours ago he’d made a big pitch for Maya to join us. I promised Jackson that I’d keep tabs on her. She’d be a valuable ally.
With everyone safe and sound for the time being, I plopped my head back on my pillow with an exhausted sigh. It was the first time all day I’d let my guard down. I glanced at the clock on the nightstand. It was nearly eleven p.m. In a few minutes I’d be back to “normal” (whatever that was?). Last night’s pulse would be old news—ancient history. I held both my hands out in front of me and stared at them, focusing all my concentration on making them disappear for one last time. After all, there was no guarantee that there would ever be another pulse again.
My right hand began to shimmer as intense heat surged up through my arm into my fingers. I watched in amazement as my thumb disappeared. My other fingers then followed, evaporating into nothingness along with the palm of my hand, all the way down to my wrist. My right hand had completely vanished. It felt both scary and awesome to be able to control this ability, I had to admit. I couldn’t help but smile.
My cell phone rang. I let out a tiny yelp I was so startled by the noise. My right hand instantly reappeared as I fumbled around my bed for the phone. The call was from a blocked number. I almost let it go straight to voice mail, but at the last minute I answered. Part of me hoped it might be Jackson.
“Nica? Is that you, honey?” The connection was awful, crackling with a lot of static.
“Mom?” I replied, totally shocked and flustered. Of all the nights Lydia could pick to call and check in.
“I’m using someone’s satellite phone. So I only have a few minutes. How are you? Is school okay? How’re you adjusting? How’s your dad? Tell me everything.” She sounded unusually concerned, even worried.
“Everything’s fine, Mom.” I clenched my teeth together and lied even though I was dying to tell her the truth. “Though it’s hard being in your shadow.”
“What do you mean?” There was a trace of defensiveness in her tone.
“Believe it or not, everyone still remembers you,” I quipped back. “My friends’ parents, even my guidance counselor, Julie Henderson. You never mentioned how popular you were when you lived here.”
There was a long pause before my mother responded.
“What can I say, honey? Your mother’s a memorable person.” She was trying to make a joke, but I detected a definite unease in her voice—an uncomfortable edginess.
“Apparently,” I replied. “I’m surprised you ever left.”
There was another uncomfortable pause.
“What’s wrong, Nica?” My mother’s voice suddenly took on a maternal, concerned tone. She knew me too well. “Has something—?”
“Nothing,” I blurted back, way too fast, trying to regain my equilibrium. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m just still adjusting. And I’m really tired. Long day. Too much homework. All thanks to you,” I kidded, desperate to keep things light, even though my stomach was churning from lying to her.
“My little student. How are the kids? Any cute guys?” I heard an uncharacteristic urgency in her voice. She really wanted to dish—more than usual—but I refused to give her the satisfaction. I was still pissed at her for shipping me off here.
“How about you?” I deflected the question, throwing it back at her. “What’s it like on the bottom of the world? Any cute scientists?”
“Seven months in this freezer with nowhere to hide? Dating’s the furthest thing from my mind.” She laughed and then so did I. Lydia might have dropped the ball on a lot of things—but she was always professional when it came to work and her writing assignments.
“Yeah. Mine too.” I missed my mother’s infectious laugh. Suddenly I found myself fighting back tears. I pinched my arm really hard so that I’d stop being weepy.
“Oh, honey. I miss you so much. Listen, I’ve got to go. Battery is running low. Call you when I can. Love you!” Click. And then Lydia was gone. That was my flighty mother.
“Bye. Love you too,” I dejectedly muttered back to dead silence.
I hung up and tossed the phone across the bed in anger. Lydia’s call didn’t make me feel better. If anything I felt more stressed and upset than before. I knew I wouldn’t be able to fall asleep for hours. Thanks a lot, Mom.
The next morning I woke up with a massive headache, just as Jackson had predicted. A d
ull, throbbing pain across my forehead.
• • •
Unfortunately the two aspirin I popped seemed to have no immediate effect on the pounding inside my head. Not feeling up to walking, I rode silently in the front seat of the Prius while Dad shuttled me to school. He didn’t say much either, just stared out the windshield deep in thought. There we were, father and daughter, seated barely two feet apart and yet both retreating to our own private worlds. I suspected our silences might be connected. Did Dad think the same thing?
Halfway to school he finally spoke. “You know, I’ve been meaning to ask you how Jackson Winters is doing.”
“What do you mean?” I was thrown by his question and suddenly on my guard. I didn’t remember mentioning Jackson to my dad. Ever. Now all of a sudden he was quizzing me about Jackson.
“You guys are friends, aren’t you?” my dad asked quite pointedly.
“I see him around school.” My entire body tensed up. “Why are you asking?” And who was gossiping about my personal life to my father? A teacher? One of the kids?
“I don’t know how much you know about Jackson,” my dad responded diplomatically, “and his obsession with Dana Fox. But he’s a troubled boy. And I just don’t want you getting mixed up in something you can’t handle.”
“Like what, Dad?” I couldn’t stop myself from feeling angry and defensive. I opened up my bag and pretended to look for something, not wanting him to know that he was pressing my buttons.
“Like breaking curfew again, for one,” he reminded me. “Or getting into trouble with the authorities like Jackson does. Just focus on your schoolwork.”
“No problem. I got it covered,” I answered curtly, turning away from him and staring out the window, trying to will my throbbing headache into oblivion. But I couldn’t stop my brain from obsessing over the fact that Jackson had been right.
They were watching him. And they were watching me, too.
• • •
By the time I entered my first class, I felt marginally better, the extra-strength aspirin finally working its magic on me. Maya, on the other hand, staggered into the room, looking like she’d had a sleepless night.
“Everything all right?” I asked as she walked unsteadily by my desk.
“Hardly. I’ve got this epic headache,” she whispered in my ear. Fortunately, there were a dozen conversations going on simultaneously, so no one was paying any attention to us.
“Me too. Jackson says they’re growing pains.” I reached into my bag and handed her a couple of aspirin as she sat at the desk behind mine. “He and Oliver had them . . . after.”
“Lucky us,” she grumbled before chasing back the pills with a sip of water from her ecofriendly personalized bottle.
Just then the bell rang. All conversation ceased as everyone turned to face the front of the room. Mr. Ghiradelli launched into a lecture about the seventeenth-century English philosopher Thomas Hobbes and his “social contract” theory.
“All societies agree to abide by common rules and accept corresponding duties to protect themselves from violence and other kinds of harm,” Mr. Ghiradelli pontificated as he strolled up and down the aisles. “Can anyone think of an example of how individuals give up some of their individual rights so that other people will cede theirs?” He looked around the room as Trent Hiroshi’s hand shot up. Trent always had to be the first to volunteer and was definitely teacher’s pet. “Trent?”
“Well, Mr. A. gives up his right to kill Mrs. B., as long as Mrs. B. does the same.”
“Precisely. This results in the establishment of civilized society.” Ghiradelli then blathered on about how the state assumed control of the police force and the military to protect us from anarchy.
It got me thinking. Was that what had happened in Barrington? Did something so awful occur (the pulse?) that made the town impose a curfew and round-the-clock private security, among other things? Were our lives being controlled by a secret social contract? The only way to know for sure was to find out what had happened here seventeen years ago. There must be someone in this stupid town who would talk—someone who would tell us the truth.
• • •
After first-period World History I went down to Mrs. Henderson’s office instead of my next class. She was working at her computer and sipping tea out of a red-and-white Bar Tech mug. I remembered that at one time she’d been a newcomer like me. She wasn’t born and raised here like so many residents. She had only lived in Barrington since marrying her husband eighteen years ago. I also remembered how apprehensive and cautious she’d seemed when talking about the town.
“Mrs. Henderson?” I politely knocked on the door, which was open.
She looked up, surprised to see me standing in her doorway. “Nica. What’s up?” She glanced at the clock. “Don’t you have English now?”
“Yeah, I just needed to talk for a minute.”
“Okay,” she said, setting down the mug, suddenly a bit guarded. “What’s on your mind?”
“Remember the other day?” I asked, stepping into her office. “You said how this town was . . . different?”
At that moment I saw her entire body stiffen. “All I meant was . . . Barrington’s a small town . . . with small-town values. Why are you asking?”
“Well, I guess I didn’t realize how different things were here,” I replied lightly, my mouth suddenly going dry. “And since we’re both kind of like outsiders—not growing up here—I thought maybe you could give me an honest perspective. Answer some questions.” I smiled even though my heart was practically racing I was so nervous.
Mrs. Henderson stood up. “Listen, how about we chat after school? In the meantime you really should get to class.”
“Sure,” I replied, quickly gathering up my things and leaving her office. Bewildered as to why she’d just blown me off like a frigid Antarctic wind.
• • •
Six hours later I stood in the corridor outside the administrative offices, pacing back and forth, waiting for Mrs. Henderson to return. It was 3:10 p.m. and school had finished twenty-five minutes earlier. After weeks of wanting to chat about my future, Mrs. Henderson suddenly seemed to be avoiding me. I was pissed at her for standing me up. And I was also annoyed with Jackson for appearing to be right once again about something else.
“What makes you think Henderson will ever fess up anything?” Jackson had challenged when we’d met underneath the field bleachers during lunch. “Or that you can even trust her?”
“I just have this feeling.” Or maybe I was just a glutton for punishment.
“You ever think that maybe she’s the one who’s been playing double agent with your dad about us?” Jackson raised a valid concern.
“It could be any teacher, or even a student for that matter. Besides, I just don’t think Mrs. Henderson would do that. I just don’t think she’s the informant type.” I dismissed his concern with a wave of my hand. “Maybe I’m being naïve, but I believe that Mrs. Henderson wants to share something with me.”
“Well, if you’re so intent on talking to her, maybe I should go with you as backup,” Jackson proposed. “I just don’t like you meeting with her alone after hours.”
Jackson seemed genuinely concerned about my safety—about me. Which thrilled me to bits and made my heart thump and legs wobbly, but which also kind of freaked me out. So instead of playing the vulnerable maiden who needed protection, I went into Nica’s cynical I’m-too-cool-nothing-fazes-me insecure mode.
“She’s a high school guidance counselor, Jackson. Not a CIA operative,” I snarked. “What’s the worst that could happen to me?” I glibly joked, not thinking.
“I’d hate to find out,” Jackson snapped back at me, angrier than I’d ever seen him get before. He glared at me with those intense eyes that made me want to die.
“Sorry, I didn’t . . .” But Jackson stalked off before I could sputter out an apology. I felt like such an idiot. Dana was still MIA, and I’d idiotically joked about getting whac
ked. I was so stupid; no wonder he had no interest in me.
• • •
As I waited for Mrs. Henderson to show up, I heard the squeaking of rubber soles on linoleum approaching. Mr. Garcia, one of the other guidance counselors, trudged over in his worn brown Rockports to inform me that Mrs. Henderson had already left for the day. Would I like to leave a message? Yeah, next time don’t stand me up. Instead I respectfully said thanks but no thanks, and I went to the nearest exit.
“You were right. She stood me up. Big surprise,” I confessed with a self-deprecating laugh, leaving Jackson a rambling message on his voice mail. I was halfway home, walking at a fast clip along Main Street. I noticed a Bar Tech Security vehicle cruising down the street. Slowly. I barely gave it a glance, all too preoccupied with getting out my inept apology. Besides, those guys were all over Barrington.
“Anyway, about before . . . ,” I continued, nervously babbling on to Jackson’s voice mail, “please just ignore what I said. I mean, I do most of the time . . .”
But I realized that this security car was different. It was following me.
“Jackson, listen.” I took a breath, trying to keep cool and not panic while I picked up my pace. “I’m in town and I think I’m being followed. By one of those Bar Tech goon cars . . .”
I was about to make a run down a side street when I collided with a tall, well-dressed man in a suit. I dropped my phone on the sidewalk.
“Sorry.” I muttered, making my excuses and trying to sidestep the guy and retrieve my phone.
But the man picked up my phone first. And held it in his hand as he spoke to me. “Are you Nica Ashley?” His voice sounded eerily familiar. That’s when I really looked at him and realized I recognized the guy.
“What?” I replied, discombobulated, wanting to get my phone back from him, totally thrown off my game.
“Dr. Ashley’s daughter.” The commanding voice belonged to none other than Chase’s father, Richard Cochran, CEO of Bar Tech. The man my dad shared private medical information with.
“The one and only,” I quipped, a bit freaked out that he knew who I was. My heart was pounding, and I felt adrenaline pumping throughout my body. All I wanted to do was get away.
Overpowered Page 18