One (One Universe) (7 page)

“My pleasure, Elias.” Rosie’s voice comes from two round speakers in the kitchen ceiling.

“Maybe a little less garlic next time, huh?” Elias smiles and winks at me.

“My apologies, Elias. I’ll put that in the log.”

“Oh, Rosie, I’m just kidding. It was perfect.” He looks at me. “She’s still learning to pick up on humor.”

I shake my head at him, look up at the speakers and clear my throat. “It, uh…it was great. Rosie.”

“Thank you, Merrin.”

He smiles at me, and I feel warm all over. “It’s good for her. Recognition of stuff like sarcasm in the human voice helps refine the AI tech. Right, Rosie?”

“Yes, that is my understanding.”

“Wanna see the rest of the house? I’ve got to…uh…I’m not allowed to have people over too late, so if you want to…” he says.

“Uh…”

Elias’s eyes crinkle into a smile — since when does “uh” mean “yes”? — and he stands up and calls, “Mom? I’m giving Merrin the tour.”

“Okay,” his mom shouts back from her illuminated corner.

SEVEN

T
he sun has almost completely set now, and the last of the daylight flares the deep blue sky with purple at the top layer. It makes me look at my watch. It’s quarter to nine. How long did we spend eating pizza?

We walk toward the main corridor of the house. Now that it’s dark, I can see that the floor tiles light up as we walk across them. Just as we’re about to step into the darkness, Elias says, “Lights please, Rosie,” and a low, warm glow fills the hallway. My breathing eases. “You’ve seen the other wing,” Elias says. “Just my bedroom, the girls’ bedrooms, and a bathroom. Here,” he motions to the first door on the right, “is the master suite. Nothing else on this side besides a bathroom on the end.”

“I don’t need to see that,” I say.

He chuckles. “No. Although the shower in there is pretty sweet.” He turns a handle to the room on the other side of the hall. “Here’s the movie room.” There are rows of leather chairs on a tiered floor, and a huge flat-panel TV suspended against the glass wall. “Rosie, turn on my favorite, huh?”

The screen glows to life with — of all things — Superman, who pushes his way through the clear, blue sky and fluffy, white clouds. I plop down in a black leather chair.

“When you just have the TV on, it’s kind of like you’re watching the movie outside,” he says. “Rosie, lights down.” The lights dim, and Elias rolls his eyes, reaches out and taps the wall. “Sorry, Rosie. Lights out.”

“My apologies, Elias,” Rosie says, and suddenly, the room is pitch black.

If this evening hadn’t been so strange on its own, this house robot would be seriously weirding me out.

But soon as the lights go out, the familiar beauty of the outdoors is the only thing I can see or think about. The sky is a deep indigo now, and a few stars wink at me.

“Oh, yeah,” Elias says, like he read my mind. “The view from here is incredible. Check it out. Kill the screen, Rosie.” The TV dims, and all of a sudden, the sky sparks to life, its intoxicating sapphire studded with a million diamonds. I can see hundreds of stars, and I gasp with the wonder of it.

Growing up, I would have loved to have had a view like this. But I probably would have laid on the floor of this movie room, staring so long at the hazy-white cloudless summer sky, or the gray and brooding autumn one, or the bright white moon and stars against the black night, that I would never have done anything else.

I’m totally lost in it until Elias clears his throat. “Rosie, lights please.”

I realize that my eyes are wet and turn to leave ahead of him so he can’t see.

We walk further down the hall, and he points to the next door. “This is the music room, and that down there at the end is the gym.”

I turn the handle to what Elias lamely called “the music room.” He follows right behind me.

“Lights, Rosie?”

The room fills with a warm, golden glow, and I look inside. This is no music room — it’s a concert hall. Three of the room’s walls are glass — two sides and the front. Whoever plays in here has the stars or the clouds or the sun itself as their audience.

The hardwood floor, the color of honey, gleams at me. Even though I’m only wearing rubber-soled flats, my steps echo gently. The acoustics in here are incredible.

A baby grand piano sits in the center of the room, flanked by three electric guitars, two basses, and the sweetest amps I’ve ever seen. They’re all lined up and waiting for some action. But something more amazing than all that catches my eye. It’s shining and winking at me, I swear, and begging me to come sit and play.

My freaking dream drum set.

“Yeah, so that’s boring.” Elias says.

“Wait,” I say, and it’s the first time I’ve said something bossy that’s also pleading, or nice in any way, in a very long time. Maybe ever.

I move slowly over to the drum set and sit down, positioning my bony bottom over the seat that’s way too low, adjusting it to meet my body at the right height for playing. I let my hands hover over the spotless cymbals, not even touching them because they’re so perfectly shiny and gorgeous. I stare at the toms, painted a gleaming red, their clear tops unblemished. Never been played. The snares are the same color with star-shaped vents.

“Wait a minute,” Elias says. “You play?”

My voice shakes now, and my hands, too. “A little,” I say. “But my set is… Well, it’s not like this.”

Elias crosses the room and rummages inside a drawer, but the drums are so beautiful that I can’t tear my eyes away from them, not even to look at him. I push my foot lightly down on the bass pedal, and the most satisfying boom comes from the soft contact. So firm and quick.

I giggle again. That’s twice in one week I’ve giggled within twenty feet of this guy.

My hands fumble for the screws on the tom holders and floor legs, lowering them enough so that I get a sense of what it would really be like to play. I let my foot hover over the high-hat pedal and twitch it, imagining.

Suddenly Elias’s hand is on top of my left one, and his other hand puts something in my right. He brings my hands together. I stare up at him as my fingers clench themselves around two brand-new sticks.

“The smallest ones we have,” Elias says. I want to tell him it doesn’t matter what size the sticks are, but thank you. Something stops the words from coming out of my throat, so I nod dumbly.

He smiles — for real, not sadly — and says, “Go ahead. Let’s hear it.”

I shake my arms around, loosening my shoulders, and I spin the stick in my right hand. My wrist adapts to the action like that’s what it was made to do. Elias’s eyebrows go up, and he laughs like he’s never seen anything so awesome.

Heat floods my face, but as soon as that stick hits the tom’s clear head, making the first mark on it, I am in another world. The ends of my sticks explode with a long note on the side and then crash against the cymbals, their sound so crisp and clear that I can practically see the shimmers they send through the air. I bring it down to a steady beat on the snare and side for a few bars, and I’m stunned by how beautiful these drums are, how strong and solid. They don’t tremble or budge a bit.

After twenty seconds, I start a driving thrum between the snare and the high-hat, my right foot bouncing my leg along to the rhythm I pound out on the bass.

My whole body moves with the rest of the band I can only hear in my head, letting my drums shine, making them sparkle.

I hear Elias’s feet shuffle. He must be getting bored, I think, but I don’t really care. Then, all of a sudden, a low chord progression plays over and over again to my drumbeats. I look up for a split second through the blur of the sticks, which are now playing at exactly the same rhythm as my heartbeat.

Elias is standing there in his t-shirt and jeans, having shed his bulky sweatshirt, holding a deep blue electric, playing along with me.

A grin so wide spreads across my face that I swear my cheeks will crack off and fall onto the floor. I don’t even know why Elias playing along makes me so happy, only that I start to bounce my shoulders on purpose now and play a little faster.

Elias keeps right up. He grins now, too, and as our eyes meet, I start to drum more gently, letting him riff. His fingers are moving so fast right at the base of the guitar’s neck that I almost want to stop my drumming so that all I have to do is listen to him play, but I don’t want to make him stop. I close my eyes, feel my body move almost of its own accord, feel it absorb the drums’ vibrations, and let the sound of us playing — together — wash over me.

A lump rises in my throat, and something hot and wet slides down my cheek. I’m crying. I’m playing the most beautiful drums ever and crying.

A second after I realize it, I decide I don’t even care.

For the first time, I don’t have to drown someone out. Elias is meeting me where I am. He’s the only person who’s ever been willing to do that —
able
to do that. Now that he has, I’m not so sure what to make of him anymore.

Elias stops playing and basically ditches the guitar on the floor. He crosses the room to me in a handful of long strides. He’s looking at me like he wants to touch me but doesn’t know where or how. I let the sticks clatter on the floor and stand up, turning toward him.

It’s almost painful how far back I have to tilt my head to look at him. He stands there, looking at me, his eyes a little worried, and he’s so close that all I need to do is lean my head forward and I could just fall into him.

My stomach feels tight but I don’t know if it’s from embarrassment or nervousness or him being so close to me or me wanting to be closer to him.

It takes me a split second to figure it out. I let my head fall, and then his arms are around me, letting me decide how close he holds me. Breathing in the scent of his t-shirt — sunshine and aftershave and detergent — is the only thing that could stop my tears now. I step closer to him.

He’s touching me, body against body in so many more places than I ever imagined letting a boy ever touch me. But it’s warm and okay. The feel of his skin and bones reminds me that he’s just a boy, a sweet one. Not a threat.

I sniffle, and I’m horrified at myself, but something about being in his arms is so warm and wonderful that I start to laugh. It’s not a giggle, and it’s not nervous. It’s relief, to be standing here in this room being held by a boy who understands me without words.

He laughs, too, and we stay there for a long moment. He pulls back and looks down at me.

“Mom really wanted me to take lessons,” he says, his voice low. “I didn’t have the heart to tell her when I finally decided I wanted to quit. You?”

I laugh once. “Pent-up anger, I guess. Sucking at being a Super pissed me off more than anything else. No one cares if you beat drums, so…”

He laughs again, and he’s so close I can feel his breath. His eyes focus on some part of my face in such a strange way for the briefest instant. Then, like a switch has been flipped, he stands up straighter, takes the slightest step backward. I try not to make my breath too audible.

“We’ve, uh… I’ve gotta be back,” he says, his voice gentle and affectionate. He motions toward the door at the back of the room, which leads outside. “Let me walk you to your car.”

I’m suddenly shy, but I have to say it. “Only if you promise I can come back. You know…to play again.”

He nods and smiles that smile of his again, the one that’s small but real, and I shake a little.

“Done,” he says. There’s a pause, and we just kind of stand there looking at each other.

Elias walks me out the door. On the way down the steps, he reaches out and gently takes my hand.

“What are you…” I say, and he guides me to the outside wall and presses my hand — palm first and then finger by finger — to a shining black panel there. It glows to life under my skin.

“Rosie,” he says to the panel, “Give Merrin full house access, okay?”

“Full house access granted to Merrin Grey,” Rosie says.

I lean in toward the panel. “Um, thanks?”

“You have to say her name.” The grin on Elias’s face is so infectious that I want to laugh.

“Thanks, Rosie,” I say, looking at Elias.

“My pleasure, Merrin,” she says. I shake my head and look back at the house.

“When I say ‘come back any time,’ I mean it,” he says softly.

“But I don’t even…”

“Know me? Well, maybe you do a little better, now, huh?”

The idea of driving all the way to Elias’s house to sneak in and play drums sounds enticing and silly at the same time. I shake my head in a way that could mean either “maybe” or “no, I wouldn’t do that,” depending on how he wants to see it.

He beams. Guess he really does want me back.

We walk back to my car, and the gravel crunches under our feet. My body shakes with the sudden chill in the air — the sunlight is the only difference between warm and chilly in the autumn.

“Whoa,” I say. “I should have brought a jacket.”

Elias picked up his sweatshirt on the way out of the music room but never put it back on. I can see goosebumps on his arms, but he swings it around my shoulders. The sleeves reach to my knees, and he smiles.

Oh my God. He thinks I said it to flirt with him or get his sweatshirt or something. “No, I didn’t… I mean, there’s heat in my car.”

“And there are more sweatshirts in the house. No worries.” He smiles at me, but there’s a hint of disappointment hiding behind it.

Elias unplugs my car from the strip. I duck into the driver’s seat without looking at him, push the startup button, and shiver into the sweatshirt one more time, cranking up the heat. When I start to back up, I roll down the window.

“Thanks. Um, you know. For everything.” Suddenly, I can’t make eye contact with him. Or I don’t want to. Or I’m afraid to.

He starts back toward the house and waves over his shoulders with two fingers extended.

That night, I have vague dreams, dreams that involve flashing golden light. It’s the only thing I can see. Something makes my hair lash across my face, blows it back again, and then it catches on my skin. It’s the wind, rushing past me. I only feel it on my back, even though my whole body is moving.