Pivot Point (3 page)

I scoop a spoonful of milk-engorged bran flakes and then watch them slide slowly off my spoon. “Oh good, at least we’re not going to skip the pass-the-problems-to-the-other-parent part of divorce. I knew you wouldn’t let me miss out on at least some fun.” I know I’m being a brat, but I can’t help it. Like a bad cold, every negative feeling or complaint I’ve ever had about my mom has decided to accumulate in my chest.

For the first time since the conversation started, she looks at me. “Addie, knock it off. I just meant that your father is better at knowing what weird car noises mean.”

I stand, stick my bowl in the sink, and swipe my backpack from off the floor. “Well, I would ask Dad, but I don’t think my car would make it the five
hours
to his house.”

“We’re going to get through this,” she calls as I walk out the front door.

“And one day you’re going to understand why I did it,” I finish for her as the door shuts behind me. I don’t know how many times she’s said that line over the last week. She probably hoped that each time it was said the “one day” would get a little closer. It only seemed to push that day further away.

Once in my car, I pull out my cell phone and dial.

“Coleman,” my dad answers.

His voice alone makes me smile. “Don’t they have caller ID out there in Normville?”

“Yes, of course they do.”

“Then how come you answer that way when you know it’s me?”

“Habit. How are you?”

“Okay. My car’s being weird. Are you ready for it?” I hold the phone out the window and press my thumb against the start pad. The seats and mirrors adjust to my thumbprint specifications, and the radio starts playing my preset playlist that I have to voice command off. But the engine sputters to its halfhearted existence. “See?”

“Yeah, that doesn’t sound good. Is it fully charged?”

“Yes.” I tap on the dash. The green bar that used to indicate its charge level had blackened long ago. “It was powering all night.”

“Hmm. I’ll talk to your mother about it, okay?”

“Okay.”

In the background I hear a muffled, deep voice and my dad say, “Thanks. Stay cool.” Then he gives a little chuckle, and a door shuts.

“Did you really just tell someone to
stay cool
?”

“What’s wrong with that? It’s hot here.”

I laugh. “Who was it?”

“The mail carrier. Just got a package. But, anyway, we’ll figure out the car situation. Sound good?”

“Yes. I’d better get to school. See you lat … I mean …” I couldn’t finish the sentence. Somehow saying
I’ll see you in a month
didn’t sound right.

“Addie,” my dad says in his soft voice, “it won’t be long. We’ll see each other before you know it.”

I give a little hum and hang up the phone.

In the parking lot at Lincoln High, I glance at the clock on my dash. The talk with my dad put me a few minutes behind schedule. Just as I open the car door, a football hits my windshield. “Are you flippin’ kidding me?” I mumble.

“Sorry about that,” Duke says, running up to retrieve it from where it had bounced five feet away.

“Do you go anywhere without that thing?”

“If I didn’t have a football, people might not recognize me.”

As if. I look up at him. His perfectly messy blond hair and gorgeous smile greet me. Hotlicious. Was that Laila’s word? It fits, but I will never tell her or she might die of smugness. I grab my backpack off the passenger-side floor and stand. “And that would be a tragedy.”

He laughs. “I’ve just been practicing. Big game coming up.”

“Well, maybe you should practice on the field, away from people, because your aim seems a little off.” I shoulder my backpack and walk away.

“My aim is always perfect, Addie,” he calls after me.

What was that supposed to mean? That before he’d been trying to whack me in the forehead. And now he was trying to crack my windshield. What had I ever done to him?

Halfway to class Laila catches up with me, out of breath. I raise one eyebrow at her, surprised she ran in order to make it on time.

She provides the explanation: “I can’t get lunch detention today.”

“Nobody left to flirt with?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. Gregory had his last day yesterday.”

I roll my eyes. “It’s so nice to have a best friend who bases her choice on whether or not to be responsible solely on guys.”

“I’m glad to see you’re channeling the my-parents-were-just-divorced-so-I’m-allowed-to-be-pissy-anytime-I-want-and-everyone-should-understand attitude so well.”

I smile. “I’m sorry I’ve been so pissy.”

“Yeah, me too. Could you work on that, please? It’s ruining my social life.” She slips her arm in mine and lays her head on my shoulder as we walk. “I’m sorry your life sucks.”

“It doesn’t suck. I’ve just been spoiled by the ideal all these years.”

“I know, your parents did you a major disservice by giving you such a great childhood.”

“I’m sorry.” I say it because I realize how selfish I’ve been. Laila has a horrible home life, and she never complains about it. Nobody would know that her father lost his job because he has a drug problem. He spends all the family’s money to support his habit while her mom works all the time in order to support them.

As if reading my mind, Laila says, “Don’t start feeling sorry for me. You know how much I hate that.” She squeezes my arm and then straightens up. “You want to go to that party Friday? I promise not to leave your side the entire time.”

My brain tries to come up with an excuse, any excuse, but I already know my Friday evening is wide open and I’m a horrible liar. “Sure. Sounds exciting.”

“You are the queen of sarcasm, my friend, but I’ll pick you up at nine so you don’t stand me up.”

I open the door to the morning meditation room. “What would I do without you?”

“Probably curl up and die of boredom.” She pauses. “No, actually, you most likely already have your death penciled in sixty years from now, somewhere after homework and yoga.”

“I’d better not have homework in sixty years.” I step into my cubicle. The small, wall-mounted screen lights up at my entry and the acronym DAA—Department of Ability Advancement—pops up in bold letters. And if that isn’t enough to wipe the smile off my face, the talking head that appears next finishes the job.

My mother.

She’s a program developer for the DAA. It’s rare to see her in my cubicle in the morning, but according to her smiling, obviously prerecorded face, a new mind pattern has been introduced, specialized for each of our “claimed” abilities. She doesn’t actually use air quotes, but I can hear them in her voice. Adults like to make a point of adding the word
claimed
before
abilities
until we graduate and are able to officially prove ourselves by passing all the tests. It’s like they want to remind us that we’re not fully capable yet and still have to rely on them to help us reach our potential.

“So sit back, relax, and let your mind expand,” my mom’s face says.

Tones sound in my ears as images flash rapidly on the screen. I sit back. The relaxing part is out of the question.

NOR•Mal
:
n.
conforming to the standard I lie on the couch in our new house staring at the slowly circling ceiling fan. I decide it must be the least efficient way, ever, to cool a room. I long for the crosscurrents of my Compound house. My dad moved us into an already furnished rental in Dallas, Texas. Considering the state and style of the decor, I assume it was furnished forty years ago. Other than the ancient furniture, the house is bare—its walls white and empty.

On the floor around me I have spread out the required reading I received upon leaving the Compound. Considering I spent half the day in the Tower before I left—where I had to take a mandatory Norm-training class, be briefed on my new backstory, and receive Norm credentials like a driver’s license and birth certificate—I didn’t think there was anything else to cram into my head. I was wrong. They sent me off with reading materials—a very thick packet refreshing my Norm history knowledge.

I had done a lot to avoid this novel-size assignment written by someone who didn’t care about making it entertaining in the least. I had unpacked and meticulously organized my room, down to color-coordinating my clothes. I had even searched through the unpacked boxes but couldn’t find the one titled “Addie’s books,” which I clearly wrote in black Sharpie so as to avoid this very situation. I have no idea where that box is now. Probably somewhere in the garage, buried beneath the hundreds of boxes that should say: “Dad’s crap.”

I pick up one of the sections of the packet, World War I, and read. Norms believe Archduke Franz Ferdinand was not Paranormal. He was assassinated due to a power play, not because people feared he could control them with his mind. I say that to myself several times. “World War One was not started because of a Paranormal.” I flip through a few more pages of Norm war history. I toss the packet aside, then grab the Space section, remembering some sort of weird beliefs they have about the moon landing.

“Bored,” I moan. My hand starts to sweat from the tight hold I have on my cell. I know Laila won’t call for at least another hour, since she’s still in school, but I hold out hope that she decided to ditch. We haven’t talked since yesterday.

The doorbell rings, and I practically trip over the study papers in my excitement to answer it. The sun assaults my eyes, and a burst of sticky, hot air hits me across the face when I open the door.

It’s the mailman, holding out a clipboard. “Can you sign for a package?”

I pocket my cell and grab the clipboard. “Yeah.” I scribble my name in the box he points to. He hands me a large, padded envelope and starts to walk away.

“How is your day going?” I blurt out. “Staying cool?”

He stops. “It’s October. This is the start of our
cool
season.” He winks.

“Really?”

“You’ll get used to it. Welcome to Dallas,” he says, and walks away.

“Thanks.” The phone in my pocket vibrates. “Hello?”

“You miss me yet?” Laila asks.

I shut the door. “Let’s just say I’m so desperate for conversation that I was just chatting it up with the mailman.”

“Was he cute?”

“He was probably fifty.”

“Ew.”

I glance at the padded envelope in my hand. It’s addressed to my dad with no return information. I walk into the kitchen, and when the lights don’t immediately turn on wave my hands in impatience. It takes me a second to realize they aren’t going to. I toss the envelope onto the counter and leave without searching for the switch. “Not that I’m complaining, but shouldn’t you be in class?”

“Yeah, probably, but I’d rather be talking to you. It’s just Thought Placement. I have that down.”

“You do?” I ask.

“Don’t you?”

“Just short distances.”

Laila hums and then says, “You know who’s having a hard time with Thought Placement?”

“Who?”

“Bobby.”

I curl my lip. “That’s because he’s not used to manipulating people’s minds. Only mass.” He can walk through walls, harden liquid, stretch objects. I will never admit it out loud, but he is really good at what he does. Probably the best Mass Manipulator I know who’s his age.

“That’s exactly what the teacher said. He said it’s nearly impossible for people to master Thought Placement if their abilities aren’t ones that work on others’ minds.”

“My mom told me that. She’s an expert at it. Probably because she’s the master mind manipulator.”

Laila laughs. “True. So how are the Norms? Are they hard to talk to?”

“Not really, but I haven’t really talked to many, just a few on the way here and now the mailman.” I suspect my dad is trying to introduce me into the Norm world slowly, because he hardly stopped at all on the way here.

“You’ve inspired me. I think I’m going to a few away games this year with the football team. If you have to suffer through talking to Norms, the least I can do is experience a little bit of your pain.”

I laugh. “You don’t sound prejudiced at all.”

“And you’re not?”

“I’m not.”

“No, you just think you’re better than they are.”

“Not better, just different because I can do more things.”

She laughs like she won the argument.

I plop, back first, onto the couch and throw my legs over the armrest. It’s warm from my earlier occupation, and after I remember how many other people have probably already occupied this couch, I’m grossed out. I sit up. “It’s not so much the people who are different. It’s the place. I swear it’s hotter here and brighter. Do you think the sun is going to give me brain damage?”

She laughs.

“I’m serious. Why else would they filter sunlight in the Compound?”

“I’m sure they’ve found the optimum lighting for brain development. Just like everything else that’s altered here to maximize our brains’ potential.”

“Exactly.”

“Another reason you should come home immediately. Either way, I have no doubt you’ll come home eventually. Wouldn’t want to risk your children being born without advanced minds.”

I sigh.

“Oh, speaking of perfect marrying genes, guess who asked about you today?”

“No idea.”

“Duke Rivers.”

“Uh … why?”

“I don’t know. I thought you’d tell me.”

The door that leads from the garage into the kitchen opens, and the sound of keys landing on the counter rings out. “Hey, I’ll call you later, my dad just got home.”

“Okay, bye.”

Duke Rivers asked about me? Weird.
“Hi, Dad.” I gather my scattered papers and stand up. “You’re home early.”

“Considering I wasn’t supposed to go in at all today, I’m home very late.” He picks up the padded envelope on the counter and looks at both sides.

I place my cure-for-insomnia reading on the table. “Oh, that came for you a little while ago.”

He lowers his brow.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Just something I’m consulting on for the Para-bureau.”

“I thought you weren’t working for them anymore. I thought we were trying out this whole Normal thing.”
We’re going to live like the rest of the world, Addie,
he had said.
It will be refreshing.
The words sound cheesy now, but at the time they made me feel like we were marching into battle or something.