Tunnel Vision (9 page)

YES, I want to say. YES. But I count … one, two, three … before typing.

Yeah. That’s cool. What’s up?

Through the walls I can hear Ana’s voice, musical, talking to my mother. I try to ignore it and what it means, stare at the phone. At what normal looks like. A normal girl.

Just hi. Sorry I’ve been weird. Oh, gotta go. Our scene. Talk tomorrow?

I type fast, so she can read it before she has to leave.

Sure. See you tomorrow.

I add her number to my contacts, grinning to myself, then give Chris a virtual high five. He said he’d talk to her about me, if he had a chance. Thank God for best friends. I allow myself a minute of imagining Rachel … kissing her …

Then I dig out my calculus stuff, because I really do have work to do, especially to make up for this morning.

I don’t care if I do have a Stanford acceptance from DARPA. I still want to earn it.

*   *   *

I don’t remember the first time I tunneled. When I was little it used to happen all the time, accidentally. Random images, sounds, emotions would flick through me when I touched things. I thought it was normal. I learned quickly which things not to touch, what I didn’t want to feel. Things from dead people, mostly.

I do remember the first time I did it on purpose.

I was six and a half, and Myk was a baby, about four months old. I thought she was a tiny monster. She was always fussy, bawling her lungs out day and night. Sucking up every second of my parents’ time and attention. I wanted nothing more than to send her back.

We were alone for a few minutes, which was rare. I don’t remember where we were living. Military housing somewhere. Dad was out mowing the lawn—I remember hearing the comforting buzz of the mower, smelling the fresh grass through the open windows—and Mom was in the kitchen. Myka was sleeping in her car seat on the floor while I played with plastic dinosaurs.

I must have
rawwrred
a little too loud, because she woke up and started screaming.

“Jakey?” Mom called, frazzled. “Can you just watch her for a couple minutes? I can’t come right this second.”

“Okay,” I called back, and Myka screamed harder.

I stared at her, her little face scrunching, washing completely purple in seconds. Why was she
doing
that? What was worth getting that upset about?

I guess a normal kid would have picked up her binky and put it in her mouth, to make her stop. I picked up her binky, cradled it, and closed my eyes.

I could see her, just as she was—that wasn’t a surprise. I could hear the same things I could before. But everything seemed magnified, distorted. The mower was obscenely loud, terrifying. Mom’s clanks in the kitchen, the water running, added to it, so the noise was almost unbearable. The breeze through the window was cold, a shock on her skin. She opened her eyes and I saw myself, sitting cross-legged in front of her, eyes closed. I looked huge. The room was all huge, too bright, too many colors and shapes, all unknown, without meaning. All scary.

Shhhhhh,
I thought.
It’s okay, little one. Nothing’s going to get you.

Her eyes moved back to me.

That’s me. I’m Jake,
I thought.
Your big brother. I’ll protect you.

She stopped crying, like a tap turned off. Watched me, flailing her fists in the air.

I’ll teach you about all these things. Don’t worry. I’ll keep you safe. I promise.

I opened my eyes, and I swear she smiled at me.

She wasn’t overly fussy after that if I was around. If she started that awful crying, I’d find a quiet place somewhere, hold her binky or her blanket or whatever, and tunnel to her. With her I could actually communicate—in feelings then, if not words—not just see. She also knew I was there in her mind, which nobody else ever seemed to. I figured it was because we were blood—or maybe she had a tiny bit of what I had. We didn’t talk about it. But tunneling calmed her, always. Even as we got older I did it every once in a while, when I wanted to check on her, or when I knew she was having a rough day.

Like now.

I close the calc book—assignment done—and pull a folded note out of my wallet.
I love you Jake,
it says, with a heart, in shaky red crayon letters. She’d given it to me when she was six. I hold it in my hand, let my head drop forward.

She isn’t studying, for once. She’s lying on her back on top of her blue comforter, hair fanned out around her, staring at the white popcorn ceiling. Her old stuffed animal, Horse, is next to her on the pillow, its worn-down brown fur soft against her cheek. She’s worrying. But not about Ana. About me.

I’m fine,
I think.
You don’t have to worry. It’s all going to be okay.

I see the ceiling, feel Horse against her cheek. Feel her awareness of me. She relaxes, a little.

No more worrying,
I think.
Just do what you usually—

“I’m not sure I like the idea of you doing that on your own.”

I turn, the note clenched in my hand. Ana stands in the doorway, arms crossed. Despite the warning in the words, her expression is friendly.

I don’t feel friendly. I feel invaded. “The door was shut. Doesn’t that mean it’s my private space?”

Her lips pinch. “I do not think you understand this situation yet, Mr. Lukin. You no longer have private space. Not from us. Not if we’re to protect you.”

I meet her eyes straight on. “It’s been three days since I made this deal. Since any of this happened. Maybe you guys could give me a little time to adjust to the complete loss of my privacy?”

She smooths her hair, considering. “Yes. That is true. I will keep that in mind.” She drops her arm, the bracelet jingling. “I came to call you to dinner. But I think we should establish a rule of no private … tunneling … until we can discuss the implications. Yes?”

I lift my chin but don’t reply. I’m not agreeing to that. Tunneling is mine, like always. I’m just letting them use it.

She nods as though I agreed. “Dinner in five minutes, please. I will go and fetch your sister.”

I carefully replace the folded note in my wallet, check Dad’s watch. Five minutes will give me plenty of time to bang my head on the desk a few times before going to face dinner.

*   *   *

Dinner is polite, awkward. Lots of silences. The most exciting thing we discuss is that Mom is going to Chicago on Thursday for four days, leaving us in the capable hands of Ana.

I can’t believe this happened so fast. Myk actually seems to like her, so I do my best to cooperate and act as normal as I can. Though I’m awkwardly aware of her, of what she is.

When we’re done with the (tasty) enchiladas, there’s a moment when none of us know what to do. Ana pushes back her chair, stands. “Jacob, will you please help me clear the table?”

I shoot a look at Mom—
am I supposed to help the housekeeper clean?
—but she shrugs.

“Sure.”

Mom and Myk head off to the living room to watch
Mythbusters—
Myk’s favorite show, where something always gets blown up and mysteries of the science world are revealed
—
while I help Ana bring plates to the kitchen.

She doesn’t say anything at first. She fills up one side of the sink with hot, soapy water, lays a towel out next to it, and stacks the dirty dishes on the counter.

“You know we have a dishwasher,” I say.

She glances at me, and pushes her sleeves to her elbows. She carefully unclasps her bracelet and drops it in her pocket with another jingle. “Some things are best done the old way.”

I can’t help myself. “Like interrogations? Firefights?”

“I am here to help you, Jacob,” she says quietly. “To protect you and your family. Just like Ed is. You do not have to like the situation, or me. But please do remember why I’m here.”

“Sure.” I lean on the counter, twisting a dish towel in my hand. “Completely altruistic on DARPA’s part.”

“No one said that.” She plunges her hands into the water, wiping a plate with one of Mom’s blue-striped woven cloths. Myk made that in third grade. “It is of mutual benefit. And I will assist your mother as well. It is good for everyone.”

Her sweater rides up at the back as she leans forward, and I peek. No gun that I can see.

I lower my voice further. “Are you carrying a gun? Like Ed?”

“A gun?” She laughs a little. “No.” She rinses the plate, sets it on the towel, and moves on to the next. Then she winks at me with mile-long eyelashes. “I carry guns when I need to, but I much prefer knives.”

Of course.

She picks up a dirty kitchen knife—a big one—from the counter, dips it carefully in the soap, then the water. She turns it slowly, examining the blade, running her finger along the edge. Without looking, she holds out a hand to me. I stare.

“Towel?” she asks.

Right. I hand it to her and she wipes the knife clean, slides it back into the rack. Then she smiles disarmingly. A genuine smile, unlike Liesel’s. “Thank you, Jacob. I don’t need you any more right now.”

I swallow hard, and leave. I know it was a show, that she was displaying her power just like Eric had. But she did it well.

This is going to be interesting.

*   *   *

When
Mythbusters
is over Mom surreptitiously herds us to her bedroom, checks over her shoulder, and shuts the door.

“So? What do you guys think?” she asks. “Will she work? Do you feel comfortable with her?”

She flops onto the bed. Myk does too, tucking her legs up Indian-style. I move a pile of Mom’s clothes and sit on her chair. They look at me, two pairs of identical green eyes.

What can I say? If I say I hate her, DARPA will just figure out another way, another person. And she isn’t awful.

I shrug. “She seems fine. As long as you’re sure of her references, and she’s not a crazy drug addict or anything. I’m good with it.”

Mom laughs. She looks content, like some stress has been lifted already. “I’m sure of that. Myk?” She leans over and runs her hand down Myk’s hair, flipping the ends up with her fingers. “What do you think?”

Myk shrugs too. “I guess. She’s better than I thought she’d be. Can you ask her to leave my room alone if I promise to keep it clean myself?”

“Absolutely,” Mom says. “I think that’s an excellent deal.”

At least they’re happy. As long as Ana doesn’t fuck that up, we’ll be cool. Well, as long as she doesn’t fuck that up or knife me. Guns by day, knives by night.

“I have something else to bring up,” Myk says, eyes on Mom, then me. “I think we should do Glue.”

“Glue?” Mom says, soft. “We haven’t done that since…”

“The funeral,” I finish. Tears spring into Mom’s eyes, and I wish I hadn’t said it.

Myk nods, solemn. She looks like an owl. “It feels like we should. With everything changing…”

Mom sniffs, then nods too, jerkily. “I think you’re right. Your dad would like that.” She touches Myk’s hair again. “Good idea, sweetheart. Jake?” She stretches out a hand to me.

To keep them happy, I’d do an awful lot more than that.

I come and sit on the bed too, so we’re in a tight circle. Mom rests one hand in the middle, palm flat on the bedspread.

“We Lukins stick together like glue,” she says.

I lay mine on top of hers. It’s weird, but my hand is actually bigger than hers now. I don’t think it was last time. When I was sixteen. “Together we can make it through.”

Myk’s hand is cool over mine. “Anywhere we choose to roam,” she says, her voice wobbly.

There’s a short silence. The last line was Dad’s.

Mom sets her other hand on top of ours. “Together we will make it home.”

We all bow our heads, hands linked.

Dad made us do that rhyme every time we moved—in the early years, when we moved a lot with the air force, before he was stationed at the Pentagon—and every time somebody was having a major problem. It’s cheesy, yeah, and it would be really easy to mock. But I wouldn’t dare. It was Dad’s. And it always seemed to help.

After a bit we let go, and Myk throws herself into Mom’s arms. Then mine, in a bear hug. I squeeze her back as hard as I dare. She seems small, breakable.

“Together we can make it through,” she whispers in my ear. “Don’t do it alone, Jake.”

I let go and meet her eyes an inch away. They’re powerful, pleading.

I wonder exactly how much my sister sees after all.

10

“Hostage” by Marking Twain

Rachel’s not in class the next morning. Someone says she had a doctor’s appointment or something, but I take it as a bad sign. I didn’t sleep last night, thinking too much, so today everything’s getting under my skin. Maybe it’s good she wasn’t here. I wouldn’t want to blow it
again
.

Eric walks with me across to the cemetery at fourth period, schlepping through the ankle-deep snow. I’m glad Pete’s there and I don’t have to do any tunneling today. I just want to be left alone. Which, of course, I can’t be. For a single freaking second.

My mood must be obvious. “You all right, mate?” Eric asks.

“I’m not your mate,” I snap. “What are you, British?”

He stops on the sidewalk, looks at me.

I shake my head, keep walking. “I’m just tired.” And lonely, lying to everyone. And … I don’t want to think about it.

“Okay, then.” We’re quiet for a while, walking. “You know,” he says, “if the stress of this is too much for you—it is for some assets, there’s no shame in it—we can drop it all.”

I glance at him.

“We could take you to a nice, quiet room of your own…”

“Skip the threats today, okay?” I walk faster, pushing ahead of him. We pass through the gate, down the main drive. I have work to do in the northwest section. “I get it already. Can you just let me do my own work for once?”

He grabs my elbow, stops me cold. “Look. Jake. I don’t mean it as a threat, not really. It’s an option you should honestly consider.” He lets go of my elbow. “This double life is tough, especially if you’re not trained for it. Sometimes it’s truly better for everybody if you just—”