While You Were Gone (7 page)

“There,” Dr. Owens says as Nina wheels the equipment away. “Simple, isn't it?”

“Warren,” Dr. McAllister says, “switch to the virtual grid view.”

Warren turns back in his seat and types. The large screen switches to a graphic representation of Phoenix littered with dots and
X
s. “This is an offline representation of the network established over Phoenix. You can see we still need to expand to cover some of the outlying sectors. We should have those connection points established early next week, and Skylar will be ready to go live the week after.”

“But you've tested the system, correct?” Dad asks.

“Oh yes,” Dr. Owens says. “We've run several tests—the most recent on Friday morning. All of them have been successful.”

“Perfect.” Dad nods his approval. “How soon before we begin public rollout?”

“Mobile sign-ups begin next week,” Dr. McAllister says.

“Right on schedule.” Dad smiles at the reporter. “Just how I like it.”

“How about a group photo?” the photographer asks. I follow Mom and Dad to stand beside Dr. Owens and Dr. McAllister.

“Smile,” Mom says just before the camera flashes.

Something brushes my hand and I turn. Warren faces the laptop, fingers typing away. I start to say something to him, but he gives a quick shake of his head. My eye catches the yellow dot—me—on the big screen. I bury my hand, and the note he tucked into it, in my suit pocket and follow the others out of the room. Mom waits for me by the door. When I get close enough, she puts her hand at the back of my neck and hisses in my ear, “How dare you embarrass your father like that.”

Dad doesn't go straight home. Instead, he makes a wide turn, pulling into a grocery store parking lot. The sign says
ABBOT'S
in big red letters. “Let's surprise Mom with lunch.” He parks out where the lot is empty, taking up two spots because of the boat. I hop out and close the door, scaring away a couple of seagulls picking at a hamburger wrapper.

We walk together toward the entrance. Dad claps me on the back. “I'm thinking pizza. How about you?”

“Sounds good.” The doors slide open and I follow him inside, thanking my lucky stars I didn't wake up in a world without pizza.

The store is pretty much the same as the ones back home. We walk past piles of fruit in the produce section. Vases of flowers in a fridge. Aisles of bread and cereal boxes. Signs announcing specials and prices hanging from the ceiling. I follow Dad toward one that says
CAFÉ
. The lights flicker. Dad bumps me on the arm. “Grab some milk, would ya?”

“Oh. Uh…” I look around. “Sure.”

I turn into the pet food aisle, wondering which way to go. When I reach the end, I make a left, looking for signs. Farther down is a refrigerated case of cheese. I follow it to butter, sour cream, orange juice and, finally, milk.

What kind do they drink? There's a gazillion to choose from. I try to find one that looks like what we drank at the foster home. It had a blue cap.

A girl walks up from behind me and opens the refrigerator case. Her hair falls in waves down her back, and she's wearing flip-flops with her business suit. She hesitates before picking containers from the yogurt section, stacking them on top of each other in the crook of her arm. One slips and she tries to catch it but only manages to keep the others from falling, too.

“Here,” I say, reaching down to pick it up.

“Thanks.” She balances the containers in her left arm while using her right to pull her hair back from her face.

She's beautiful. Dark hair and eyes. There's something familiar about her. For a second I forget what I'm doing, why I'm standing in the dairy section holding a container of lemon-raspberry yogurt.

Then her eyes meet mine and she steps back, surprised. “It's you.” Her voice is soft, barely a whisper.

Me? I look down at myself as if expecting to see someone else.

The lights flicker. When they go out, she makes a small
oh
sound. Even though it's daytime, our corner at the back of the store goes dark. She takes a step toward me. As my eyes adjust, I can make out her hair and shoulders. Her hand grasps my arm.

A voice calls, “Miss Solomon?”

She inhales like she's going to say something, but instead she lets go and moves away into the dark.

“Wait.” I take two steps and run into a display. Boxes fall, banging loudly against the floor. Awesome. Way to make an impression, Ogden.

The lights in the refrigerator case blink on, chasing shadows from the place where we stood. I look for her, but she's gone. Who was she? She acted like she knew me. A voice comes over the store PA system. “Attention, Abbot's shoppers. We apologize…” I walk back to the dairy section, pick up the mess I made and try to remember what I'd been doing there in the first place.

“Well, that was annoying.” Dad walks up, holding a pizza box. “What's the matter? Couldn't find the milk? It's right here.” He grabs a half gallon from the case. “Come on. Let's go pay for this stuff.”

My eyes search the aisles as we walk to the front of the store. It's like she's just disappeared. By the time we leave, I'm almost convinced I imagined the whole thing.

Sunday morning, the reality of the last forty-eight hours rushes at me, bringing with it a sense of dread. Images flash through my mind: a shopping mall in ruins; reporters gathered; Dad at my bedroom door; Mom's whisper in my ear; a column of white smoke; a red
X
amid yellow dots; his face just before the lights went out.

Friday morning, Vivian Hayes was the worst of my problems. Now look at the world.

I roll onto my back to see the stars swirl above. My eyes follow the blue and yellow brushstrokes making their way toward the orange moon shining over a sleepy village. My breathing slows. My hands stop strangling the sheets.

I reach under my mattress and pull out the Retrogressives book. Someday I'll return it to the Archives. But not today. My fingers flip through the pages, pausing on Klee's
Dance of a Melancholic Child II
to trace the girl's delicate fingers and heart-shaped lips. Her teardrop eye and umbrella nose. I hold the book close, studying how the colors blend behind her, creating a kind of red halo. Looking across the room at my own version on the easel, I see how much I still have to learn.

My fingers continue their journey, passing Picasso's
Old Guitarist,
Chagall's
Between Darkness and Light.
Another Klee,
Blossoms in the Night.
Van Gogh's
At Eternity's Gate.
The last page is where my fingers stop, on Ramsey's
Iterations.

I can't believe I saw him again, and in a grocery store, of all places. So strange. I run my hand over the smooth photo, remembering the feel of the real thing, remembering the night of Bosca's exhibit.

I was angry after he demoted me. But not just at Bosca. At Vivian, too. And at the ones who decide what is and isn't good, who watch everything we say and do and tell us to rat out those who think or act outside the norm.

It's like there are two sides of me. The good girl—the governor's daughter, the face of polite society—and the other girl, the one who steals books of banned art and finds beauty in what others consider ugly and unfit.

I walked the museum's back hallways that night, feeling the two sides wrestling for control. When I came across a service door leading outside, I propped it open with one of my shoes—last thing I needed was to get locked out—then leaned back against the wall and closed my eyes. The city hummed around me. People meandered toward the museum entrance. Traffic streamed by on Central. The light-rail whooshed along its tracks.

When I opened my eyes, I saw him standing there, watching me.

“You're not supposed to be here,” I said.

He shrugged, like the rules didn't apply to him.

I walked across the loading dock, the asphalt rough beneath my feet. Half of his face was in shadow. As I moved closer, a feeling came over me. I felt intrigued. Inspired.

Alive.

He was a total stranger, but I didn't care. All that mattered was that I take that moment and make it my own. My rules. My decision.

So I kissed him.

And then I walked away.

“Hang on,” he said. I thought he'd run over to me, maybe, or want my name. Instead, he simply asked, “Why?”

I shrugged, just like he had. Maybe the rules didn't apply to me either. Then I walked through the door, leaving him outside.

I got about five feet and stopped.

Looked back.

One last hurrah for bad Eevee: I propped the door open just long enough for him to grab hold, then I hurried off to be the good girl again.

I saw him a couple of times during the show, but I didn't say anything. I was already in trouble—big trouble—and didn't need to add more to it. It was just a kiss. A moment. Just me taking a stand, even if only to prove something to myself. What? That I'm brave? That I'll be okay?

I fall back on my bed and look up at
Starry Night.
The thing is, I wasn't supposed to see him again. But here I am in trouble, and I run into him at Abbot's. It's like the universe thought I needed a reminder or something.

My phone on the nightstand dings. It's Dad.

Gallery paintings delivered to school. See Bosca.

I tuck the book back under my mattress, then flip all the banned paintings on my walls and ceiling over to their safe sides. A quick trade of jammies for a skirt and tank top and I head out. Time to see how bad the damage is.

Monday morning, Germ drives as far as the park-and-ride, where we swap his car for the light-rail. Everything has me on edge. The unfamiliar neighborhoods, getting checked for explosives before boarding the train, the nervous passengers wary of another attack, having no idea what to expect when we get to school. It's only been three days, but it feels like forever since I walked out of the foster home, went to school and then…what? Jumped here? Fell? I replay it over and over in my mind, but I'm nowhere closer to understanding how it happened. Or why. It's like something out of
Star Trek
or something. I even started reading Danny's comic books, hoping to find some kind of clue.

What if I never figure it out? What if I stay here forever, impersonating this other me? Wouldn't be so bad, I guess. His life sure beats the hell out of mine. Parents. Best friend. Girls.

My hand grips the overhead handle tight. I watch buildings and traffic stream by while Germ gives the play-by-play of his weekend. The muscles in my arm flex and relax, tendons bulge and disappear, reacting to the movement of the train. There's a small scar, faded white from time, on the inside of my elbow. I wonder what it's from. This body is so different. Stronger, healthier. And then I realize—

“I haven't craved a smoke since I got here.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

He smirks. “Since when do you smoke?”

“I don't.”

“Then why'd you say that?”

“Just…never mind.”

He shakes his head. “Did you know my dad used to smoke? Back when it was legal. Sometimes I catch him holding a pen like a cigarette.”

“That's funny.” I kinda laugh, but I'm thinking about the other Danny, wondering if he's suddenly craving a cigarette. Wait—smoking is illegal here?

“You okay, man?”

The train rounds a corner and everyone on board shifts. “Sometimes it just feels like I'm on the wrong planet.”

“I hear ya.” He nods. “This place is getting crazier by the day. Hey, did you guys take the boat out?”

“How did you know?”

“I stopped by and saw it gone.”

“Yeah, but we didn't get far. A cop pulled us over and told us the harbor was closed.”

“Figures.”

The train slows. Germ grabs his backpack, so I do the same. When the doors open, I follow him onto the platform. Across the busy street stands a huge concrete building fenced in behind tall gates. Students wait in a security line before going through. The sign reads
ARCADIA TECH
.

That's a high school? Looks more like a prison.

“My dad was going on about that new Skylar thing last night.” Germ looks to the right before crossing the street. “He's getting fed up, too, which is saying a lot.” When we get closer to the gate, he mutters, “Wish there was something we could do.”

I'm not really sure what he's going on about, so I don't say anything.

The line leads to a metal detector. It's like we can't go anywhere without having to pass through some kind of checkpoint. Makes me jumpy. I scan the faces of the other students. Some of them look nervous. The word
Friday
floats around their conversations. The guy in front of me steps through the detector and gets a green light. I set my backpack on the table, walk through and get the green light, too.

The guard unzips my bag and looks through the contents. Even though there's nothing illegal in it—that I know of, anyway—my hands are twitchy. I shove them in my pockets and wait. Inside the gates is a concrete courtyard with huge trees and a few benches. But the students don't hang around like they do back at Palo Brea. As soon as they're through security, they walk up the steps into the building. I count the rows of windows. Five stories tall. Can't see how deep it goes.

“Hey, Ogden.” A guy with curly hair waves as he walks by. I nod. No idea who he is. Hanging out in my room is one thing. Trying to fit in here is going to be impossible. I don't know where to go, who I'm supposed to know—nothing.

Germ bumps me with his elbow. At least I can take cues from him.

We only get about ten feet in when a girl with blond hair steps in my way. “Hi, Danny.”

“Hey, uh…” I try to act cool. “How ya doin'?”

She flips her hair over her shoulder, leans toward me and, lowering her voice, says, “I heard you were almost killed in the terrorist attack.”

Germ holds both hands out at her like,
See?

“Killed? Nah. Just smacked my head.”

“I was there, too,” Germ says. “My ears are still ringing.”

She raises an eyebrow at him, then turns back to me. “Is it serious?” She stands on her toes to take a closer look at my bruise. “Maybe I could kiss it and make it better.”

Um, yes, please?

“We gotta get to class.” Germ tugs on my sleeve so hard I lose my balance. “See ya, Angela.”

That's
Angela?

As Germ pulls me away, I manage to sputter out, “See ya.” In no time she's flirting with another guy. He mutters, “What'd I tell you? You get all the”—his voice goes high and girlie—“
Oh, Danny.
” He rolls his eyes. “And I get nothing.”

Where I live—or used to live, I guess—it's hot, it never rains and never,
ever
snows, and some people put green rocks in their yards because it's too hard to get grass to grow. And Palo Brea, the school I go to—or
used
to go to—is a bunch of separate buildings that look like airplane hangars connected by sidewalks. To get to your locker, you have to walk halfway across campus. When it's hot out, that totally sucks, which is why I don't bother with books. If I go to school at all.

We don't have metal detectors. We don't have security guards. And we definitely don't have this many people. Geez, it's like swimming upstream. We elbow our way up the stairs to the third floor and I follow Germ into a classroom. It's crammed full of desks. The walls are covered in posters of pillars inscribed with red, white and blue text. Germ grabs a seat near the back and pulls a book from his backpack. Civics. Sounds like a real snoozefest. I take the chair next to him and look in Danny's bag. No book. I almost laugh out loud. Maybe we're not so different after all.

A bald man in a polyester suit walks in and goes right to the whiteboard. “Take a seat. We have a lot to cover today.” He uncaps a pen and starts writing:
GOVERNMENT. FAMILY. BUSINESS. MEDIA. EDUCATION. RELIGION. ARTS.
They're the same as the labels on the pillar posters. “Hurry,” he says, watching students fill up the desks. “We don't have all day.” The bell rings, and he motions for a girl to close the door. “Due to Friday's events,” he says, his right eye twitching, “we'll be postponing our discussion of the Twenty-Ninth Amendment to cover,
again,
the essential components of a functional society.”

The class groans.

He launches into a lecture about the government and people working together to strengthen the course of…I don't know. Maybe it's habit or a kink in my brain, but I immediately tune him out. My eyes stare at the board. He writes his
E
s with weird extra loops. My eyelids start to slow-blink, so I shift in my seat, trying to stay awake and learn something about this world.

Then I see her, and suddenly my brain kicks into overdrive.

Sitting two rows over, she's scribbling something in a notebook. She has the same long dark hair as the girl at the grocery store. Is it really her? I lean to the left to get a better look, but her hair is in the way. Lean to the right, but I'm blocked by a guy with big shoulders.

“…because for everyone to live in peace and security,” the teacher says, circling the word
RELIGION
, “we must adhere to the standards set by our elected leaders.

“Now, when it comes to the next pillar, we see how proper aesthetics in the arts reinforce the ideal…”

I scoot my desk for a better view. It scrapes across the floor, making a sound like a sick cat. The teacher looks annoyed, but I don't care. She turns toward the sound and her hair falls away from her face. I hold my breath, but—

Not her.

Not even close.