While You Were Gone (9 page)

My phone rings as I'm walking to meet Warren at the Archives. It's Dad. I consider not answering, but the last time I tried to ignore him, security tracked me down in the middle of civics class. So embarrassing. And that was
before
we were under a terrorism watch.

“Hi, Dad.”

“How's my girl? Did the shipment of remains—”

“ ‘Remains'? Geez, Dad.”

“Sorry.” He clears his throat. “What I meant was, how are you doing?”

“As good as can be expected, I guess.” I dodge students on the sidewalk. “Considering I've been sorting through the burned and shredded
remains
of my soul.”

He sighs. “Anything salvageable?”

“Of my soul?”

“Of your paintings.” He's losing patience with me.

I scale back the melodrama and tell him the truth. “I found most of the pieces of one and still have a heap of scraps to sift through.” Saying it out loud makes the truth of it sink in even more.

“Can you put the one back together?”

“Sure. If I want my entry to look like something out of
Frankenstein
.” My feet stop in their tracks. An idea takes shape in my mind.

He's quiet a moment, then says, “This must be very difficult. Your mother and I, we just want you to know we're here and supporting you.”

“Thanks.” I start walking again. I'm going to be so late for our study session.

“See you on Friday?”

“What's Friday?”

“The Stand Up to Terror event.”

“Where is—”

“Richard will send you the details. Listen, I have to take another call. Good luck with the paintings, honey.”

Even after he's hung up, I keep walking with the phone to my ear. Guess I'll see him on Friday.

The Archives are in an old brick building at the heart of campus. Doric columns rise on either side of the double oak doors. Walking in, I'm greeted with the smells of musty paper and dust. My flip-flops make slapping noises in the entryway, so I tiptoe past a wall of student artwork, toward our meeting place. Warren is already sitting at the table reading, his glasses up on his forehead.

“You look different without your lab coat.”

“I'm in disguise.”

“What are you, a spy?”

He holds a finger to his lips. “Shhh. I'm casing out the guy behind you.”

I look. There is no guy behind me.

He smirks.

“I'll go find someone else to study with if you're not careful.”

“You'll fail science.”

I cross my arms. “And you'll fail art history.”

“Touché.” He moves his notebooks so I can set my stuff down.

We've been meeting for a couple of months now, and I still don't know what to make of him. He's goofy, arrogant and slightly antisocial. And he wears ankle pants. He's also super smart and makes me laugh. We're an oddball pairing. The genius and the artist. Like Einstein and Picasso. We're also a strangely successful pairing, given that we met through the student message board. Being the governor's daughter complicates everything—friendships, relationships. I find it best to keep people at arm's length. But when I saw the ad about swapping science help for art history, it just kind of made sense.

I take the chair across from him and pull my science notes out of my bag. “You didn't tell me you were part of the Skylar team.”

“There are lots of things I don't tell you.” He leans forward. “So, did you figure it out?”

“We should get to work.”

He rolls his eyes. “But the code was so easy.”

It takes me a while to find the note he passed to me at the press conference. I finally find it in my bag, smashed between a binder and a biography of Rembrandt. “I thought it was going to be something important.” I toss it on the table.

He looks left and right, then whispers, “It is important.”

“It's just letters and numbers.”

“Those letters and numbers could change your life.” He raises an eyebrow and nods slowly.

“Yeah, well, you could have changed my life by getting me in trouble. If my dad had seen you passing me a note—”

He waves away my complaint. “You're just stalling now.”

“Fine.” I unfold the note and read it again. And again. Then shake my head. “Still don't get it.”

He falls back in his chair. “You're hopeless as a spy.”

“News flash: I'm not trying to be a
spy.
” I flop my science binder open and pull out my study guide. “I'm trying to be an
artist
who can pass her science class.”

“Not nearly as fun.”

Last month I helped him prepare for his test on art during the Cold War, when the movement toward protecting Americans from countercultural ideas began. He aced it, of course, because he had me in his corner. Now I'm the one who needs help. This unit on atoms is just not meshing. It's not that I'm bad at science. It's just that my brain works better with images than words, and Warren is really good at translating scientific jargon into pictures. “We really should get started.” I slide my study guide across the table.

“First promise you'll try to figure out the code.”

“Fine.” I raise my right hand. “I promise. Now, can we…?”

He moves his glasses down onto his face and looks over the study guide, muttering words as he reads. “Matter…atoms…polarity…” He sets it down. “Electromagnetic repulsion. Fascinating stuff.”

“Enlighten me, Einstein.”

“Atoms are ninety-nine percent empty space. They get their shape from the negatively charged electrons spinning around the nucleus. Now, the human body is made up of approximately seven octillion atoms—”

“That's not a word.”

“Yes it is. Seven octillion atoms, which means you are mostly empty space.”

“
You're
mostly empty space.”

He scowls. “Pay attention. Everything is made of atoms, so everything is mostly nothing. Empty space. And that means you're not actually sitting on that chair.”

“Is this that thing where you're just showing off how much you know? Or does this actually have to do with my test?”

“Listen.” He sticks out his hands like he's holding an invisible ball. “The closer atoms are together, the more they repulse each other. Like when you try to force magnets to touch pole to pole. You feel that resisting force between them, right? So, the same thing is happening right now between your butt and that chair. It feels like you're sitting, but you're actually floating above it.”

“Suspended by the repulsion of my seven—what was it?”

“Octillion.”

“Seven
octillion
atoms.”

“Exactly. Which means there isn't really such a thing as touching.” He puts his hand flat on the table. “I'm not actually touching this. There is an infinitesimal amount of space between the atoms of the desk and the atoms of my hand.”

“But you feel it.”

“And yet, I'm still not
actually
touching it.”

He continues working his way through the concepts, and forty minutes later, I feel like I have enough of a grasp to take the test.

“Coulomb's law is the foundation of electromagnetism. And electromagnetism is the foundation of the new Skylar system.” He hands me the study guide. “Coincidence?”

I think back to the explanation they gave during the DART demo, before Nina passed that wand over my head. “You mean, you think we're studying this stuff now because of that?”

He gives a small shrug. “I wouldn't be surprised if you start to see it cropping up more and more. Introduce an idea, then disseminate it through the populace until it becomes a new norm.” He looks at his watch and begins packing up his things. “That's how I'd do it, at least.”

I gather up my stuff, too. “If you're such a skeptic, why do you work for them?”

“I don't work for them.” He zips up his backpack. “I'm an intern.”

“You know what I mean.”

He thinks a moment, then says, “Let's just say I'm doing my part to ensure the promise of our future.” He grins, knowing I'd recognize the line from Dad's speech. “Seriously, though, it's the ultimate gig for a science student. Huge opportunity. Security systems are just one aspect of DART. There are lots of programs people don't know about. Stealth technologies. Microbiological weaponry. You name it.”

“Do you work on those, too?”

“If I told you that, I'd have to kill you.” He slings his backpack over his shoulder and we walk together toward the exit.

He stops at the art wall, in front of a small painting of a rose. “Is this one of yours?”

“Yes.” I'm still not happy with the way I painted the shadows beneath the petals.

“You know what you should do? Paint mash-ups of art and science.” He crashes his hands together like an implosion. “That would be cool.”

“Probably wouldn't get approved.”

“Approved shmooved.” He holds open the door and we walk out into warm midday air.

“Until next time, Eevee Solomon.” He makes an exaggerated bow and saunters down the sidewalk. When he's almost out of earshot, he turns and yells, “Don't forget the note!”

The school welding shop roars with dozens of motors and machines running at once. Germ guides a length of metal tubing through the roller. It winds around in a wide arc. When it's done, he passes it to me and starts on the next one. I measure and mark two and a half feet, then make the cut using the band saw. My brain tells me over and over to pay attention, but the rattle of the machine puts me in a kind of trance. My thoughts spin like the blade, on an endless loop.

This morning, three more girls stopped to talk to me when I got to school. That's five so far. Definitely a new record. That never happens to me back home, unless you count them calling me a burnout or a loser. Still, I would trade all the girls I've ever talked to in either world for the chance to see the grocery store girl again.

“Hey!” Germ's voice snaps me out of my daze. He slides the last piece on the table and measures the tile we've chosen for the top. “Earth to Ogden.”

I switch the machine off and carry the cut pieces over to the worktable.

“You looked like you were trying to lose a finger,” he says. “You okay?”

“Zoned out for a sec.”

The teacher, a wiry guy with a Fu Manchu mustache, gave us an hour to create a stable structure. Other teams are building toolboxes, racks. Looks like one team is making a bench. We chose a table. And so far, so good. I've never done this kind of stuff before, and I'm watching Germ for cues, but it seems like I've got the hang of it. Like it comes naturally. I pull off my work gloves to wipe the sweat from under my safety goggles. My hands are grimy, but it's a satisfying grunge. It feels right.

If Palo Brea were more like this, I probably wouldn't ditch so much. Less lecturing, more doing. And doing real stuff, especially.

“We still on for tonight?” Germ grabs his welding helmet. I grab mine, too, and slip the band onto my head, wincing when it rubs the bruise.

“Yep.” I line up a length of the metal tubing with the upside-down table frame and flip my visor down. Germ leans in and takes the first weld. My visor window reacts to the bright glow, then clears so I can see. The metal sizzles and pops as he weaves the wire through the seam. I watch him closely, studying how he moves. When the leg is secured all around, he flips his helmet up and blows on the welder tip like it's the barrel of a gun. Then it's my turn.

We trade places and I take a deep breath while he lines up the next leg. When he gives me the nod, I set the welder tip in place and flip my helmet down. I press the trigger, but the wire misses the metal and spools out. A total dud. I groan and press the tip closer into the corner where the leg meets the frame. Hold my breath and press the trigger again. This time it catches, sticking to the metal and melting the two pieces into one. I watch the orange glow through my visor and stitch the wand like Germ did, guiding it around the table leg. When I reach the end, I pull the welder away, flip up my visor and watch the weld cool from orange to black. It isn't as pretty as Germ's work, but hopefully it's as good as Danny's.