HEAR (2 page)

“The adolescent brain is still growing and forging neural pathways, the roads on which thoughts travel. A teen brain also processes at lightning-quick speed. It tends to respond rapidly to chemical stimuli. That's part of the reason teenagers frequently act on immediate desires and gut instincts. Previously I worked with research volunteers and our graduate-student population at Henley, but I've found them lacking. The group I've recruited here this summer is special in part because yours is the time in life when people's minds are most open and receptive to triggers. That's what I'm interested in exploring and tapping.”

Tapping?
I look at my uncle. “Can I ask—”

“How
do I plan to do this?” He laughs. “ You're picturing me sawing open the top of your skull and poking around in your brain?”

“Well I wasn't until just now,” I mutter.

“She's funny, your niece,” Alex says.

Again, I feel a flush. I keep my eyes focused on my great-uncle.

“I want to access your brain at the point where thought processes form,” Brian says, all business again, looking back and forth between Alex and me. “We'll be testing the chemical reactions that are involved in activating key neurons. We'll be trying to establish simultaneous reactions in all the group members. And we'll be running tests to see if we can establish neuronal networking.”

I have no idea what he's talking about.

“Does that make sense?” he asks.

I nod. At least I'm not lying out loud.

“Everyone else in the group has already signed their releases.”

Releases? To access our brains? I glance over at Alex.

“When I heard about the chance to work with Professor Black . . .” He shrugs as if he needn't bother completing the thought.

The skin between my eyes pulls together, a habit my mother tells me will lead to a set of wrinkles known as the “angry eleven.”

Uncle Brian catches my reaction. “Kass, you're not having second thoughts, are you?”

“No,” I lie again. But duh, yeah, of course I am. Neuronal networking? All I can picture is a mad scientist running jumper cables between jars full of brains—mine included. Still, I can't risk getting tossed out of here on day one. “No, no, of course I'm not having second thoughts. I'll sign whatever you want.” I smile, trying to defuse any tension. “So, have you guys already started this testing?”

“Individually, yes, among the other four these past two weeks. But I planned to wait for your arrival to begin the rest.”

I shoot my uncle a
that's impossible
look.

It was only decided that I'd be coming here two days ago. That he “planned” for my arrival can't be right.

CHAPTER TWO

I confess I wasn't upset when I was escorted to the principal's office back in May and informed, “Because of your reckless and delinquent behavior, Kassandra, we are expelling you.” Getting booted from high school during the last few weeks of senior year seemed more like a present than a punishment. Especially since I had justice on my side. I may have been breaking the law, but I was doing it for a righteous reason, and my principal knew it.

Then the news from Columbia University arrived.

The letter, henceforth known as TLTRML (The Letter That Ruined My Life), stated that my admission to the incoming freshman class had been revoked.

That was it. I couldn't petition or argue or plead. Since I'd applied and been accepted early decision, I hadn't bothered applying anywhere else. In short, I was now hugely screwed. Everything I'd worked for in high school was gone, along with my prospect of an Ivy League diploma. My prospect of
any
diploma.

I didn't fall into a depression exactly. It was more of an extended panic attack. And it was in the throes of this “I have no future” meltdown that my father stepped in. After lecturing me about responsibility and the need to think about “the consequences of your actions,” he promised he'd handle it. My father, a hedge-fund manager, is a guy who has a way with these things; if there's an angle to work, he finds the corner.
The
Wall Street Journal
even printed a cartoon of him in a wizard's hat for his seemingly magical ability to make the stock market move in whatever direction he wanted.

So a few days later, when Dad told me he'd indeed found a solution, I naturally assumed I'd be in New York City come fall as planned.

I was wrong.

The rest of his words came out in a jumble. Apparently I was heading to his alma mater, Henley University. Dad explained that his uncle Brian, a prize-winning professor at Henley, had a “gold card” there, which entitled him to one student admission—no questions asked—per year. If I was willing to participate in Uncle Brian's research this summer, his gold card would go to me. “I know you had your heart set on attending Columbia, but people kill to go to Henley; just remember that.”

I started crying.

At least I think I did, because my normally unaffectionate father pulled me into a hug. Then he whispered on the top of my head, “Kassandra, everything will work out.”

I started packing my bags for Henley. That was less than two days ago.

Now, forty-six hours later,
I am in my great-uncle's office, trying to figure out what the hell is going on. Alex has fallen silent. Brian has crossed his arms across his chest. I am tempted to bolt, future or no future. I find myself leaning toward my bag.

“Rest assured, your dad's on board with all of this,” Brian says. “A fair number of people object to my test subjects being minors. They find it controversial; they think I'm coercing subjects who don't have the discernment to say no.”

I stiffen like an animal that knows it's trapped.

“ You don't feel like I'm coercing you, do you, Kass?”

“No. I'll do whatever you need,” I reply, steeling myself. I hear my dad's words:
people kill to go to Henley.
“Sounds like it's going to be a lot of fun.”

“Wonderful,” Brian replies. “And don't you worry; the electroshock treatment will only curl your hair temporarily.”

“What?”

Alex nudges me. “I, uh, think your uncle's kidding, Kass.”

Brian laughs. I start to laugh too, weakly—but then his lips press into a tight line.

“I've kept you here long enough. There are two more things I must mention in all seriousness. Texting is a distraction, and it muddles brain function.”

I open my mouth to object.

“ You may protest, but you know it's true,” he continues. “That's why I ask that you limit the amount you text, doing it only when absolutely necessary.”

Annoying.
“Can I write letters?”

“I don't know,” he says. “Can you?”

Really annoying. “
May
I write letters?”

“ Yes,” Brian answers. “To your friends. And this brings me to my second request. You'll see on the release that I ask my subjects to refrain from contacting or speaking to their parents for the first six weeks of our program.”

“As if being here could get any better!” Alex exclaims.

“That won't be a problem for you, will it, Kass?”

It's less a question than a statement. Brian knows very well that my parents are leaving later today for a business trip to China; it's why they couldn't drop me off themselves. He knows that they'll be hard to reach. Which makes me wonder again about what exactly had been “planned,” and what my dad was willing to get “on board” with before leaving the country.

“Very good,” Brian says, before I can respond. “Okay, so now that you've gotten the lay of the land here, let me take you home so you can drop off your bag and relax. I think it's best to get a fresh jump on things tomorrow morning.”

I turn to Alex. “It was really nice meeting you.”

“ You too,” he says. “Hey, what about getting dinner with me later?”

My great-uncle is sitting less than five feet away, and I can feel him watching me. He already indicated that I should watch out for this boy; this seems like a test. So despite how much I'd like to accept, I know what I have to say. “Thanks, I would love to, but tonight I'm going to cook for my uncle to thank him for letting me come here—”

“Nonsense,” Brian interrupts. “ Yours is a very generous offer, Kass, but I insist you take Alex up on his invitation.”

I turn to him. “ You're sure you don't mind?”

He shakes his head, gathering up his belongings. “Go.”

I try not to smile too widely at Alex. “Okay then.”

“Great,” Alex says, giving me another wink. “I'll meet you at Rosalie's on Shea Street at seven thirty.”

CHAPTER THREE

Brian wants to give me a tour of the campus before he takes me home. I follow him, dutifully feigning interest by repeating, in question form, each fact he tosses out.

“Eighty-four miles of books in the Peabody Library?”

“And that's spine-to-spine, not cover-to-cover,” Brian says. “The librarians will be quite pleased to tell you that our campus offers a higher number of books per student than at any other university library in the world. Over there is the art museum. Some very important collections. I'm sure you'll like it.”

I'm more drawn to the students on the grass: sunbathing, reading, tossing Frisbees. I'd like to stop and rest, maybe even nap, but Brian continues to power walk across the green. I hustle to keep pace. The straps of my unwieldy suitcase have begun digging into my neck, and the bag drops as I try to swing it to my other arm.

At the sound of the thud, Brian turns around. “Forgive me! I completely forgot you're carrying all the necessities of your summer vacation. I'll bring the car around. Meet me at the front of Amory Gate. I'll pick you up.”

And he's off.

A shame
I don't know where the gate is.
My uncle is already out of earshot. How does a man his age move so fast? I start twisting the signet ring on my right pinkie, a nervous habit; I've worn it (and anxiously twisted it when needed) ever since my parents gave it to me for my thirteenth birthday. I find myself hurrying in my uncle's wake, past a building with two bronze lions perched at the sides of the stairs. From here I can see another green where a large wrought-iron gate looms, topped by the blue-and-gold Henley shield. That has to be it
.

I'm about to walk through the gate when I feel a firm shove to my right shoulder. It almost knocks me to the ground.

“What the hell?” I bark, spinning around.

“ You're welcome,” says a preppy-looking guy in a Henley T-shirt. “Students can't leave through the gate's middle exit until they graduate. You can enter the university through the middle door, just can't leave through it. I saved your skin.”

I stare at him openmouthed.
Saved my skin from what, exactly? Some ridiculous campus superstition?

“Like I said, you're welcome.” He stomps off, making a big point of using the exit at the far edge of the archway.

Before I can process any of this, I see my uncle's arm waving out of an old Volvo station wagon idling in front of a bus stop. Not wanting to risk another tackle, I take the side exit and dash across the street. After I throw my bag in the backseat, I open the front passenger door, and with a whoosh of air, papers cascade from the seat to the floor. I get in and slam the door shut behind me before anything can escape.

“And we're off!” Brian says. “Nothing fell out of the car, did it?” he asks after we're halfway down the block.

I look down at the massive pile at my feet, wondering if he'd really miss any of the loose pages. “I don't think so.”

“Good, that's some sensitive stuff there.”

I glance back at the papers, and what I see resembles the contents of a calculus book: lots of Greek letters and equations that will make me carsick if I try to focus on them. I turn to face the window and close my eyes instead.

The
fi
rst thing I
notice is how organized his house is.

“Nora comes through on Mondays and Fridays to clean up for me,” he says, answering the question I didn't get the chance to ask. Then he adds, “I'd wind up barricading myself in here if she didn't keep the mess at bay.”

I make my way over to the mantel in the living room and spot a photo I recognize among the framed pictures: my parents on their wedding day. There are several other photos, taken in the era before digital cameras. There's one of Brian with two male colleagues. They're standing in front of a wall engraved with some sort of large company seal. The man on Uncle Brian's left is skinny, wears blocky glasses, and appears mildly constipated. The man to his right stands proudly with his chest puffed out, a dark ponytail flopping over his right shoulder. I'm almost sure I've seen this man before; that unfortunate hairstyle was too “awesome” to forget.

“Wait, is ponytail guy the one who ran the camp here?” I ask.

“ Yes,” Brian replies, “that's Chris Figg.”

“Ah.” I have nothing else to say about the man since I last saw him ages ago, but I think the ponytail speaks for itself.

The final photo shows Brian in a goofy Hawaiian shirt, sitting at an outdoor café in some tropical foreign locale. He looks to be in his thirties, and a woman about the same age sits next to him wearing a pretty peasant blouse. She has her hand on top of his, and looks as if she's holding his hand down for a reason. He's gazing at her with obvious affection, clearly enjoying the game. He looks truly happy, smitten. I'm immediately curious about the woman.

“These pictures are terrific,” I remark. “I love that last one.”

He waves me away from the photos. “It's . . . I was . . . That was a long, long time ago.” He seems embarrassed. “Let me show you where you'll be staying. You'll be boarding in the observatory.”

We head up a wide staircase.

“A bed and closet space are all I need,” I tell him. Though it would be nice to have a television, WiFi, air conditioning, and a minifridge.

“Then this should do the trick.”

Brian opens the door. He wasn't kidding. The room actually looks like an observatory, the kind meant for astronomers. The deep-blue walls are stenciled with constellations, and there's a refractor telescope perched on a tripod, its long gleaming tube trained out the window.

“That's a pretty powerful gadget, that telescope. You can get either an excellent view of the moon or insight into our neighbors' sleeping habits. But I trust that you'll use it only for the purposes of good?”

I'm not sure what he means. Maybe this is another test. “Education only, I promise.” I swing my bag off my shoulder and set it down on the enormous bed in the corner of the room. I nearly jump when the mattress rumbles and undulates. When I put my hand down on the bed, waves ripple out.

“A water bed?” I exclaim, grinning. I've never actually seen one of these things before.

Brian nods. “They were all the rage once. I could never get used to the bobbing, though. You don't have issues with motion sickness, do you?”

I climb on board and lie down on my back. It feels like I'm on a raft in a pool. “I think I'll be fine.” I stare up at the ceiling. “Are those—”

“Afraid so.” Brian flicks off the lights, and the star stickers on the ceiling glow in the dark. “I created this observatory around the same time several of my colleagues were conducting the first governmental experiments with LSD.”

I struggle to sit up. “The government experimented with LSD? Why?”

He chuckles. “A lot of people asked exactly that question. Initially those in charge were convinced the drug would unlock the secrets of the universe.”

“Which secrets?”

“Chaos theory for one.”

We did a unit on chaos theory in physics. Feeling the need to impress the professor, I decide to show off. “Oh yeah, the uncertainty principle, right?”

“Correct.” Brian seems pleased. He taps his index finger to his nose. “And if we pay attention to the uncertainty principle, what's the one thing we know we shouldn't rely on?”

I rack my brain for an answer . . . something . . . anything . . . Nothing comes.

He smiles. “Well, it's a bit of a trick question, because I was referring to those extended weather forecasts. We know weather is a complex system made up of the total behavior of all the molecules that comprise the Earth's atmosphere. So if even one of those tiny particles starts dancing around in an unexpected way, it creates chaos. And chaos, as the name suggests, throws everything off, making your weatherman, Storm Fields, look as silly as his stage name sounds.”

I laugh, and Uncle Brian's eyes twinkle. He clasps his hands behind his back. “The other key element of chaos theory, of course, is its paradox.
Despite
all its seeming randomness, no matter how complex a system may be, it still relies on an underlying pattern. It still follows a certain order. And the trick—the trick!—is figuring out what that order could be.”

I close my eyes for a moment, the mattress rocking gently beneath me. “So the government thought they could find the order by giving its scientists hallucinogenic drugs?”

He chuckles. “It was the early seventies. We've come a long way since then.”

I open my eyes and struggle to get up from the water bed; I also struggle to imagine my great-uncle hanging out with people who took LSD. Both prove difficult.

Brian lends a hand and pulls me up. “That part just requires some practice,” he says. “Now I'll leave you to do whatever it is young women need to do to get ready for the evening. My quarters are upstairs on the third floor, so while you're here, this will be your domain. I'll stay out of your area if you stay out of mine. Deal?”

“Deal,” I echo, though now, of course, he's got me wondering what he's hiding above me.

“Good. One last thing: I tend to pace. It's a habit I formed when I was a young man, much like your ring twisting.” He nods toward my hands; they instantly fall to my sides. “If the shuffling overhead gets too loud or wakes you up, just bang on the ceiling with a broom. I'll get the point.”

I glance around for a broom. I don't see one. I force a smile. “I don't think you'll need to worry about that. I'm a champion sleeper. Fire alarms have blared, and I've slept through them.”

“Well, that's very reassuring,” he says dryly. “These will get you into the house.” He hands me a key ring. It's anchored to two thin strips of metal. One looks like a flattened IKEA Allen wrench; the other tapers to a squiggly line with three rounded ridges on one end. If you didn't know better, you might think they were dental instruments. But since I do know better, I laugh out loud.

“I take it you know what they are?” Brian asks.

I nod. “They're redundancies.”

“Clever girl. Though I prefer to think of attaching keys to a lock-picking set as an example of my wit.”

“Or maybe it's an example of your craft?”

His eyes twinkle again. “ Yours as well, perhaps? It seems like my nephew's been doing at least one thing right all these years. We did have our doubts.”

Before I can ask what he means by that (or get a sense of how much he knows about my lock-picking past), Brian hurries out and closes the door behind him. An overwhelming—and rare—desire to speak to my parents wells up, driven entirely by the need to pump them for any and all information about this peculiar relative of ours. I look at the clock. It's not quite three o'clock. I might be able to catch them before they board their plane for China. But as I twist the ring on my pinkie, I think about Brian's request that we not communicate with our parents. My mind—that impulsive teenage mind, so ripe for research—drifts from them back to my own predicament.

What the hell
have
I gotten myself into?