Native Tongue (8 page)

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Authors: Shannon Greenland

Tags: #Suspense

BOOK: Native Tongue

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Parrot stopped. “I could go on, but it’s pretty boring.”

I blinked. Sheesh, he knew his stuff.

TL picked up an earpiece with a slim mike attached. “This is for one-on-one practice with a native speaker.” TL checked his watch. “You’re scheduled to converse with a Fino native in a few minutes. It’s one of the languages you need to learn for your upcoming trip. After that you need to go to bed and get some sleep and start fresh in the morning. I’ll let you all know when you’ll begin your series of inoculations. And, of course, horseback-riding lessons, as that will be your main mode of transportation.”

My stomach dropped. “Inoculations?” Needles weren’t exactly a thrilling thought.

“We’re going into the jungle,” Jonathan said. “We’ll be exposed to malaria, yellow fever, typhoid, diphtheria, and rabies, to name just a few.”

I cringed. “Exactly how many shots are we talking about?”

“A lot.”

I paused for a second as my brain rewound. “Wait a minute, did you say horseback riding?”

“Yes,” TL answered.

I waited, but he said nothing else. Did they really expect me to ride a horse? Hello?
Me?
Queen of uncoordination?

TL handed Parrot the earpiece. “I’ll leave you to it. Chapling and I will explain the rest of this room to you tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir,” Parrot responded.

As I followed TL, David, and Jonathan back into the elevator, I glanced back at Parrot. He put the earpiece on and took a seat, looking so sad I wanted to stay and talk or stand silently nearby. Anything to be a friend.

TL stepped up to the retinal scan. “GiGi, Chapling will be expecting you first thing in the morning.”

“Yes, sir,” I answered, and then it hit me, the things I’d been curious about. Normally I kept my questions in and quietly accepted things. But being with the Specialists had made me more bold.

With a glance at David, I turned to TL. “Sir, I’d like to know the answers to two questions.”

He nodded. “Proceed.”

“Question number one: Why didn’t you take Parrot’s monitoring patch? And question number two: How come you gave me only one hour a day in my lab when I first had access to it, yet you put no restrictions on Parrot, Wirenut, or Beaker?” I realized question number two came out like I was accusing TL of picking favorites, but I didn’t mean it to. I just wanted to know.

TL folded his arms. “I took Parrot’s monitoring patch months ago when we returned from Ushbania.”

“Oh.” Why hadn’t I known? I knew when TL took Wirenut’s and Beaker’s. Why hadn’t TL told me about Parrot?

Because TL doesn’t answer to me. I answer to him.

Right.

“Initially,” TL continued, “I only gave you one hour because I knew you would become another Chapling if I didn’t restrict your time.”

I smiled. Chapling lived in the computer lab. He rarely came aboveground. In fact, I’d only seen him up top at the ranch a few times that I could recall.

TL was right. I could
very
easily become another Chapling. TL had seen that tendency in me and made decisions in my best interest. It made me feel all warm and fuzzy that he cared so much.

The elevator opened, and we stepped out. Jonathan headed left toward the front door of the ranch house.

I turned to TL. “Well, thanks for having my back.”

“Sure.” He chuckled and pointed down the hall. “Now get some sleep. You have a lot of work to do tomorrow. David, come with me.”

“Slave driver,” I mumbled.

[3]

My watch alarm vibrated at 6:00 the next morning. With a low moan, I fumbled in the dark for it on my nightstand and pressed the button that turned off the alarm.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed and sat for a minute with my eyes closed, debating whether or not I could sneak five more minutes of sleep. I rubbed my eyes and convinced myself I’d gotten more rest than the four hours I really had.

With a resolute sigh, I forced my eyelids open and gazed with envy at my roommates, who all snuggled in, snoring away a lazy Sunday morning.

I pushed up from my bed and padded across the carpet to the bathroom. As I passed Cat’s bed, I noticed she’d fallen asleep with her earphones in. A slight
chchch
hissed in the air, telling me music was still playing.

Across the room Beaker smacked her lips and rolled over in bed, rousing me from my sleepy trance, and I continued on to the bathroom.

Twenty minutes later, showered and dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, I made my way from our bedroom down the hall to the cafeteria.

Normally food held no significance in my life. I could take it or leave it. But the cook always served bacon with pecan pancakes on Sunday mornings. The combination rocked my world. As I entered the cafeteria, I inhaled the awesome salty/sweet aroma, and a content smile curved my lips.

With its aluminum tables and chairs, our dining hall resembled a miniature version of a school cafeteria. Except the food was much better.

TL sat alone at a table to my right. An empty plate with syrup remnants sat to his left, and the morning newspaper littered the space in front of him.

Mystic stood at the beverage center making a cup of herbal tea. Beside him stretched the buffet piled with food.

“Morning,” I greeted TL, eyeing the mound of bacon on the buffet table.

“Good morning.” He folded his paper. “Eat lots. I know it’s your favorite.”

I smiled. It wasn’t often he made casual, nonbusiness conversation.

I crossed the dining hall to the buffet and picked up a plate. Mystic stepped up beside me. Forking up three gorgeous pancakes, I glanced over at him. “You’re up early.”

He sipped his tea. “I’m going to meditate with the sunrise.”

“Mmm.” Why anyone would voluntarily get up this early stretched beyond my comprehension.

“The fruit’s fresh. I recommend the melon.”

I moved down the buffet line, bypassing the fruit, and piled on the bacon.

He
tsk
ed me, “Bad girl,” and snagged a pecan from my top pancake.

“Hey.” I slapped his hand with a piece of bacon.

Mystic laughed. “How can somebody so skinny eat all that food?”

I picked up the syrup bottle and drenched my mountain of breakfast. “Not sure. I think this might weigh more than me.”

With another laugh, he headed off. “Later, gator.”

TL had gone, and so I ate alone, having no problem devouring and sopping up every last bite.

Fifteen minutes later, as I was dumping my garbage, Parrot walked in.

“Hey.” I smiled.

“Hey,” he replied, a blank expression on his face.

“Food’s good,” I tried for conversation.

Nodding, Parrot strode over to the buffet, grabbed a pancake, put some bacon on it, and rolled it up. He took a bite and headed right past me.

“You wanna hang out later?” I called to his back, trying so hard to be a friend.

“Thanks, but I’ve got a lot to do,” he answered, not turning back, and disappeared out the cafeteria door.

I didn’t take it personally. That was Parrot. Quiet, contemplative, stoic, a guy of few words. And that was when he was feeling fine. Factor in his obvious discontent with this mission, and I knew he’d be locked up tight.

But . . . that wasn’t good enough for me. I unclipped my cell from my waistband and texted him. SORRY. CAN U COME BACK, PLEASE? I HAVE A QUESTION.

I sat back down where I’d eaten breakfast and waited.

A few seconds later he reappeared. “What’s up?”

I tried to think of a nonpersonal question to ask, something pertaining to the mission, but came up empty. I wanted to
know
Parrot. I motioned to the seat across from me. “Sit. Let’s talk.”

Parrot sighed, as if it was the worst thing I could have asked him to do.

“Please?”

Slowly, he approached the table and slid into a chair across from me.

Conversation wasn’t my strong point, and it certainly wasn’t his. So I knew this wouldn’t be the easiest. “We’re going on a mission together. I . . . want to get to know you better. And you need to know me. So what do you want to know?” Good. Not a bad tactic. Have him ask me questions first.

“Playing twenty questions, huh?” he tried for humor.

I smiled. “Whatcha got for me? Ask me anything.”

“All right. I’ll play.” He thought for a second. “Where were you born?”

“Right here.”

“You mean in California?”

“Yes, California. Right here in San Belden.”

He lifted his brows. “No kidding?”

I told him about living at the ranch as a small kid and how David and I had known each other even back then.

Parrot didn’t respond for a few seconds. “That’s amazing.”

I nodded. “I know. And you? Where were you born?”

“Arizona. On a reservation.”

“What was it like to live on a reservation?”

He shrugged. “Same as anywhere, I guess. Most people think we live all basic and old-world. It’s understandable ignorance. I lived my whole life in an apartment. Went to school. Did my chores. We had traditional stuff, too, just like any culture has. Ceremonies, holidays . . .”

“Did you get to wear any of those cool clothes I’ve seen in the movies?”

Parrot laughed. “Yeah, traditional clothes when the occasion called for it.”

“Favorite color?” I continued with the questions.

Blue for him. Green for me.

“Favorite food?” He asked.

Tacos for him. Lollipops for me.

“Lollipops aren’t food,” he teased.

“Sure they are,” I defended myself, and we laughed again.

Parrot’s cell beeped, and he glanced down. “I got to go. I’ve got another native speaker who I’m scheduled to converse with in my lab.”