Overtaken (14 page)

For the rest of the day, I kept a safe distance behind my nemesis. If she could manipulate people through force of will, I wanted to see it. If she had a plan, I wanted to uncover it. But the strangest thing happened: nothing.

I spent hours at her side and might as well have been following Justin Bieber through the halls of a middle school. I didn't see any signs of the behavior I saw her engage in with Jackson. Not one person's face fell slack. No one seemed to slip into a trance. They all just seemed to love Dana. She didn't demand anyone do her bidding or suggest to anyone that they so much as change their mind about where to sit. I thought for sure she'd at least try to coerce a teacher into changing her grade on a test or homework assignment; but no, she already had all As.

The last bell of the day rang, and I was ready to go home. I was exhausted and defeated. Staying invisible as long as I had didn't seem dangerous, but I could feel my whole body throbbing. On top of that, I was faced with the fact that I might've jumped to conclusions about Dana. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe what I witnessed between her and Jackson wasn't the result of a mutant manipulation. A cruel voice in the back of my mind kept flogging the possibility that the look that came over Jackson's face had come from another place: love. That was not something I was ready to admit.

I made my way to the front doors of the school and waited for everyone to leave for the day. I'd reappear in the thrum and walk out with everyone, maybe catch Oliver if I were lucky, hand off the hair, and head home to sleep for as long as I possibly could.

The gym doors to my left burst open and Dana came storming out. A perpetually angry, diminutive woman with bright red lipstick and a blond pixie cut—head cheerleading coach, Tori Brewer—followed. She pointed a clipboard straight at Dana's back like a weapon.

“Dana Fox, I won't have truants on my squad!”

Dana spun to face the woman, hands aflutter with dramatic gestures.

“You,” Dana sneered, “don't get to make my schedule.”

“Nor do you make mine,” snapped the coach. “You missed three practices in the past week, and I warned you each time. I don't know what else is so important, but you'll have plenty of time to pursue it now. You're suspended until further notice.”

“That isn't fair!”

A huge smile slapped itself across my invisible cheeks. Go, Coach Brewer!

“What isn't fair is the way you leave your squad hanging. It's selfish.”

At this Dana squared her jaw and strode back toward her coach. It was so aggressive; I thought I was going to witness a fistfight. Instead, Dana just looked the woman straight in the eye.

“If you don't let me lead the squad, they will look like fools during the first basketball game of the season. I don't think you want that. I think you want me to be up front. I think you want me to lead. I think you want me to make you look good.”

Coach Brewer stared into Dana's eyes. I saw her face slacken—just like Jackson's. After a second of silence that felt like an hour, the coach smiled and put a soft hand on Dana's shoulder.

“You're right,” Coach Brewer replied, suddenly contrite. “We're lucky to have you. See you at the game.”

“Thanks, Coach. Glad we cleared up this misunderstanding.” Dana turned, and her smile faded into a cold mask of self-satisfaction as she joined a group of chattering girls coming around the corner. They welcomed her with hugs and whatever the gossip of the moment was, while Brewer skulked back into the gym looking like she'd just made the best decision of her life.

Nononono! What happened to “suspended”? What happened to “off the squad”? Dumb questions, all of them. It was impossible to deny this time. Deep in my gut, I had to admit that there was a small, small chance that Jackson meant what he said when I spied on him and Dana on the balcony of the lodge. Brewer, though? Never. Not in a million years. This was a woman who openly referred to her squad tryouts as the “Trail of Tears.” She didn't give a shit what people thought. She wouldn't change her mind for the president of the United States.

But she had for Dana Fox. All it had taken was a look.

That afternoon, I found myself back on Oliver's porch for the second time in twenty-four hours. He had no idea what I'd done, and I had no idea how he'd respond. I was pretty sure he'd be thrilled, but after our fight, emotions were tough to predict. I clenched the hairs in a Baggie in my fist, ready to make another deal. Thirty seconds after I pressed the bell, the door opened. Oliver looked me up and down like I was trying to sell him something. Maybe I was.

“You sick?” he asked, arms crossed defensively.

“No. I—”

“Didn't see you at school today,” he reminded me. “Thought you were sick.”

“I was busy. You gonna let me in?” Didn't look likely. I was ready to leave and call the whole thing off when he stepped aside.

Oliver's room was wall-to-wall video games, science posters, and vintage Star Wars action figures. He closed the door and I tossed the Baggie on his desk. He didn't pick it up, and I could tell he was running through the ways this could be a joke.

“I screwed up,” I said. “I owe you this.”

“An empty bag pays all debts,” he said dismissively. “Is that a Thai thing?”

“Would you just look at it?”

He snatched it up and held it to the light to check the contents. His eyes brightened as he realized—

“Where'd you get them?” He was incredulous.

“From the source.”

Oliver turned around and smiled at me for the first time in weeks. Then he hugged me.

I accepted his embrace and held tight. Relieved. The turbulence of the past few days had taken its toll. I didn't want to lose my friends. Especially not Oliver.

Which, unfortunately, meant there was one more towering, important can of worms I was going to have to open.

“I just want you to promise me something.”

“Anything.” Oliver shrugged.

“Stay away from Dana.” I knew I was in trouble before he answered. He didn't exactly recoil, but he definitely scoffed.

“Should I even ask why?” Oliver looked skeptical.

Too late now. Might as well tell him everything. I dug in and lowered my voice.

“Something is up with her, okay? The way she talks to people. She can change them, change their mind and control them or something. I saw it at the lodge with Jackson and today with Coach Brewer.”

“You spied on her?” Oliver looked horrified. “That's how you're using your power now? To spy on our friends?”

“Yeah, but—no! She might not be a friend, Oliver. That's my point. She's manipulating people. You should see who's sitting with her at lunch. Kids that I don't think know each other's names are suddenly best friends because of her.”

“That. Sounds. Evil. I'll bring gasoline. You should grab some torches,” Oliver declared with a heavy dose of sarcasm.

“It's not funny.” I was desperate for him to believe me.

“It's hilarious that you're so jealous. But there are plenty of other guys out there.”

“I'm not . . .” I decided I wouldn't lie. “Honest truth? I'm seething with jealousy. But this is more than that.”

“What is it?” Oliver demanded an explanation. Proof. Which I didn't have.

“I can't explain it . . . ,” I admitted.

“'Cause it doesn't exist. Listen to yourself, Nica! You're building a conspiracy out of nothing because she reclaimed her old boyfriend.”

Hearing those words felt like someone filled my stomach with rocks and threw it into the ocean. It took everything I had to not run screaming from Oliver's house. That was the exact same thing Jackson had said the day before when we butted heads in the hallway.
Don't panic. Can't trust him. Stay calm. Don't let him know
.

Prove it
. That echoed above everything. If Dana had somehow gotten to Oliver, there had to be a way I could confirm it. My palms started to sweat. Then it hit me:

“I don't doubt it. I just don't want to take the chance that people find out about . . . you know . . . what happened at her house.”

Oliver scrunched his nose up at me. “What are you talking about? Her party? I think she knows about her own party.”

That was all I needed to hear. I checked every blink, every wrinkle in my friend's confused face to be sure. It was all too clear: Oliver didn't remember the pulse. Dana must've gotten to him. I left him standing with the Baggie in his hands.

My phone buzzed as I was making my way down his front walk. I didn't even want to look at it. I figured it would be some apology or tell off from Oliver, and all I wanted to do was forget it. Our friendship had been the only thing I cared about since I moved to Barrington, and I was afraid I was going to ruin it. It buzzed again, and I instinctively pulled it from my pocket. But it wasn't from Oliver. It was the mystery texter.

“We need to meet. NOW.”

Impatient, but knowing I was currently the Odeon Cinema's only customer, I surreptitiously checked my phone. It was a triple-check at this point, but I was definitely at the right address. I had no choice other than to watch as the previews began to play. Would I have to find clues spliced into the film reels? That felt a little excessive. I considered checking under the seats, but I wanted to save that for a last-ditch effort. Instinct told me I'd just end up with a lot of hardened gum.

Errrrrr-EEEEEEK
. The whine of old cushion was undeniable as someone sat down directly behind me. Either my afternoon was about to get a whole lot creepier or my unknown informant had arrived in the flesh. I started to turn, hoping to catch a subtle peek, but a deep, gruff voice stopped me cold.

“Don't turn around.”

My mystery texter was just inches behind me. And he was unquestionably male. I shivered as I felt his hot breath against the side of my ear.

“I know you've set your sights on Dana Fox,” whispered the deep, resonant voice. “You're right not to trust her.”

Finally, a confirmation. “What do you know about Dana?”

“I know she's backed up her parents' story, that she was staying with relatives back east to take a break from Barrington. It's a lie,” he stated without equivocation.

“So, she really was missing?” I remembered the posters plastered all over town, every last tack and staple solely the work of Jackson's two hands.

“No. She never left.”

Whoa. How was that even possible? Barrington was a small town. Where could she even hide? But then the answer was so obvious.

“Bar Tech,” I muttered.

“They recruited Dana,” he affirmed. “Trained her. And when she was ready, Bar Tech just bided their time until it was the perfect moment for Dana to reappear.”

So it was true. Dana's return was a comforting pacifier in the wake of our Bar Tech heist and Maya's escape, lulling the town back into the complacency of the Safest Town in America.

“She's got the entire school under her sway. But why? They trained her . . . for what? How do you know this?” It was obvious to me that he wasn't telling me the whole story.

“All I know is Blackthorne. That's the key.” He was emphatic.

“What the hell is that?” My heart raced. It was so hard to not turn around. I finally had an ally, a partner, and it was so unfair that I had no idea who he was.

“You'll have to figure that out, and quickly,” he ordered. “I've been watching Dana. She's only getting more powerful.”

“How am I supposed to do that? You're the one with all the information.” Mystery Texter was supposed to be my source.

“I wish I could give you more,” he replied with an intimation of apology. “Don't trust anyone.”

“Thanks for the heads-up,” I snapped back sarcastically. I turned around to finally see who my Deep-Throat contact was. He was already gone. My eyes scanned the back aisle, catching a shadowy silhouette slipping out of the theater.

The movie had already started—a lame eighties action thriller starring Arnold Schwarzenegger. There was no way I could sit through that for the next two hours. With ten bucks down the drain and a lot more questions than answers, I had to get out of there.

Outside, the sun had just slipped below the horizon. Even the quaint streets of Barrington looked ominous over the haze of twilight. Was it the moody combo of a smoky purple sky and sodium streetlights, or was it the hefty reminder I'd just been given, that Big Brother was always watching? Of course Dana's underground takeover wasn't her own doing. She was the lackey, not the boss villain. My heart ached. I wished I could talk to Oliver. If he weren't so brainwashed.

With the temperature taking a steep drop at sunset and curfew nearing, the streets were empty. Except for one figure, just across the street. He was leaning against an all-too-familiar black pick-up. It was Jackson, the picture of cool, just standing there. Watching me. It was hard to tell at this distance, but it felt like a challenge.

In my mind's eye, I imagined myself running across the street, right up to him. I wanted to spill my guts and tell him everything. I wanted to tell him about Dana, what she'd done to me and Oliver and how she was manipulating him. He was in danger and he didn't even know it. I wanted to tell him about the deep voice in the theater. Most of all, I wanted him to wrap his arms around me and promise that we would figure it out. That we would solve the mystery of Blackthorne together. It was the only relationship I knew with him: keeping each other's secrets.

As much as I wanted to go over to him, I couldn't override my cold, hard logic. The voice in my head, not the lovesick teenage girl but the mystery man in the theater, beckoned low: Don't trust anyone. And as much as I wanted to give Jackson that exception, that he was
someone
not
anyone
, I couldn't. I tore my eyes away and started walking. I just wanted to go home.

Apparently, Jackson had other ideas. I didn't look over my shoulder, but he was the only other person around. I could hear his footsteps. Jogging across the street, coming up behind me, getting closer . . .

“Nica.”

I ignored him.

“Nica!”

I turned on my heel to face him, arms crossed over my chest. Sure, the stance was a little obvious, but I didn't want to talk to him. Might as well be clear about.

“Heard you've been spending a lot of time with Chase Cochran,” he said, accusatory, like an overeager prosecutor.

I shrugged. “Making new friends seems to be the new craze. Thought I'd give it a whirl. That all?” I turned to go, but Jackson followed.

“Most people don't refer to their hookups as friends.”

“We're not hooking up,” I snapped back dismissively. “He's my partner in English.”

“Oh, I see. I'm doing my Shakespeare project with Noah. Hasn't involved any making out at Ebinger's yet. Maybe I've just got something to look forward to.” His tone was hostile, not like a guy drowning in love for the head cheerleader. It was undeniable. Jackson was jealous.

Was this Jackson's true self peeking out from behind the veil Dana had cast over him? It was wishful thinking, sure, but what else could it be? And maybe it made me a horrible person, but I was happy to see him, even if he was furious with me. It was real. And he cared a whole lot.

“You know what? We did kiss,” I confessed, enjoying that the green-eyed jealousy monster was on the other foot for once. “It has nothing to do with you.”

“He's an asshole, Nica,” Jackson proclaimed. “He just goes after girls, like Maya, until they give him what he wants, and then he's gone. Out of their lives. Done.”

I stared up into his eyes as I lit the fuse on my next rocket. “I already know how that feels.”

It took everything I had to hold the stare—a steely gaze that I would not be the first to break.
You,
I screamed at him inside.
You had me and then you were gone
. The seconds were aeons, but he looked away.

I had won.

All too quickly, it was painful to have him back. Just this glimpse of the real boy I loved, passionate and alive again. But I knew this moment of clarity would be brief. He was just an escaped prisoner, soon to be reclaimed by the warden herself.

“I have to go.” I was too tired now. Resigned. “I just don't have the time.” As soon I turned my back on him for a second time, I knew he wouldn't follow. The tears were like fire against my frosted skin, each one fueling the long walk home.

Twenty minutes later, I found myself at the end of my own driveway. The one, singular desire I had was to go inside and let my dad take over with his favorite school-night routine. We'd talk about my day and then his, or at least what he considered safe to my limited security clearance. Then he'd feed me. From the window, I could see that he was hard at work on Mediterranean kabobs and homemade hummus, one of my favorites.

It just made me feel that much more guilty, because I had already made up my mind about what I needed to do. I became invisible, sneaking in through the garage and silently padding my way upstairs. I knew that if I didn't do it now, I might chicken out. But my emotions were high, and if I was going to break my dad's trust—go against the one request he had made absolute—I had to do it right now.

I slipped into his office, closing the door—my hand wrapped in my sleeve—right behind me. Spying on the good guys. It was a weird sensation. I knew the right way to do it. Plead my case to my dad, telling him everything I knew and all of my suspicions, and then see what he'd offer to share. But what I feared was most likely true: that my dad would choose to protect me above all else and whatever he might share would be too little, too late. If my dad knew anything about Blackthorne, I needed to know now. The deep voice at the theater had impressed upon me that time was of the essence, and that meant slicing through red tape. Even if that red tape was my dad, secret agent for the Department of Defense.

I pivoted toward Marcus's vault of a filing cabinet. I didn't know where he kept the key, but I had a hunch that I could get a preview of its secrets with just my bare hands.

I leaned over the cabinet and pressed flesh to metal. Immediately, my invisibility transferred to the steel exterior. Jackpot. It was still locked, but I could see the clearly marked tabs of every precisely arranged hanging folder. The first few were incomprehensible to me—words, numbers, places I held no associations to—but about halfway back I had to hold my breath. They were names of my classmates. And judging from those included in their company—Jackson Winters, Oliver Monsalves, Maya Bartoli—they were students who had passed my father's blood test with flying colors. Or failed miserably, depending on which way you looked at it. There must have been almost two dozen. It had been here all along—a neat catalog of every superpowered student at Barrington High.

Another name stood out as I poured over them—Topher Hansen. But he seemed like an odd man out. I knew I was circling something with the remaining kids, some commonality. It all came together when I realized the name that was missing: Dana Fox. Excluding Topher and Maya, every kid in my dad's cabinet was a card-carrying member of Ski Club. This was it. This was the proof I'd been looking for.

The X-ray preview of the filing cabinet's treasures was suddenly insufficient. I needed to get inside, to comb through every last file for any mention of Blackthorne. But where was the key? I searched the room high and low to see if it was tucked away in any possible nook or cranny, but I came up empty-handed. Resigned, I pulled two bobby pins out of my messy coif. It was a long shot, but I'd have to try it the old-fashioned way.

I wondered if Googling “how to pick a lock” put you on the government's radar, or if I needed to upgrade to bomb research before I'd make somebody's list. It was something I'd seen a million times in movies and on TV, but I had no clue how to actually do it. The lock gave way after only a few seconds of jiggling. It was a miracle, but considering the week I was having, it was more like the universe was just starting to make good on its debt. With the cabinet open, I was overwhelmed by the amount of content inside. It would take me hours to even speed read every confidential document from the NSA and Department of Defense, and my dad was already probably wondering when I would get home. He had just been slicing the vegetables when I got home, which gave me about another five minutes or so before he'd loaded the skewers.

Keeping my ears attuned for any sounds on the stairs, I started to scan the contents of every folder for one word, the only word. But page after page, document after document, there was nothing. About halfway through the first drawer, a shrill ring shattered my concentration. The landline was hooked up on my dad's desk, and he often fielded his calls in here. He never admitted it, but I assumed it was because it was the furthest from my earshot. I had to get out of here—fast. Sliding the folders back to a close and giving them a once-over, I quickly closed the doors and slipped into the hallway just as Marcus reached the top of the stairs, taking them two by two.

I caught my breath, still invisible but propped against the wall, as he answered.

“Hello? Oh, Richard! Thank you for returning my call.”

The smart thing to do was to take this opportunity to run downstairs and declare my “arrival,” assuring my dad wouldn't find out about my invisible mission into his expressly forbidden private files. But Richard Cochran was on the line and he didn't know I was right outside the door. I had gone this far—eavesdropping was just the cherry on top.

After a series of not-so-pleasant pleasantries, my dad's one-sided conversation sounded a lot like a brush-off. My dad said he'd been trying to get Cochran on the phone for days. It made me feel terrible. Marcus's job, not at the hospital but working undercover for the Department of Defense and by association the NSA, had been made exponentially more difficult by my arrival in Barrington and subsequent top-secret mutant status. My dad had spent years penetrating Cochran's inner circle, but now he had an even bigger priority: me. My dad's determination to keep me safe was in direct conflict with his number-one mission from Cochran: finding my gifted peers and me.