Satellite: The Satellite Trilogy, Part I (13 page)

“Come on—snap out of it!”

My eyes spring open to find Willow fiercely shaking me.

“You look terrible,” I manage.

She huffs. “Are you all right?”

Still panting, I push my fingers through my wet hair. “I think so.”

“What happened?” she demands.

“I don’t remember.”
I don’t remember!

“You were out a long time,” she says.

“Willow, I don’t remember anything.” Panic swallows me. “What’s happening?”

She looks at the floor and won’t answer me.

After a little bit—OK, a lot—of effort, Willow calms me down and insists I rest. So here I am on the ghastly sofa, still feeling drained.

“Do you ever code, or do you just trash the kitchen to relieve your stress?” I ask after twenty minutes of nonstop racket. “If it’s the latter, I was thinking maybe I could give it a try.” Although, by the sound of it, she’s already rearranged the cabinets a hundred times.

“Huh?” She pauses, making me remember how much I love silence. “Oh, sorry—nervous habit. You feeling better?”

“Sure. Relaxing is easy with you around.”

She ignores me. “Think you’re ready to displace?”

“Why not?” Anywhere is better than here. I push myself into a sitting position and spin to watch her over the back of the sofa. A dozen coffee cups of various colors are lined up along the dark counter.

“You’re going to be on your own this time. Are you cool with that? If not, we could go back to Hope’s for more practice.”

The image of Hope and Lover-Boy swirls in my head. “I’ll be fine. Why can’t you go with me?”

“Privacy policy.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Remember that when you return. You’re probably going to want to blab all about it.”

“You know me—such a blabber,” I tease. “So, is this officially the beginning of my assignment?”

“More like a dress rehearsal. If you do well you’ll be released soon, though. You’re far ahead of schedule. Expect some jabbing from the others.”

“For what?”

“For being an overachiever,” she says, running the water in the sink.

“Great. One more thing to draw attention to myself.”

“As if the good looks weren’t enough,” she jokes.

“Funny.”

“You know, Clara’s not the only one around here that’s into you. Plenty of girls have been drooling since you got here.”

“Yeah, I’ve been beating them off with sticks.”

“I’m serious. I’m constantly being asked what it’s like to be your Legacy.” Willow puts a few of the mugs into the sink and turns the water off. “It gets old.”

“I can only imagine your response,” I reply, still not believing her.

“I tell them that when you open your mouth, it cancels out all the good looks.”

I pretend to be wounded while I stand. “Thanks a lot!”

“Hey, kid, that’s what I’m here for.” She dries her hands on the checkered towel hanging on the fridge handle and then reaches into one of the cabinets, taking out something small enough to fit in her fist. “Ready?” she asks, walking over to me.

“I guess. I hope my good looks don’t get in the way.”

She punches my arm and then passes me a smooth, pocket-sized stone.

I roll the sparkling granite over in my palm and then juggle the light stone with one hand. “What is it?”

She snatches it from the air. “Your tocket. Don’t lose it.” She holds the rock between two fingers, an inch from my face. “This is your lifeline to your assignment. Got it?”

“Yep.” I steal it back from her. “The size is convenient.”

“The Sorters try to be mindful of the fact that we have to carry these things around all day. Can you imagine a surfboard or giant teddy bear?”

Willow really is funny sometimes. “Who are the Sorters?”

“Tocket hunters. It’s no easy feat, either. The item must be important to your Tragedy yet go unnoticed when it’s missing. Being size-appropriate is another obstacle.”

“So they’re thieves, basically?”

“No, they’re not thieves!” she sneers.

“What would you call them?”

“Convenient.”

“Thieves,” I repeat, mostly because it bugs her. I toss the stone in the air. “So how, exactly, do I do this?”

“Getting there is easy—you just need to say the word. The physical adjustment is the most difficult, but you’ve already fared well in that area.”

“And the word?”

“‘Displace.’ You don’t need to say it loud—a whisper works just as well. As long as you’re holding the tocket, it will take you to its owner. Just remember to take a minute to adjust after you land.”

“How do I get back?”

“Same word, but no tocket. When you’re holding nothing, displacement will bring you home.”

I flinch at the word. Willow notices.

“This is your home now,” she says levelly.

I swallow and bite the inside of my cheek.

“Try not to throw up,” are her last words of encouragement.

I tighten my grasp and say the magic word. The hardwood floor disappears and gravity takes hold. The wind screams louder and louder until I’m sweating in panic. When my feet finally hit solid ground, Willow’s warning rings in my ear. I steady myself, and my breathing, before making any sudden movements.

Despite the dark, my sight couldn’t be better, and I focus on the glistening terrain burying me from the knees down. Because the temperature feels mild, even in my thin T-shirt, it takes a second to register.

“You’ve got to me kidding me,” I say under my breath. I’m barely comfortable maneuvering through normal terrain. This is sure to be disastrous.

After assessing the situation, I lift my foot as high as I can out of the snow and take a step. I fall face forward, buried up to my shoulders in crystal powder.

Pushing off the ground in frustration, I apply too much force and go flying through the air with my legs and arms spinning like a windmill. The plowed street passes under me in slow motion, and I land in a neighboring yard, knee-deep again. This is ridiculous.

I sight in on a driveway and push off the ground, using much less power this time. My judgment is better, and I land at the edge of a high drift, barely on the pavement.

Across the street, the door of a shoebox-sized home with an extra steep roof opens, and Ryder steps under the porch light. He pulls on a stocking cap and buttons his wool coat. “See you later. Lennon, go easy on your mom,” he calls back to the boy in Mya’s arms.

He walks down the sidewalk. In a role reversal from the last time I saw him, it’s now his breath that’s visible.

I judge the distance, jump, and land directly in front of him on the cleared sidewalk. Not bad. He keeps walking and passes right through me. Not good. The sensation feels worse than going through the window, and I lose my balance. I fail to catch myself and land on my butt.

I leap up as Ryder climbs into a gorgeous royal-blue Mustang. The engine purrs rhythmically. I would love to get behind the wheel of that thing. When he backs out of the driveway, the garage light reflects off the New Hampshire license plate. Guess that explains his accent. And all the snow.

It doesn’t occur to me that I should be with him until the taillights shrink in the distance.
Crap!

I start running—as if I’m actually going to catch up with a car. Surprisingly, my legs move fast. Extremely fast. In less than a minute, I’m jumping headfirst through the passenger door. I overshoot and land awkwardly, almost in Ryder’s lap. Obviously, practice is still in order. I lean back into the passenger bucket seat, noticing that my breath is unusually even. If I had sprinted half that distance when I was alive, I’d be hurling by now.

The Black Keys blares through the speakers, but despite Ryder’s decent taste in music, he drives the Mustang like my grandma, being excessively cautious even though the roads are clear. I wish he’d break the tires free—she deserves to be driven better. When he turns the car off the deserted road, the headlights illuminate the tops of gravestones. Great. Nothing like partying with dead people after dark.

With the engine cut and the music off, his door squeaks loudly in the still night. My side of the car is pinned by a huge snowdrift. Not that it matters, because I don’t have the luxury of exiting the conventional way, anyhow.

I should probably head back before Willow wigs out, but I have to see why Mr. Morbid is in a cemetery so late. Plus, more practice moving through this absurdity of winter couldn’t hurt. Opting for the side without the wall of snow, I jump through the driver’s door and land gracefully. Well, almost.

I jog along the cleared path, trying to keep myself grounded. My body still feels too light, like it’s going to float away. I stop a few feet behind Ryder.

“Hey, Mom,” he says, kneeling down by one of the headstones. So much for my Mr. Morbid theory. “You should see Lennon. I swear he doubles in size everyday. Dad says he has your eyes. And Mya, she’s so great with him. I wonder if that’s how you would have been with me.” He pauses and rubs snow off the top of the stone. “I know I say this all the time, but I do wish I had known you.” He stands and digs something out of his coat pocket. “Happy birthday.”

Snow crunches under his feet on his way back to the car, and I stare at the headstone. I should head back to Progression (Miss Dreadlock’s surely in a conniption by now), but curiosity pulls me closer to the grave marker to see what Ryder left for his mom. If I hadn’t seen him lay it down, I probably wouldn’t have noticed the object. I pull its twin from my pocket, rolling the granite rock over in my hand. Like the snow, the speckles shine like glitter under the moonlight. Remembering I don’t need it to get back to Progression—I refuse to call it home—I put my rock back in my pocket.

Freezing in horror, my breathing hitches and then stops altogether for a full minute.

When I can finally move, I bend down to the headstone. My eyes blink frantically. The image is wrong. It must be!

I lean against the stone for support and gasp for air. Despite my pleading, the writing stays the same.

May You Rest In Eternal Peace, Wilhelmina Ann Beckmann, January 6, 1959 — November 27, 1988. Forever Willow—Loving Wife, Mother, and Daughter.

.

10. You were destined for this

“Oh jeez! You look terrible!” The birthday girl places the back of her hand on my forehand, like my mom used to do to check for fever. “Seriously—worse than usual. Say something.”

Not trusting my voice, I stare back at Willow in silence.

“If you don’t talk soon, I’m calling Jonathan. You’re freaking me out.”

“I’m fine,” I say, praying she doesn’t catch the hitch in my voice.

“Did you displace all right? Please tell me you didn’t have any trouble. The last thing I need is you ending up God knows where, especially on your first solo.”

“No—no trouble. It was fine,” I assure her, feeling a little steadier.

“All right. Well, don’t tell me any more. Remember the rules.”

A loud breath of relief escapes me. Saved by the Handbook for Dummies. The rules hadn’t even crossed my mind.

“Chillax, kid. You really do look awful.” She checks her calimeter. “I’ve got to head to Programming. You’re gonna be on your own for awhile.”

I swallow.

“It’s almost break, if you want company. Jonathan wants to see us today, so I’ll find you later, OK?” She continues to study me.

“Good luck in Programming,” I say, wishing she’d leave already so I can drop the act.

“Thanks, I could use it.”

When Willow’s finally gone, I try to relax, but pacing frantically doesn’t seem to be doing the trick. I can’t will away the image of her headstone.

Of all the Satellites, how did I end up with Willow’s son? This is a huge mistake—it has to be. I’ll just pull Jonathan aside when we meet up with him later, and he can get this mess straightened out. There. Easy.

Squeezing the bridge of my nose and praying that I’m right, my eyes stop on the bookshelf. The faces in the photographs stare back at me. Were any of them responsible for protecting someone so close to their Legacy?

“No, they couldn’t be. This is just a mistake,” I say aloud, because apparently, I
have
lost my mind.

My eyes stop on the frame Tate made and my thoughts begin to shift, remembering my dreadful hospital stays. Tate refused to leave my side, even through the worst of my cancer-ridden days. My mom was so grateful that Tate could always raise my spirits a little. Even my dad got closer with Tate during that time. My dad! The man who couldn’t get close to a blanket full of static.

When an idea hits me, I glance around the room, expecting someone to be there, watching. Could it work? If I’m fast enough, I can be back before Willow even knows I’m gone.

Before I change my mind, I grab my empty frame from the shelf. “Displace,” I whisper.

The floor falls out, and my stomach drops when I plummet down. I squeeze my eyes closed, pushing both nausea and consequences out of my mind. I open them cautiously when my feet hit the ground, unsure of what to expect.

I’m in my room.
I’m in my room!
I was hoping for Tate’s, but I can make this work.

An unsettled feeling slides through me. The room hasn’t changed at all. Even my bed is unmade. I’d feel better if the space were transformed into an office or something—anything that indicated my parents were moving on.

As I’m about to jump through the back wall, my bedroom door clicks open behind me. Expecting Willow or Jonathan, I play possum (though I guess I’m not really playing).

I finally turn and then have to remind myself that my mom can’t see me. Thank God, because my mouth gapes open at her appearance. She’s aged at least ten years.

My mom grabs a frame from my dresser, sits on my bed, and brushes her hand along the photo of Tate and me. “Be good,” she whispers and then she cries. A lot. Like she’s going flood my bedroom. She curls on her side, hugging the frame, and buries herself under the mess of covers.

As I sit beside my mom while she sobs, my jeans become spotted with my own tears and my blood boils, because there’s nothing I can do to comfort her.

“Mary?”

My head jerks up, and my mom is returning the frame a second later. She dries her eyes on her sleeve and slips out the door.

I hear my dad’s muffled voice through the wall. “What were you doing?”

“Just putting some things away,” my mom answers, sniffling.

Long pause. “Do you need any help?” My dad’s voice is laced with concern—an alien emotion for him.

“I just need a minute.”

Their bedroom door clicks closed, and a second later, I hear heavy footsteps go down the hall.

Suddenly I’m anxious to get back—worried that Willow will catch on to my absence. Or maybe I’m not ready to face Tate yet. Either way, I can’t risk getting caught now, knowing that I can get here. I’m partly relieved. I don’t think I can stand any more sadness today.

I displace with an upward jerk, and I’m so numb that I hardly notice the discomfort.

“I’m so sorry, Mom,” I whisper after my feet hit solid ground.

The clink of Willow’s bag hitting the floor fills the silent room, followed by Willow’s overenthusiastic voice. “Hey, kid—you ready to go check in with Jonathan?”

“Sure,” I say over the sofa, watching my thumbs race around each other.

She pushes my feet off the trunk. “Cool. Let me grab some tea. You’re looking better. Oh, heck—who am I kidding? You look like rubbish still. Did you head down for break?”

“Nah, I just hung out here. I was tired after displacing,” I say, a little disconcerted at how easily the lie comes.

“It takes some getting used to. You’re doing well, though. Better than I expected. Ready?”

I push myself up, feeling weaker than ever, and pull on my bag. Willow does the same, with mug in tow.

“Where are we meeting Jonathan?”

“Back on the field.”

She walks fast, but it’s easy to keep up with her short legs. The others have already starting training by the time we reach the grass. In the far corner, Jonathan spots us, smiles, and holds his finger up. Not the one my dad always used.

Willow and I watch the others. Surprisingly (at least to me), many of the Satellites still don’t have blocking down yet—Anna, especially.

As promised, Jonathan comes over in less than a minute. “How’s Programming going?” he asks Willow.

She answers in a very un-Willowlike way, meaning her enthusiasm is only about a seven on a scale of ten. “All right.”

When he turns to me, his face fills with concern. “Grant, you look exhausted. How are you holding up?”

“Fine.” My eyes drop to the ground. I hope he’s not suspicious about my coding problem.

“Tell me—how was your solo displacement?” he asks.

I clear my dry throat. “I made it there and back.”

“He’s being modest. He did great!” Willow enthusiastically praises. If she only knew.

“You have excelled in your training, so it’s no surprise that you are the first to be released.”

“Huh?” I ask, bemused.

Willow smacks my back. “He’s clearing you, kid.”

“Congratulations,” Jonathan says. “I have no doubt you will prove to be an asset to our team.”

“Are you sure?” Panic raises my voice too high. I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut. “I mean, I’m not ready.”

Willow, clearly entertained by my response, chokes her tea down. “You’re ready.”

“Please know that I wouldn’t clear you if I had even the slightest reservations about your abilities. Now, I believe there’s only one thing left to do.” Jonathan pulls a small box from his jacket pocket, gives it to me, and shakes my hand.

“Thank you,” is all I am able to say.

He reaches into his other pocket and pulls out a square object no bigger than a postage stamp.

“Say cheese!” Willow wraps her arm around my waist and squeezes my side. “At least try to appear happy.”

I laugh from her tickling pinch just as Jonathan clicks the tiny silver square.

“Willow, I’ll see you in Programming. Grant, if you need anything at all, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

“Um, there is this one thing. Do you have a minute?” My mind races for an excuse to get rid of Willow.

“Willow, I have a private matter I would like to discuss with Grant as well. Please excuse us,” Jonathan says.

Well, that was convenient.

“Sure thing. Catch you guys later.” Willow bounces across the field to a group of Satellites.

Jonathan turns his attention back to me. “Please forgive me. I don’t, in fact, have anything to discuss with you, but I gathered that you preferred to talk in confidence.”

Uh-huh, I bet you did.
This guy is seriously a mind reader.
Don’t think about Tate, don’t think about Tate, don’t
—
Crap!

“What can I do for you?”

Remembering what I need, I say, “Here’s the thing—there’s been a mistake. My assignment…” I trail off when I notice Willow laughing animatedly with Jordan and Shane.

“Is this about Willow’s son?”

When I back look at Jonathan, he doesn’t need to be a mind reader. The shock on my face says everything. “How’d you know he was my Tragedy?”

“I know about every assignment.”

Is that even possible? Of course it is. Man, I hate this place!
“That’s a lot to keep track of,” I murmur.

“I do all right. I can assure you that no mistake has been made. You were destined for this particular assignment, along with all the others that will follow.”

“What if I slip up and say something to Willow?”

“You don’t give yourself enough credit.”

“And if I make a mistake?”

“You could make a mistake with any Tragedy—Willow’s son or otherwise. I have faith that you will not.” He pauses. “Of everyone you have met in Progression, who would you hate to disappoint the most?”

I don’t answer because it’s obvious.

“I understand your concern; however, I believe you are the perfect choice. Your love for Willow will serve as significant motivation to succeed.”

“Trust me when I say I have
no
love for Willow.”

His comical expression says he doesn’t believe me. “This plan was laid out before you were born. I promise you this assignment is not a mistake. You were destined for this.”

“Thanks.” I struggle to use my friendly voice, since he’s clearly not changing his mind.

“Anytime. I sincerely mean that. I look forward to following your progress.” He stares at me for a minute, says, “Happy Thanksgiving,” and then walks away.

“Uh…you, too,” I finally call back, but he’s already moved across the field, observing a pair of Satellites. Certainly he would have said something if he knew I tried to get to Tate’s. At least, that’s what I’m going to tell myself.

“Well, let’s see it!”

Willow’s perky voice scares the crap out of me. I snap my eyes off Jonathan.

“Sorry.” There’s zero sincerity in her tone. “Let’s see it!”

“See what?”

“Your calimeter, genius.”

“Oh. Right.” I open the black box I forgot I was holding. The sun glints off the calimeter’s square face.

“Sweet!” Willow messes up my hair.

Sweet is right. Even sweeter, though, is that the notches of the silver disks are still far apart. They could freeze right now as far as I’m concerned.

I don’t care when Willow looks at me funny for sniffing the brown band. The smell of the leather is a reminder of home: my parents sofa (which happens to blow Willow’s away—at least, aesthetically), my tool pouches, Tate’s corded bracelet…

Willow interrupts my trip down memory lane. “We’ve got the rest of the day to kill. Want to hang out here and watch the others?”

With no way of escaping, my chances of seeing Tate are zilch. “Why not?”

We sit at the edge of the field, out of the way of the practicing Satellites. Willow kicks off her shoes and rolls onto her stomach. “You gonna gawk at it all day or put it on?”

Unaware that I had been staring at my calimeter, I strap the thick band around my wrist. Perfect fit. Go figure.

“It looks great on you. How’s it feel to be official?”

“I don’t know. I mean, it doesn’t seem official yet.”

“It will. After break you’ll head to your assignment just like all the other Satellites.”

Anxiety and fear grab hold of my insides. “What if I screw up?” I ask Willow. Thinking about her son makes the urge to vomit even stronger.

“You won’t.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because you’ve been trained by the best,” she states matter-of-factly.

“You have a skewed image of yourself,” I try to joke, swallowing down bile.

“Sticks and stones, kid. Happy Thanksgiving, by the way. Got anything you’re thankful for?”

She can’t be serious. “No,” I say dully.

Oblivious to my attitude, she turns her face toward the sun like she’s enjoying the nonexistent heat. “Try to relax and enjoy the entertainment, kid.”

I find Rigby and Shane on the crowded field. After three tries, Rigby succeeds in making Shane sit on the ground. A little further down, Anna and Jordan are hard at it. Jordan’s beyond patient, but Anna, on the other hand—not so much. After watching four attempts, I can no longer take her disappointment and fall back on the grass, thinking about Ryder and my upcoming assignment.

To avoid getting sick, I shift my thoughts from Ryder to Tate. My stomach does a nervous flip at the thought of seeing her—the real her, not the angry, black-eyed Tate from my dreams. But what if she’s physically changed like my mom, or worse, what if she’s a train wreck, too? I’m unsure if I’m prepared to see her in that condition. My worried mind goes into overdrive and the guilt of my secret tugs at me. I push the guilt away, close my eyes, and let my imagination run wild with a happier Tate.