Satellite: The Satellite Trilogy, Part I (19 page)

Tate swallows and vacantly stares, glassy-eyed, at her black Converse low-tops. “Thanks, El. You’re the only one who gets it.”

I hastily shut off my calimeter before remembering they can’t hear the buzzing. Break can’t be over yet, can it?

Elliott hugs Tate for a minute. “Quit being so lazy and help me out,” he jokes, pulling her up.

My fingers squeeze the bridge of my nose and I try and get my emotions in check. I owe Elliott everything.

I pull my tocket from my bag, seeing no reason why it shouldn’t work. I say the command reluctantly, wishing I could stay here forever, but knowing I should probably never come back. Holding the granite rock, I’m pulled sideways through a blur of houses, trees, and mountains instead of being sucked upward. The feeling is unnerving, but I’m too numb to care.

The afternoon and early evening with Ryder are tough, just as his book said they would be. With the impending funeral, he’s even more wrecked than yesterday. Every time his eyes lock on one of the photos of his dad spread out on the kitchen table, I think of my old man. Looking back on how fast my life went, I realize how many missed opportunities I could have used to build our relationship. I wish we had been closer. Maybe the emotional distance between us makes my grief lesser than Ryder’s, or maybe not. The sadness I feel hurts like hell, I know that.

When the sun’s gone and Mya’s family and Hannah have gone home, the house is dark, aside from the small kitchen. Ryder’s crumpling his fortieth piece of paper and chucking it into the growing pile on the floor. He lays his head down on his arms for a few minutes. Ready to take another shot, he picks up the pen, starts to write again, and then tears the page from the notebook. The paper ball joins the others on the tile floor. I still don’t know why he’s insisting on giving a speech at the funeral tomorrow.

Because his biceps are flexed, I block him when he stands and paces the kitchen. He doesn’t need to screw up his hand any more than it already is. When my mind is able to think through the electric current, I sever the command. Ryder’s arms relax and he cracks his knuckles on his way back to the chair. After another shot at the notebook, his words start to flow. Finally, he’s making real progress.

When the page is covered with black ink, I stand behind him and read what he’s got so far.

My dad was the most amazing man in the world, and I know that each of you here today who knew him would agree. He was kind, generous, loving, and always put others before himself. His dedication to the food pantry, and the hundreds of people he’s helped feed over the years, is proof of that.

He took pride in everything he did, especially in his career as a mechanic. He could fix anything. I never once heard him complain about having to go to work. He’s taught me so much—not only about cars, but about life. He taught me to be accountable for my actions. He taught me patience and the value of good work. He taught me about the gift of charity.

He gave so much love to Mya and me that I thought it would be impossible for him to love anything more, but then Lennon came along. No words can adequately describe the day my dad first met his grandson. He cried harder than I’ve ever seen, and he didn’t even care that Mya and I jabbed him about it. That was Dad—never worrying about what anyone else thought, always being true to himself.

He made the most out of the life he was given, even when he faced the loss of my mother. I pray that he is with her now.

My heart is broken. I will miss him more than words can say. He was my best friend.

Ryder lowers the pen and puts his head down. I know he’s crying because of his convulsing shoulders. Aside from that, he’s completely quiet.

Behind him, I lean against the wall with my arms crossed. My dad was nothing like his. I’m not sure why this makes me so angry.

Because I’m bouncing back and forth between Ryder and Tate, the week flies by. Troy’s funeral was, without question, my hardest day as a Satellite, and the days that have followed haven’t been much better. To make matters worse, both Ryder and Tate seem to be going downhill fast. I’ve had better luck keeping Ryder from destroying things than Tate, although he’s been crying a lot more. If I had to choose between destruction or tears, my current stance is that both equally suck.

Ryder’s grandparents have brought pizza for dinner, but Ryder’s been refusing to eat all week. So here he sits, zoned out and picking at the stringy cheese.

“Your dad wouldn’t want you to carry on this way.” Ryder’s grandpa delivers this bit in a matter-of-fact tone that sounds just like Willow.

“Well, he’s not here, so I guess he doesn’t have a say,” Ryder mumbles. If I’d known those words were going to spew from his lips, I would have blocked him to keep his mouth shut.

“I’m sorry,” Ryder says a minute later when he notices he’s made Nana cry.

It’s hard to be angry with him. The poor guy is falling apart. The funeral just about did him in. I don’t know that I was any better. The rectangular hole beside Willow’s headstone affected me much more than I expected. Ryder’s speech was brilliant, and the entire church bawled, including me. Ryder was lucky to have a dad like Troy.

When Ryder’s grandparents leave, I sink into the super-comfy sofa while he talks to Hannah on the phone.

“I said I’m fine.” Ryder’s agitated movements contradict his words. He rubs at the back of his scalp aggressively and appears to listen to Hannah for a minute, but then his scowl surfaces.

“I wish everyone would stop saying that,” he says, his voice rising. “He’s gone, so how are things going to get better?” Then, ten seconds later: “What are
you
sorry for?”

I straighten up, scoot to the cushion’s edge, and prepare to block.

Ryder moves to the kitchen and paces, saying lots of
mmm-hmms
into his cell phone. He says good-bye a few minutes later and tosses his phone on the counter.

I follow him into the garage and have to block him at the Craftsman tool chest. When his crying fit is over, he picks up different tools and weighs them in his hands until he’s emotionally too weak to hold them. He places each one carefully into the rolling drawers until he gets to the hammer. I jump out of the way before the thing flies through me, not that it could damage me. The drywall, however, is not so lucky. Watching Ryder rips me up inside. I wish there was more I could do to help him. I’m grateful that he doesn’t stick around the garage longer than five minutes, which, so far, is a record for him.

I owe his doctor big time for the sleeping pill/antidepressant cocktail he prescribed and finally earn a break when Ryder falls asleep. I’m not a drug advocate, but this guy absolutely needs something to take the edge off. My only complaint is that when Ryder’s on the sleeping pills, his snores thunder even louder. Tonight Ryder’s chosen the sofa as his bed, leaving me the recliner, which is also too comfortable for its own good. If his bedroom didn’t house his clothes, I’d start to wonder if he even had one.

While Ryder sleeps, the incident in the garage sticks in my head. Ryder couldn’t hold the wrench longer than a few seconds. I wonder if my dad had trouble going back to work after my death. Heck, my old man hardly even talked to me—he probably went back to the job site five minutes after they put me in the ground.

Since thinking about my dad only raises my blood pressure, I spend the rest of the night worrying about Tate. Through the next day, I block Ryder when needed and count the minutes until I can see her again.

.

14. You weren’t meant to find out this way

Now three months in, I’ve fallen into a decent routine. Things with Ryder are the same everyday: he snaps, I calm him down. I had expected his spirits to be improved by now, but he still misses his dad like crazy. When he’s alone, he has crying fits that would give Ms. America a run for her money. Watching him upsets me quite a bit, either because I feel sympathy for him or because I’m angry that I never shared the same kind of relationship with my own father. Probably both.

At least Ryder has pulled out from his depression enough to go back to his classes. This is good for him, but terrible for me. Tagging along as he studies for his engineering degree—and in particular, attending his Ethics class—is grueling. I was never cut out for college. Sitting through lectures for long periods five days a week just about does me in.

Now that Ryder and Hannah are in a “Facebook-official” relationship, keeping Tate off my mind is harder than ever. It doesn’t help that she’s getting worse. Even Elliott can’t bring her mood up these days. I haven’t seen or heard anything more from the makeup-wearing creep, so that’s a positive, at least.

Clara is still taking too much interest in me and not enough in Rigby. So far, I’ve done a decent job of maintaining my not-interested-in-romance stance with Clara, though Christmas was more than a little awkward. Having no idea about the traditions of Progression, thanks to my ever-helpful mentor, I did not come to Benson bearing gifts like the others. She gave Rigby the same gift she gave everyone else: a tin of her mom’s famous peanut butter cookies. In return, Rigby gave Clara a sapphire bracelet. Clara gave me her drawing of San Francisco, complete with an over-the-top matte and frame. In return, I gave Clara nothing. I could have killed Willow, and then I could have died from humiliation. To make matters worse, said ever-helpful mentor made a point of hanging Clara’s picture beside my bookcase. Every time I try to relax on the sofa, I feel like Clara is staring back at me.

Rigby was cool about the whole gift-exchanging incident, either because Clara seemed thrilled with her gift from him or because he’s fully aware that I continue to see Tate. It’s nice being able to talk to Rigby without having to censor my erratic behavior. Still, because of the weird Clara love triangle,
uncomfortable
doesn’t begin to describe some of the breaks the three of us have shared.

I set my tray on the table and sit next to Anna. She was released from training a month after me. The remaining sixteen newbies were released after her. I was glad she wasn’t the last. To this day, she has trouble keeping the details of her assignment to herself, so when she starts spilling, I close my eyes and shake my head. The small gesture is usually enough to shut her up.

“What’s with everyone?” I ask, because Benson is noisier than usual.

“New Satellites are coming,” Anna answers.

“Didn’t we just get a group?” I say, stuffing half my sandwich into my mouth to play the part of a normal, rule-abiding Satellite. Being here during break is difficult with Tate filling my thoughts, but I figure it’s necessary to avoid suspicion.

“Dude, that was three weeks ago,” Owen replies.

“It’s been that long?” I gulp down my Coke. Trying to act interested is almost as hard as being away from Tate.

“Time flies,” Rigby says and resumes gnawing on his toothpick. He’s sitting really close to Clara. Strangely, this bothers me today. Probably because I miss Tate so much; being away from her for twenty-four hours is about all I can stand.

“You really should code, man. You look like death,” Rigby adds, watching me stuff a ham sandwich into my mouth and knowing full well why I’m eating so fast and why I haven’t been coding.

Looking like death explains all the sympathetic stares I’ve been getting around here. I’m not surprised, as my weary body feels the sting of my muscles with every movement. I rub my eyes and vow to change clothes and run a comb through my hair soon.

“How’s Willow?” Clara asks me.

“Beats me,” I say through a mouthful of food.

“Haven’t you seen her?”

Gulp (sandwich down, spaghetti to go).
“Not lately. She’s been with Troy a lot, I think.”

“She was bloody beaming when I saw her last,” Liam voices, but keeps his eyes on the table. I expect his assignment has gotten hairy because he’s been quieter than usual the past few days.

“That’s an understatement. If she’s not careful, she’s going to catch herself on fire,” Owen says.

Clara perks up. “I can’t blame her. I mean—have you seen Troy?”

Owen rubs his hand over his plastic hair. “Clara, you think everyone’s hot.”

“Not true. Take you, for example. And Grant’s looking rough these days, too.” She looks me up and down and grins. “But I’m still keeping him on the list.” My cheeks get hot. Rigby’s face gets hot, or at least red, too. I make a point to look away from him quickly.

“Hey, Owen’s totally attractive!” Anna rebuffs, stealing everyone’s attention so that I’m the only one who notices Rigby’s disdain.

“Yeah, if you’re into height-challenged guys.” Liam almost smiles.

Owen answers the dig by smoothing his middle finger over his eyebrow.

“Have you met Troy yet?” Clara asks me, which shuts up the dogs.

“Mmm-hmm,” I answer through a mouthful of meatball. When I ran into them four weeks ago, I had to play like I didn’t know who he was. Mrs. Smiley, a.k.a. Willow, was acting even more eccentric and hyper than usual. She barely remembered my name when she introduced us.

“What’s he like?” Clara asks.

I swallow some noodles. “He’s cool. I could see myself hanging out with him if his wife wasn’t such a nutcase.”

“Speaking of Willow, do you think they’re ever going to announce the new Elite?” Clara asks to no one in particular.

Liam takes a new interest in the conversation.

“I wish they’d get on with it,” Owen says. “The suspense is killing me!”

“There’s no way it’ll be you, mate,” Liam says. “They only pick Satellites who are good. Like me.”

“Ha! Fat chance, bro!” Owen counters.

Rigby’s expression is sour. “This Elite business is getting old. I wish they’d just announce it already so you can all move on.”

“Thank you.” I’m glad to know someone else gets it.

“You only say that because you’re not in the running,” Owen says.

Rigby frowns. “Why wouldn’t I be in the running?”

Owen looks at Rigby like the guy just said the sky was green. “You’re too new. They’d never pick someone with such little experience.”

“Well, whatever. I don’t know who’d want to be one, anyway. I’m perfectly content with the difficulty level of my current Tragedy.”

“Nancy newbies could never handle the pressure.” Liam’s joking—I think.

“Oh, trust me, I could handle it,” Rigby assures him. “I just wouldn’t want to.”

I brush a napkin across my mouth and push away my empty tray. “See you guys later.” Thankfully, no one but Rigby and Willow has caught on to my disappearances, and Willow’s subscribed to the “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy. Coding has proven to be useful, although not for actually coding.

In my hurry to find an abandoned hallway so I can displace, I only hastily glance at the new Satellites stampeding into Alogan. It takes me three full strides before it registers, and I whip around. Everything moves in slow motion; I’ve forgotten how to breathe.

I gasp when I finally find my voice. He looks up when I call his name, confirming that my eyes aren’t lying. An invisible sledgehammer nails me in the gut and doubles me over.
No! This can’t be happening!

“Grant?”

No! It can’t be!

“Grant, what’s—”

“Elliott! What are you doing here!” I choke out wildly, and not as a question. “I don’t…no…Tate!” My tongue is too big in my mouth.
No! Oh please, no!

“Grant, is it really you?”

I try to catch my breath.

“Grant? What’s going on?”

My senses are too blurry and muffled.

“Grant, calm down. Grant, look at me.” I read Jonathan’s lips while he shakes my shoulders.

“Elliott?” I ask, not recognizing my small voice.

“Grant, I’m sorry,” Jonathan says. “You weren’t meant to find out this way.”

When his words sink in, I explode with anger. “No! This is a mistake! A horrible mistake! We need to fix this!”

“Grant, listen—”

“No! You listen! Send him back!”

“What’s going on?” Elliott asks, watching our conversation as though it’s a Ping-Pong match.

“Grant, please calm down. Let’s discuss this privately,” Jonathan says.

I shove my hand into my bag and displace as soon as I touch the frame, slipping out of Jonathan’s grasp and falling into a numb free fall.

I spin around my old bedroom, surprised that I wasn’t followed. I lunge without another thought, and the trees and houses I memorized months ago are blurred fifteen feet below me. I regret my hurry as soon as I step into the Jacoby’s kitchen, into the massacre.

“No! Not my baby. Not my baby!” Mrs. Jacoby wails from the floor. Tate’s dad holds his distressed wife and stares blankly across the room.

Tate gasps for air while Fischer absorbs the nightmare from the safety of her arms.

I react in the only way I can. “Haze!”

Calm. Calm. Calm. Calm
.

I stumble back in pain; the shock is worse than I’ve ever felt before.

“Block!”

Mrs. Jacoby’s volume decreases, but sobs continue to rip through her.

“Haze!”

Calm. Calm. Calm.

My scars rip apart before I choke out the order to cease the current.

Tate becomes quieter, but then Fischer’s cries ramp up. I stumble, both mentally and physically, before repeating the process one more time. Agony screams through my convulsing muscles, and I slump to the floor like the rest of the family.

When Tate’s aunt and uncle make an appearance in the foyer, the hysterics resume. From the floor, I pull as much energy as possible, but the filter is just a light-blue tint.

“Haze,” I murmur.

Calm. Calm. Calm. Calm.

I can’t breathe. I can’t focus.

“Block,” I choke out. Tate barely reacts to my unimpressive persuasion.

“I don’t understand. He was just rock climbing,” Tate’s dad says in a dead voice.

I don’t have the strength to block; I don’t have the strength to do anything. Instead, I endure a pain much worse. Tears sting my eyes while I focus on a chip in the tile floor and try to tune out the wailing from Tate’s mom.

And Tate—what will this do to her?

My mind stops my thought and works again to find my energy. When I finally pull some, the blue ball is the most transparent it’s ever been. I try for another block, but I am physically unable.

In pain, I push across the floor to Tate, and her crying slows. “Shhh,” I whisper.

“Grant?” she breathes, so softly that no one else could have heard.

I try to use my energy to squeeze her arm as a sign that I’m there, but I’m entirely depleted. My blood boils in anger. I think of the Schedulers—of what they have done to Tate, to this family. How much can one person be expected to suffer?

I’m about to find out.

Bolting from my room to find Jonathan turns out to be unnecessary. He’s already sitting on the sofa.

“Grant,” he says calmly.

Wild-eyed, I shoot a look at Willow. Sure, now she decides to come around.

“Are you all right, kid?”

“What do you think?” I snap, well beyond pissed at this point. “I want to see the Schedulers.”

“That’s not possible,” Willow begins, but she is hushed by Jonathan’s raised hand.

“Grant, please sit. We have much to discuss.”

“Frigging right we do! I want to see the Schedulers now!”

“That will not be possible unless you calm down,” he says. I grit my teeth.

“Are you in control of your emotions?” he asks three minutes later.

I nod my head, not trusting my voice.

“All right. Let’s go.”

Willow can’t hide her surprise. The Schedulers must not make a habit of mingling with the Satellites. Funny, they have no problems ruining their lives.

Jonathan leads Willow and me in silence to the Orders hall downstairs. He bangs his fist three times on the unmanned golden desk. A bell chimes with each hit, and then a panel of marble recesses back and slides to the left, creating a doorway.

“Here we are,” Jonathan says, motioning for me to go ahead. “After you.”

I huff and walk past Willow, who’s lamely gaping at the opening. The marble panel thunders closed behind us. Jonathan leads us out of the small lobby and through a maze of narrow corridors. If I wasn’t so ticked, I’d find the old-school trim work in the bright, candlelit passages impressive.

One of the hallways finally opens into a large room. We approach two giant doors on the far side and Jonathan says, “If you’ll give me a moment, I would like to announce our arrival.”

Willow and I move five paces back so one of the doors can swing out. It closes quickly behind Jonathan, and the seeded-glass panels obscure what’s inside.

Willow flings her arms around me like a madwoman.