Satellite: The Satellite Trilogy, Part I (4 page)

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3. Use that great charm to make some friends, Casanova

I zone on a sofa stain to keep still because my muscles remain ticked off at me. “Are you sure you’re all right?” I ask Willow after hearing the dishes clink even more loudly in the kitchen.

“I said I’m fine.” Like Tate, she’s a horrible liar. If I wasn’t so uneasy about what just happened, it would be comical seeing Willow so scattered.

She finally walks into the living room, holding two mugs. I take one from her and she sits on the other side of the sofa, her hand curled around her cup like she’s cold, which is absurd here in Perfectland.

“OK, kid, here’s the deal. What happened in there”—she nods down the hall, toward the coding room—“keep your trap shut about it. Got it?”

“Fine by me.” I take a drink and wince. “Blech!”

“Sorry. I needed something strong.”

“Well, this should do it. This could thin paint.” I wipe my lip and set the mug of poison on the trunk. Willow stares at the floor.

“So I failed miserably at coding, huh?” I ask to break the silence.

“You could say that.” She lifts her eyes. “What happened in there was just a forgotten memory.”

She’s wrong. In fact, my memory feels sharper than ever. But no way am I going to share that with Willow.

“We’re going to take a few days off from coding. Just stick to the stew, OK?”

I cross my ankle over my knee, fidget with my bootlaces, and nod.

“I’m heading to Programming. You can hang out here or down in Benson. Other Legacies will be in Programming, too, so there’s bound to be some newbies around. Use that great charm to make some friends, Casanova. You’ll need the camaraderie once you start your assignment.” Willow pats my leg before pushing herself up. I twist to look over the back of the sofa, watching her walk slower than usual into the kitchen to pour another cup of battery acid.

When she’s almost to the door, her free hand claps against her forehead. “Shoot, I almost forgot. Viscal. I actually won’t be seeing you for a few days.”

“Viscal?”

She pulls her gaze from the ceiling. “Twice a year we spend three days in Viscal with our loved ones. You don’t get to partake in the festivities until you’ve got five years under your belt.”

“Our loved ones?” I ask, feeling hopeful.

“Our dead loved ones.”

“Oh.” Certainly she heard my heart hit my stomach. “But if you’ve forgotten your memories, then how…?”

“When people from your life die, your memories resurface automatically. If they’re already dead, you won’t lose them at all.”

Grandpa.
My mind quickly compares my memories of him with my memories of Tate. They’re equally strong. I try to downplay my relief, though I’m not sure if I succeed. “What about Programming? I mean, what’s the point if your memories return on their own?”

“When a loved one dies, only your memories of them from when you were alive resurface. Lots of events happen in our lives that we don’t remember at all—things from when we were very young, memories of that sort. Programming brings back everything.” Willow gets quieter. “When you’re about to be reunited with someone, Programming brings back memories of that person in advance. This allows us a little time to adjust, I guess.” She fiddles with a charm at the end of a dreadlock.

“What happens to the Tragedies while you’re away?” I ask, because she’s clearly uncomfortable with the Programming subject.

“Same as break. Time stops for everyone within a eighth-mile radius of a Tragedy. Again, it’s the time-warp thing—three days for us, less than a minute for them.”

“Is three days enough time in Viscal?”

“Plenty. Trust me. Thirty-six hours is substantial when you’re not sleeping through any of it.” She rummages through her bag, and then slings the strap over her shoulder. “We’re all usually ready to get back to our assignments, or at least our routines, after so much time away. If you get bored, feel free to clean the place up. It’ll be yours soon.”

She’s out the door before I can argue.

Great. Just what I wanted: Willow’s hippy lair. First thing to go is the sofa. That I can guarantee.

In the kitchen, I watch my coffee cyclone down the drain. I dump the remaining toxin from the coffeepot as well, surprised that it doesn’t eat through the red finish on the sink.

What the heck am I supposed to do now?

I walk past the sofa for a better look at the built-in bookcase. My hand traces over the remarkable craftsmanship of the ornate wood, searching for just one puttied hole. I can’t find any, of course, not even on the undersides of the shelves or hidden behind the multiple picture frames.

Housed in a Popsicle-stick frame is a photo of Willow. The blonde girl she’s standing with has such sharp features she may as well be sculpted from ice. One shelf down, in a shiny silver frame, the same blonde girl poses next to a surfer guy. All he’s missing is a stripe of sunblock down his dirt-brown nose. And to think, I was the one who got skin cancer.

I wade through the sea of faces, stretching to reach a buried frame on the lowest shelf, and my throat tightens. It’s exactly the same as I remember, but the picture of Tate and me is gone. A white square fills the photo insert area instead. Gracing the black wooden frame are Tate’s metallic-silver stick people (which she declared were her and me) standing under a sun; the rest of the frame is decorated with Tate’s silver doodles. I trace over her handwriting—
Love and a Little Sunscreen
. The joke doesn’t seem so funny anymore.

Tate made sure the frame was with me while I was doing time in the hospital. Once, I hid it from her as a joke, but of course she found it. The frame was waiting for me in the sterile room I returned to after treatment. I’d had a particularly bad reaction to the chemo that day. I never told her having it there made me feel better.
Why hadn’t I ever told her?

The pain in my chest is like a tightening fist around my heart. A high-pitched ringing fills my ears, and the walls shrink. The frame drops back to the lower shelf when I dig my fingers into the bookshelf for support.

I don’t remember leaving the room, but I’m already in the elevator, using the wall to keep myself upright. I punch the
L
button and the doors close on two pairs of wide eyes staring at me like I’m a madman. Their assumption is probably not too far off.

Downstairs, I stumble out of the elevator and lean against the hard marble. My chest rises and falls until the pressure finally dissipates. When my dinner no longer threatens to make an appearance, I cross the lobby to Benson.

A few people are scattered around the enormous eating hall, but nothing compared to the earlier crowd. Apparently, the Satellites are all busy saving the world. My posture straightens when I see Anna. Alone, she’s curled in one of the leather chairs close to the fireplace.

“Hey Anna,” I say when I reach her.

After she jumps, her expression brightens. “You scared me! How’s it going?”

“OK, considering.” I fall into the chair beside hers.

“Oh my gosh, I know. Isn’t this a lot to take in?” She looks around and combs her fingers through her dark ponytail.

“That’s stating it mildly.” I watch three people enter and sit at one of the tables in the middle of the room.

“It’s good to see you. I know we’ve just met, but you remind me of my brother.” Anna bites her lower lip. “I’ve been trying to recall my last conversation with him. We were fighting…” She pauses, thinking. “And I can’t remember if we made up.” Her eyes bore into mine like she’ll find the answer in them.

I have no idea what to say, but want to make her feel better. Strange, considering I hardly know her. “I’m sorry about your brother. I’m sure he knows how much you love him,” I reply awkwardly. “Feeling talk” has never been my thing.

“Jordan explained the memory loss, and I get that it’s necessary, but it’s just so frustrating.”

Rigby appears in one of the doorways, and I nod to him. The faded motorcycle on his black T-shirt distorts across his chest, making him look even bigger than before. Add to that his crew cut and the guy may as well have just walked off a military base. He strides over and plops into an empty chair.

After I introduce him to Anna, he pulls the ever-present toothpick from his mouth. “Crazy place, huh?”

Anna and I agree.

“How are you guys adjusting to your memory loss?” Anna asks.

“It sucks,” Rigby says.

Odd. My memories still feel strong.
“I’m not so bad. Maybe you should try to hang on a little harder,” I suggest.

“Dude, there’s nothing left to hang on to.” Rigby’s obviously deflated. He rolls his toothpick between his thumb and index finger.

“I’ve been trying.” Anna gives a discouraged huff and fidgets with the cuff of her sweater. “How are your Legacies?”

I roll my eyes. “Willow’s a lunatic. We couldn’t be more opposite.”

“Huh. She’s got to be better than mine,” Rigby says. “Shane’s a techie. Computers are all he talks about. I have a few choice places he can shove his terabyte. His throat, for starters, to shut him up.”

“Don’t hold back,” I joke.

He shakes his head. “He’s annoying as all get-out, man.”

“Funny, I thought the same thing about Jordan. Except the shoving part. Seriously, Rigby, that’s harsh,” Anna remarks with disapproval. “Jordan’s kind of a loose cannon, but I’m learning a lot about this place. He says we’ll be getting our assignments soon.”

“But we’re not ready, are we?” I ask.

They both shrug. At least we’re all bobbing in the same ocean of the unknown. Though maybe
drowning
is a better word.

We sit for a long time while the fire crackles. I study my hand, amazed that I can make a strong fist again.

“Any luck with coding?” Anna asks a while later. I lift my head and rub my palms nervously along my thigh.

“Yeah. It’s wild,” Rigby says.

“How about you?” Anna directs to me. Not knowing how much I’m allowed to share, I shake my head.

“Oh, thank goodness! I mean, I’m glad I’m not the only one.”

I sit up straighter, hopeful that maybe she had a similar experience.

“I just can’t let myself go. I’ve tried to find my ‘happy place,’” she makes mock quotations, “but my head won’t clear. I’m trying so hard to hang on to my memories, I just can’t relax. You get it, right? I mean, that’s why you can’t code, either?”

I work to keep my face even. “Pretty much.” I hate lying to her. “Did you guys try the food yet?”

“Yes! It’s amazing, right?” Anna’s obvious enthusiasm tells me crisis averted.

“It’s definitely that,” I agree.

“What’d you guys bring?” Rigby asks.

“Deer stew,” I say.

“Gross!” Anna wrinkles her nose, and the image of my mom pops into my head.
Try this,
Mom would say, leaning over the stove, making me take a taste from the community spoon.

I snap back to reality because the memory of my mom lends itself to missing her, and my heart begins hurting more than I can bear.

“—with my dad on the road all week,” Anna is saying, “and every Sunday we’d have fried chicken.” She pauses, deep in thought. “It’s funny, I can still remember some things so clearly, but not any actual conversations.”

Rigby huffs. “Consider yourself lucky. I’m completely blank. I brought boiled peanuts.”

“If you’re blank, how can you remember which food is yours?” I ask.

He looks confused and then shrugs. “I have no idea. I just know, which sounds ridiculous, I’m sure. The peanuts are phenomenal, by the way. Even better than I remember.” He cracks up, but I find his joke more scary than humorous.

“You seriously can’t remember anything?” I ask.

He shakes his head and bites harder on his toothpick. “Apparently I win the amnesia award.”

Anna tries to console him. “If it’s any reassurance, I think it’s completely normal.”

“I don’t get how it works. Willow still remembers having a husband and daughter.”

“Jordan says each person’s memories vary,” Anna explains. “Some retain names, even conversations or memories of certain events, while others may not remember anything at all.”

“Doesn’t sound fair, if you ask me. I wonder if anyone ever remembers more than that,” I say.

“Sounds like that’s as good as it gets. It does kinda makes sense. We’re not going to be very good Satellites if we’re distracted by our past.”

I lean back, crossing my arms. Anna’s way too indifferent about this whole mess. “But it’s part of who we are, Anna. Who will we be if we lose that?”
I’ll be just Grant—without Tate.
This scares me beyond words.

“Satellites. Hope you enjoy your new life.”

Unlike me, Anna finds humor in Rigby’s statement. I, on the other hand, keep my mouth shut. I don’t want to be a Satellite.

In the ensuing silence, I lean my head back and mull over the floating lanterns. From an engineering standpoint, there must be an explanation, but it goes beyond my construction knowledge.

A muffled hum comes from the corridor. “Sounds like it’s break again,” Anna says.

Already?
I pull my eyes from the ceiling and watch the doorways. In no time, the hall is filled with people.

“Hey, Owen!” I yell. The blushing Clara is with him, and together they push through the crowd.

“How’s it going?” Owen asks. His eyes become rounder when he sees Anna. He turns back to me, looking again like a dog, but this time he’s waiting impatiently for the ball to be thrown. I introduce him to Anna before he licks her face.

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Owen says to her.

Is this guy for real? He’s transformed into a goofy, smirking clown.

“Nice to meet you,” Anna replies.

Clara breaks their weird connection by shaking hands with Anna. When Clara looks back at me, her pale cheeks turn red. I use the opportunity to shift Clara’s attention off me by introducing her to Rigby. Rigby’s whole demeanor changes and his upbeat vibe tells me he finds her attractive, but he plays it much cooler than Owen.

“I saw you in here earlier with Jordan. How’s that going?” Owen asks Anna. He pets the top of his hair like he’s fixing it, despite the fact that the black plastic wouldn’t move in a hurricane.