Satellite: The Satellite Trilogy, Part I (5 page)

“We certainly have our…differences,” Anna replies diplomatically.

“Ah, such is the life of a Legacy. I dread the day. Don’t worry—nobody likes their Legacies. Jordan’s cool once you get to know him.”

“We have nothing in common,” Anna admits.

“That’s the point. You’re paired with your opposite so you won’t be distracted by common interests,” Owen says.

“That explains a lot,” Rigby scoffs, kicking at the rug.

“Who’d you get?” Owen asks.

“Shane.”

“Techie Shane?” Owen asks in disbelief.

Rigby’s desolate expression answers the question.

“Dude, tough luck!” Owen sympathizes.

“Tell me about it.”

“Well, try to cut them some slack. Even Shane,” Owen hesitantly adds. “It’s a tough job being a Legacy.”

Rigby looks doubtful.

“Seriously, it is. On top of training new recruits, Legacies are soon to be reunited with someone they probably don’t remember. Plus, their lives as Satellites are about to end, which is major suck city.”

“Why would that suck?” Anna questions.

“Because being a Satellite is hardcore! I hope I’m lucky enough to be a Lifer.”

“A what?” Rigby asks, biting on a new toothpick.

“A Satellite who never has to give this up. One of the lucky few who gets to be in it for eternity.”

“I’m guessing there’s no significant other from your past?” I ask.

“No way, man. I’m not a fan of being tied down. Yet,” he adds, his eyes glued back on Anna. “What about you? Any significant other?” he asks her, sounding hopeful.

She shakes her head.

“Really?” Owen almost yells.

Anna smoothes her ponytail with her hand. “Really.”

“Where’s Liam?” I ask Clara, trying not to vomit.

“Not sure. I saw him in the lobby and he looked bad.”

“Dude, he was a hot mess!” Owen adds. “Rough day in the field, probably. I’d guess he’s doing some serious coding right now.”

“Do Satellites have a lot of rough days?”

Owen misses Anna’s worried tone and shrugs dismissively. “Sometimes. A bad day for a Tragedy equals an exhausting day for us. Anyone wanna eat?”

“I hear the chicken is phenomenal,” I say.

Owen perks up excitedly. “
Fried
chicken?”

“That’s the rumor.” I wink at Anna.

“Sweet! I’ve been craving that since Pete left.”

“Why?” I ask.

“Dude, when you go, so does your food.”

I think of the vast food selection. Thousands of other Satellites must be here. All of whom are in Benson today, by the noise level.

Despite a lack of appetite, my mouth waters when we reach the buffet. I grab two pieces of chicken, stew, and a handful of boiled peanuts. By the time we’re walking out the door, my overflowing tray includes an iced tea, manicotti, a biscuit, chocolate cake, and—at Owen’s suggestion—some kind of dessert that looks like mud. Did I mention I wasn’t hungry?

We sit at one of the smaller tables. Owen only looks away from Anna when he needs to pick up a new piece of food. He inhales the chicken like a savage until finally he’s licking the bones and then his fingers. Though the chicken
is
fantastic, as is everything else (besides the peanuts, that is—those are seriously gross), Owen states this to Anna twenty-three times. I know. I count.

The comfortable conversation puts me at ease. Making friends was never my strong suit, and that’s an overstatement. Aside from playing football, which my father strictly limited to practice and games only, I didn’t interact much with the kids at school. Even during the season, I kept to myself. Some of the players tried to befriend me—whether out of sincerity or because I was one of the better players, I don’t know—and I was never a jerk when declining their invites to hang out, but I just didn’t see the point. While they were out partying every weekend, my free time was consumed by working for Bradley Construction. Until I met Tate, that is. Much to my dad’s dismay, becoming a carpenter got pushed down a notch on my list of priorities. “You’re wasting your talent,” he’d said. He would have changed his mind if he’d taken the time to really get to know Tate.

Clara, Owen, and Anna are talking about things they remember from their life—favorite movies and food, what their parents looked like. Rigby and I stay silent, but for very different reasons.

“Why isn’t everyone’s clothing dated?” I ask when Clara is finished talking about some eighties’ fashion trend.

Excitement fills Clara’s face. “Willow didn’t tell you the best part? We get new clothes whenever we want. Anything!”

Anna squeals. Apparently, she’s the only other person at the table who gets it.

“Our assignments allow us to keep updated on all the latest fashions,” Clara says, just like an infomercial host. I can’t help but overhear Clara explain to Anna that she just needs to speak into her closet whenever she wants new clothing.

I shoot Owen a look that says,
Seriously?

“Dude, I know. They’re all crazy.” He circles his ear with his finger. “If you don’t put in any requests, your closet will be filled with your usual threads.”

“Thank goodness,” I say in relief. The past few years, I’d been relying on Tate to dress me. She’d drag me to the store when she deemed my tattered clothes “inappropriate.” Now shopping for
her
, that was worth the trip, especially during swimsuit season.

Liam interrupts our fashion conversation when he shows up wearing a half-tucked wrinkled shirt as purple as the circles under his eyes.

“Hey, Liam—this is Anna and Rigby,” I say.

He flops into a seat across from me and stares down at the table without answering. Clara gives him a sympathetic look and then resumes gabbing with Anna about clothes and bags and whatever else girls talk about.

Liam fidgets and then pushes himself back up after only a minute. “I’m going to go code again.” His voice is hollow and he slumps back out of the room.

This time Owen catches Anna’s worried expression. “He’ll be fine,” he reassures her. He pulls a deck of cards from his bag. “I’ll teach you and Rig Sats.” He flashes what I assume is his happy face. “I taught Grant earlier, but don’t worry about him. He sucks bad.”

“Hey!” I rebuke him.

Owen shuffles the cards. “Dude, it’s true. You’re terrible.”

“I just learned!”

“Then I suggest you practice some more,” he says, dealing me in.

We play a few games, and I can tell I’m getting better. I lay down my winning hand just as Owen looks at his calimeter. A second later, Clara does the same.

“Viscal, here we come. See you guys in a few days.” Owen winks at Anna, and then he and Clara join the herd exiting the room.

Anna pushes up from the table. “I’m going to go practice coding. I get the feeling it’s rather important. See you guys later?”

Apparently stuck in Perfectland with my new BFFs, I say, “I’m sure you will.”

Rigby nods his good-bye to Anna. After a few seconds, he says, “So, that Clara chick is pretty hot, huh?”

I barely hear him because watching Anna skip out of the room gives me an idea. What Willow doesn’t know won’t hurt her. “Yeah, sure,” I answer. “Think I’m going to go practice coding, too, man. I’ll catch you later.”

Adrenaline pumps through me at the possibility of seeing Tate again, even if it isn’t real.

I beeline to the coding room to avoid catching even a glimpse of my frame. Sitting cross-legged on a mat, I close my eyes.

I visualize Tate how I remember her: warm and soft. I can see her in my head—piercing hazel eyes and unruly hair, a thin cotton shirt clinging to her. It doesn’t feel real like before, though. I can’t feel or smell her. She’s just a frozen photograph in my mind.

After a deep breath, I try again.

Nothing but my imagination works, and the void in my chest grows impossibly bigger. I take a different approach and picture my bedroom instead—my bed, specifically—and my heart pounds in excitement and relief.

Tate traces along my torso, outlining muscles that have been absent for so long. I suck in the faint smell of peppermint. She looks up at me like before and holds my gaze. I memorize her heart-shaped face, as if I could ever forget it. Then she destroys me with a kiss. I want to freeze time, to stay with her forever. Like a child, I silently plead to be given this one gift. I’ll never ask for anything as long as I…I…

There’s no bargaining left. I’m already dead.

Tate pulls away and bites her bottom lip. Her finger stops moving at my ribs, and her face contorts with a sadness I’ve never seen before, not even when I was sick. Afraid of waking, I don’t dare move, despite the pain from the invisible blade hacking my heart into pieces.

She crushes another kiss on me before her beautiful, soft mouth trails up my jaw. Goose bumps spread across my neck and arms from the heat of her breath.

“Please come back,” she whispers when she reaches my ear, sending the chills into overdrive.

I open my mouth to tell her I’m here, but there’s no sound. As if in a nightmare, I try vocalizing again and again, only to be met with infuriating silence.

“Grant, please. I need you,” she begs, louder than before and sounding frightened.

My eyes fly open, and I’m back in a place that’s more like Hell than Heaven.

.

4. You’re a stalker, is what you are!

When I finally stop panting, I take a minute to study my sweaty reflection in the mirror. I look exactly as I had in life—as of a year ago, anyway. Even the scar cutting through my eyebrow, a souvenir from a victorious football season, is unchanged. Still, I hardly recognize the person staring back at me. The best part of me is gone. I’m incomplete without Tate.

I ignore the pain in my muscles and dry my face on my sleeve. Everything about Tate was so real: her feel, her smell, her taste. Could my imagination have gone that far? Maybe Willow’s right. Maybe forgetting is better—or, at the very least, necessary. At that traitorous thought, I shoot my reflection a narrow look and push myself up off the floor.

After trading my sweat-soaked clothes in the closet for some fresh duds, I hit up the kitchen for relief, concede that no amount of cold water splashed on my face will help, and turn to caffeine instead. As luck would have it, the fridge has been stocked with Coke. Go figure. Willow’s going to love that.

Too exhausted to code again, I chug down the soda and opt for a change of scenery. My feet drag me to one of the empty pews in Alogan. A twinge of jealously tugs at me as the careless birds dart back and forth overhead. What I wouldn’t give to soar happily with them, to be free from this emptiness in my chest. Tate’s words, “I need you,” play over in my head until the anxiety becomes unbearable. I’m helpless at a time when she needs my protection the most.

To stop thinking of Tate, I think of Tate’s brother. Elliott was the only one who had truly accepted the reality that my life was going to end, though I doubt my death was any easier on him. We had viewed each other as brothers already, even though I hadn’t married his older sister yet. Elliott had given me the greatest gift I could ask for under the circumstances: a promise that he would push Tate to move on after my death.

Part of me hoped that Elliott and Fischer (Tate’s youngest brother) could keep Tate occupied enough to eventually forget me. A larger part of me feared that she would. Today, I was siding with the larger part.

Something I haven’t thought about in years surfaces. The memory is sharp—maybe even sharper than it was before I died. I try not to get too excited, knowing my memories could still evaporate any minute.

Less than a month shy of graduation, I was working for the warden (a.k.a. my father), as I did every Saturday. If it had been up to my dear old dad, I would have dropped out of high school my senior year, just as he had done. “Eleventh grade is more than sufficient for a carpenter,” he’d argued to my mother. That spring was the company’s busiest and best yet, and with every other construction company in the area equally swamped, full-time bodies were hard to come by. He needed mine.

He was right, though it killed me to admit it. Without question, I would take over my father’s company someday, and what I was learning in class wasn’t relevant on the job site. Even at seventeen, construction came as natural to me as breathing, and I had no qualms about hard work. I would have sided with my dad about dropping out, but agreeing with the old man publicly was something I could never bring myself to do. That would be conceding that the two of us were alike. No thanks.

Our nail guns had run out of ammo that humid Saturday. It was ninety degrees outside, an unseasonable temperature in April, even for Missouri. In true Midwest form, the spring was a wet one, meaning the house we were working on, along with every other job we had lined up, was behind schedule. I was the official chump nominated to restock the nails. Visiting a home improvement store on a Saturday was not my idea of a good time.

My already sweaty clothes were even nastier by the time I’d finished my shopping and was slamming the tailgate up. Like the doors, the tailgate loudly displayed
Bradley Construction
in bright red letters. Free advertising at its finest. I didn’t complain; this vehicle was loads better than my own truck.
Was
being the key word. The AC had stopped working the week before, and the air circulating through the cab was thick enough to cut with a knife.

I pulled out of the contractors’ bay, cursing the Mulch Loader Man moving at a snail’s pace. My diesel truck was neither invisible nor silent, yet Mulch Loader’s flatbed cart continued to hog the entire narrow lane. I saw the taillights of Tate’s Jeep before I actually saw her. I slammed into reverse just as she slammed into my front fender. Mulch Loader Man looked up at the damage, wiped casually at his brow, and proceeded to load his purchase.

To say I was angry would be an understatement. Not only would it take me longer to get back to the site, now I had to explain a bashed fender. The first issue was enough to raise my dad’s blood pressure; the second would give him a coronary.

I recognized Tate as soon as she jumped out of the Jeep. In almost four years of high school, we’d had only one class together, Introduction to Art, our freshman year. She stood out as the teacher’s pet, and I, without a creative bone in my body, was only in the class to satisfy elective requirements. I watched every guy in our class gawk at her. I was not oblivious to her beauty, but I was much too introverted to be so blatant about my thoughts. Besides, what would a girl like her—who could have her pick of the litter—want with a guy like me? My family was not like the other families in the area and my future carpenter career would never hold a candle to the doctors and lawyers that were sure to come out of Weldon Spring High School. I had known Tate was different from the other pretty girls in school, though. Her personality actually matched her appearance, which made her even more appealing. In art class, she ignored the guys vying for her attention and, instead, befriended a strange and quiet girl who was the punchline of many bad jokes throughout our campus.

Assuming she came from a wealthy family, like most of the kids in our school, and figuring the Jeep was a birthday gift handed to her just for existing, I had forgotten all about the Tate from art class in that second after our bumpers met. “Are you mental?” I yelled, before I’d even shifted into park.

“Oh my gosh! I am so sorry!” she exclaimed, flustered. “You’re not hurt, are you?”

Barely hearing her, I continued with my rant. “This is my frigging luck! Just give me your insurance information. I don’t have time to deal with this,” I snapped.

I followed Tate to her Jeep, where she ransacked the glove box, scribbled down her information, and apologized again. I snatched the paper from her and slammed my truck door before reversing out of the aisle, because Mulch Loader Man was moving unnervingly slower.

When I got back to the site, I forgot all about Tate when my old man broke his own yelling record and got creative with some new words. When he finally shut up, his curses were replaced by the stink eye. I tuned him out and sweated through the remainder of the long afternoon.

That night—starving, exhausted, and in desperate need of a shower—I pulled Tate’s note out of my pocket. I stared at the damp paper and shook my head in disbelief. As if the obnoxious purple ink wasn’t bad enough, the notepaper had a winking koala bear in the lower left corner. Below her insurance information, address, and phone number was a message asking me to please consider accepting a cash payment instead of turning the accident into insurance.

Before crushing the note in my fist, I checked my watch and decided eight o’clock was still an acceptable time to call. A woman’s voice answered the phone, and I asked with all the politeness I could muster if Tatum was available.

Tate picked up a few seconds later. “Hello?”

“This is Grant Bradley. You hit my truck today.” My voice was flat. Better than the alternative, which would’ve be a colorful cocktail of yelling and cursing. Like father, like son.
Ugh.
No, I was better than that. I could control myself. Usually.

“Oh my gosh! Grant, again, I am so sorry.”

“So let me get this straight. You don’t want me to turn this in?” I said.

“I have a decent amount in savings that should cover the damages, but if it’s not enough, I could make up the difference in payments.”

Maybe my reaction was because I was hungry and tired. Or maybe it was because I was so good at being a jerk. Whatever the reason, her response put me over the edge. “You think I’m a bank? Maybe your perfect world works that way, but I’m not one of your little rich friends who gets handouts just for breathing. I have to work for my money. Nice koala paper, by the way. What are you, five?” So I was a little dramatic. OK—a lot. But I was so steamed.

Tate surprised me with her rebuff. “Look, I’m on my parents’ policy, and my dad just lost his job. The last thing I need is for their rates to go up because of me. And for your information, the paper is from my little brother. It’s all I could find. You were obviously in a hurry, so I was trying to be quick. Forget it. Just turn it in to insurance.”

I snapped my mouth closed and stared at the humming receiver. Having misjudged her, I redialed.

“Hello?”

“Tatum, this is—”

She hung up before I could finish. In a huff, I tried again.

She didn’t hesitate this time. “Listen, stop calling. My little brother is trying to sleep. Just turn it in.”
Click
.

When I called the following day, a deep-voiced man told me she wouldn’t be home until late that night. I was stuck waiting again.

With my words rehearsed, I paced outside of Physics on Monday morning. Tate’s wild curls were easy to spot among the other heads.

“Hey, Tatum! Can I talk to you?” I yelled, jogging to her.

She and another girl stopped. In an odd reaction, Tate’s partner-in-crime stared at me with her mouth hanging open. Tate’s response involved less jaw-dropping and more shooting daggers. After two seconds, she pushed past me and cleared her throat to beckon her sidekick, who attempted a dirty look before obediently scurrying away.

I chased after her. “Tatum, wait up!”

When she turned, red crept up her face. Not the good I’m-embarrassed-because-I-like-you red, but the I-could-kill-you-right-now red. The expression looked so wrong on her, I almost laughed. Just a few years earlier, I was sneaking daily glances at her in art class. At that moment in the hallway, because my temper had simmered, I realized how much I had forgotten about her: the red tint in her brown curls, her intense eyes, and her body…well, her body had changed quite a bit from freshman year.

I kept pace with her and rambled off my rehearsed speech in the crowded hallway. Our peers took notice as I made a fool out of myself, either because none of them had ever heard my voice unless I was answering a teacher’s question, or because the prettiest girl in school was being followed by a maundering idiot. “I’m sorry about the other day. I was a jerk. I was already late getting back to the job site, and my dad…well, if you knew my dad you’d understand. I know that’s no excuse and usually my manners are better, I swear.” The words didn’t sound as convincing as they had in my bathroom mirror the day before.

When my monologue failed, I resorted to apologizing profusely.
Who the heck am I, and what did I do with Grant?
was all I could think as our peers gawked at us.

Tate again insisted that I turn the accident into insurance and increased her stride. I would have followed, but the first bell rang. One more tardy in Calculus would buy me after-school detention, which also meant I’d be showing up late to work. My dad would have my neck.

When the final bell released us from school, I ran directly from World History to Tate’s Jeep, planting myself there until she arrived. Her bumper resembled a crushed aluminum can splotched with white paint. She tried once more to shrug me off. Imagine that.

“You’re going to have to talk to me eventually. I’m annoyingly persistent,” I assured her.

“You’re already annoying me.”

“It’s safe to say it’s only going to get worse.”

“Just turn it in and leave me alone, Grant.” Tate climbed in her Jeep and slammed the door.

Now she was irritating me.

I couldn’t make it through another night working out ways to get her to talk to me. With only ten minutes left to get to the job site, I took half a second to juggle my options.

In my truck, I followed her Jeep past the convenience stores and strip malls of Weldon Spring, knowing my dad was going to kill me. She turned right on Harvester Road, putting me even further from the job site. Finally, she pulled into Harvester Retirement Home.

Trying to be quick, I parked only a few spaces away and was jogging across the hot asphalt before she even had her door open. Watching her bend over while rummaging through her backseat put being late for work completely out of my mind. She emerged clutching a maroon shirt and jumped off the side step. Her shocked expression was worth a million dollars.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded.

Suddenly, I felt nervous. “Hello to you, too.” When her glare grew even darker, my words spilled out in a rush. “You wouldn’t talk to me at school. I warned you I was persistent.”

“You’re a stalker, is what you are!”

“Whatever you want to call it. Either way, you’re going to have to talk to me eventually.”

“Sorry, chump, today isn’t going to be the day. I gotta get to work.”

I turned and assessed the building. “You work with old people?”

She looked me up and down, clearly not in a high regard. “They’re better company than most.”

“Huh. Well, what time do you get off?”

“None of your business.”

“That’s cool. I’ll just wait out here for you.” Yes, my dad was going to kill me.

“You wouldn’t!”

I crossed my arms, and though I was internally freaking out, I calmly said, “Want to test me?”

“Oh, come on!” she yelled to the sky and then looked back at me. “Look, if you need something to do, run home and make an insurance claim.”

“I’m not making the claim,” I stated simply.

She stared at me, confused. “What?”

“I’m not making the claim.”

Her wall was back up as quick as it fell, but it did fall momentarily. That had to count for something.