Satellite: The Satellite Trilogy, Part I (7 page)

I stood and asked Fischer a minute later: “You think Tatum will ever forgive me for being late?”

“Sure. She acts tough, but she’s a real softy. That’s what Dad says. Why do you call her Tatum?”

“What else would I call her?” I asked.

“Tate, of course. She’s only Tatum when she’s in trouble.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, everyone calls her Tate.”

I leaned a few inches closer to her. “Tate it is,” I said emphatically, feeling victorious that I knew something else about her.

She looked up at me briefly then, and I saw an uncertain optimism in her eyes. Her face turned cherry red before she placed our order.

.

5. You live in a sad world of denial, kid

“There you are! I’ve been looking all over for you.”

The voice makes me jump. Not ready to return from memory lane yet, I drop my head to hide my disappointment and struggle to use my nicest voice. “Hey, Anna. What’s up?”

“Not much. I’m exhausted.” She sinks beside me into the pew. “I just can’t get coding down. What are you doing in here?” she asks, looking around Alogan.

“Just thinking.”

She leans her head back. “Seems like a great place for that.”

I rest my head against the hard pew as well. Being with Anna is easy, like being with Tate. Emptiness tears at my insides like cancer. I swallow and try to focus on the swarming birds.

Rolling my head to the side to study Anna, she exhales dramatically. Her eyes are closed like she’s sleeping. She’s too tiny, too sweet, too unzombielike to be dead.

As if sensing my gaze, she opens her eyes. “Wanna grab a bite in Benson?”

“Sure,” I say, standing. I’m not hungry, but apparently I can always eat.

“So, what else have you been up to?” she asks on our way.

I think about my second attempt at coding and decide to lie. “Nothing. It’s been a pretty uneventful day.”

We fill our trays and grab an empty table in the mostly deserted room. When Liam, who’s looking much better now, joins us, I’m surprised.

“I thought you’d be at Viscal,” I say to him.

“Nah. All my family and friends are alive and well.”

“That’s good, right?” Anna asks.

Liam grins. “Yeah, that’s good. How are you guys adjusting?”

“Mmm,” I answer noncommittally, thankful to have a mouth full of mashed potatoes.

Anna jumps in. “Not bad. I still can’t get over the amazing food.”

The conversation stays light while we eat and then the three of us play Sats. When Rigby joins us, I deal him into our fourth game. Liam wins as usual. By our fifth game, a rumble grows from down the hall.

Liam looks toward the archways while he shuffles the deck. “The slackers are back.”

I choke on my drink. “Already?” There’s no way three days have passed.

He smirks. “Time flies.”

As if to prove him right, Willow bounces into the room ahead of the herd.

“What’s up, losers? Did I miss anything?” Jovial, she plops into the chair beside mine.

Liam points his thumb at Willow. “Honestly, I don’t know how you stand this one.”

I’m barely listening.
Three days already?

“Her? Shoot, he’s got it easy!” Rigby barks before cannibalizing another toothpick.

When a throat clears behind him, Willow’s smile grows so big it nearly cuts her face in half. “Hey, Shane,” she says, looking above Rigby, whose face is now burning red.

“So, uh…you guys excited about training today?” Jordan asks, smacking Rigby on the shoulder before grabbing a chair and squeezing himself into a position at the now crowded table.

Training?
My eyes bulge in disbelief and I give Willow “the look.”

“Oh yeah. I probably forgot to mention that,” Willow says in her most aggravating voice. I heave an exaggerated sigh.

“Wait till you see the field.” Owen voice comes from behind me. He drags a chair close to a beaming Anna and leans over her to talk to me. “So, Grant, you know Clara’s totally digging you, right? You should ask her out; she’s a major babe.” His eyebrows dance up and down. “But she’s nothing compared to you,” he whispers to Anna.

Willow’s paying attention now, as is Rigby. She looks indifferent. Rigby looks curious.

“You gonna hit that?” Rigby asks.

“No!” I say too loudly. Willow shakes her head, though she’s clearly not surprised by my sudden outburst.

“Mind if I do? I mean, not
hit that
—sorry girls, that was disrespectful. But I’d totally ask her out if you’re not going to.”

“Be my guest.”
Please.

As if choreographed, the Satellites begin pushing their calimeters, saying their good-byes, and vanishing from the room as quickly as they arrived.

“Thanks for the heads-up on training. A little notice would have been nice,” I say to Willow on our way out of Benson.

“You gotta check your schedule or something?”

“Funny. Is being annoying intentional or a natural gift?”

“Hmm, I’d definitely say natural. Good to know I still have my charm after all these years.”

We stop at a hallway where
Orders
is spelled out in stained glass overhead. I stand to the side of the line in an effort to see around the crowd in front of us. “What are we doing?”

“Picking up your assignment.” Willow may as well finish her sentence with “Duh.”

My mouth drops into an
O
.

“Shoot. Did I forget to mention that, too? Sorry.” There’s nothing apologetic in her tone.

On the verge of hyperventilating, I try to keep my cool. Willow will never let me live it down if I crack right here in front of everyone.

“Don’t worry, kid. You won’t begin your assignment until you’re cleared from training. That’s a couple of weeks out still,” she assures.

The hall is similar to the others, constructed of dark marble. I nervously tap my boot on the floor while more people file behind us. The classical music being piped in makes me think of Tate, which heightens my nerves. I can’t place the melody, though Tate could likely recite the title, composer, and probably even the date after just a few seconds of listening. She’s ridiculous when it comes to things like that.

“You’ll have some time to review your assignment after training,” Willow says as we move a step forward.

“What’s training like?” I ask.

“And kill your initial reaction?” She shakes her head. “Uh-uh, no way.”

“Another one of Willow’s surprises. Excellent!” I say with exaggerated sarcasm.

“Hold still, kid.” She brushes my shoulder. “Got it.”

“Got what?”

“The chip.”

“Seriously, Willow. Your jokes are bogus.”

She sticks her tongue out.

When it’s finally my turn, the girl behind the gold desk smacks her gum and then blows a huge pink bubble that matches her hair color. She sucks in and pops it. “Name?”

“Grant Bradley.”

She tries to straighten her T-shirt over her pink tank top, which is difficult because the green-striped fabric, slashed with diagonal lines, appears to have been in a scuffle with a mountain lion.

I look at Willow, hoping she’ll help me out when my staring contest with Bubble-Gum Girl is almost to the one-minute mark. Of course, she doesn’t.

“Is something wrong?” I finally ask Bubble-Gum Girl, irritated.

“Nah. You just don’t look like a Grant.” She cocks her head. “Maybe a Sean or a David.” She smacks her gum again.

“Sorry, it’s Grant. My assignment?”

“Oh, right.” She spins in a circle and disappears into the marble floor. An instant later, the floor spits her out, making her hoop earrings swing back and forth even though she’s now standing still. “Here you are, then.” She hands me a heavy book.

I mumble my thanks. This place is so ridiculous.

“You should consider changing your name!” she yells after me.

Willow and I walk back to the lobby. “She’s as weird as you,” I say.

Willow nudges me in the side. “Watch it, kid, or I won’t go easy on you in training.”

“Who are you kidding? You won’t go easy on me, anyway!”

“True that. When you complete your first assignment, you’ll meet Jonathan in the same place to get your next one. His approach at retrievals is a lot different than Eve’s back there.”

“What do you mean?”

“Let’s just say he’s much more…traditional. To each their own.”

I study the book as we walk. On the cover,
Grant Bradley, Assignment One,
is stacked in gold text and bracketed by wings. The cherry red book is about the size of the ones Tate always had her nose stuck in before her reading material switched from fiction to medical texts. She was always trying to uncover the next miracle treatment for me.

“I’m hopeless, Tate. Give it up,” I’d say.

“You’re hopeless, all right,” she’d tease back.

I wonder who she’s trying to save now that I’m gone. I pray it’s herself.

At the end of a short hallway, towering French doors made from a mess of tree branches greet Willow and me. The word
Courtyard
is formed from the limbs in the center. Willow grabs the giant stick handles and gives them a push. After chuckling at my reaction, she grabs my elbow and pulls me onto the stone pathway. If I could force my eyes to stop bugging out, I’d squint from the vibrancy.

My dad would have heart failure if he saw this. The lawn is even more manicured than ours, and that’s saying something. One time, my dad cut the grass along our driveway with
scissors
. It was sick the way that man loved our lawn. One look at this place, and he’d never want to leave. He’d probably request a pair of scissors and ask if he could be the groundskeeper.

“You coming, kid?”

Willow’s voice registers, but I can’t stop staring.

“Earth to Grant.” She snaps her fingers two inches from my eyes. “Hellooooo? Can you hear me?”

I grab her tiny wrist, and in an instant, I have her arm pinned behind her back. “Yes, I hear you, but I prefer to ignore you,” I say into her ear.

She jerks unexpectedly, and before I know what’s happening, she has my arm behind my back. “Well, you’d better listen up, because you’re about to get schooled by the Almighty Willow.”

I struggle lightly, not wanting to hurt her. “Certainly you’ve already taught me everything you know. I mean, how much can that little head of yours hold?”

“Save it for the field,” Jordan jokes as he walks past us.

Willow smacks a kiss on my cheek before releasing my arm. “Watch and learn, kid.”

“You are seriously touched in the head!” I yell after her. “And keep your lips to yourself!”

I follow her and the others along the sloped, winding sidewalk. Spiraling pine trees border the path in pots the size of compact cars. Down the hill at the end of the sidewalk, the ground levels into the greenest field I’ve ever seen. By comparison, Benson is matchbox size.

I climb the cedar bleachers to Anna and Rigby. From behind, Willow flicks my ear when I sit. I give her a dirty look as the last group of Satellites straggles onto the crowded bleachers.

Jonathan walks onto the field, happier than a pig in mud, and scans us. He’s clean-shaven now but still casual in a T-shirt, jeans, and flip-flops. His whistle and clipboard actually calm my jitters; it’s like I’m back on the football field (or, more appropriately, a dozen football fields). Maybe this won’t be so bad.

“Welcome, everyone. I’ve spoken with your Legacies, and it appears you are all settling in nicely thus far. I trust you are finding your accommodations acceptable.”

They could be, if I got rid of Willow’s sofa.

“Today we begin your training. In addition to being exhilarating, it will be challenging and exhausting. Be mindful of your body through this process. If you get tired, rest. Training is not the time, nor place, to be ostentatious. Your purpose here is to learn.” His pacing, slow and measured, heightens his dramatic delivery. “Before we begin, let’s first discuss your purpose. Your one—and only—job is to keep your Tragedy’s life on course. You have all received your assignment books, which I ask that you begin studying later today. This book, in addition to detailing your Tragedy’s past, will precisely guide you through their future.”

I glance at Anna. She looks as relieved as I feel.

Jonathan continues. “The Tragedies are so named because they have experienced just that—tragedies. You must realize that every individual reacts differently to misfortune. Some will face depression, ranging from mild to severe. Others may act out, harming themselves or those around them.

“Having millenniums of experience, the Schedulers are rarely wrong when gauging a Tragedy’s reaction. However, you must be prepared to handle even the smallest deviations, as they could have ruinous effects. If a Tragedy strays too far off course, they are deemed a Rebellion. Since the formation of the Satellite department centuries ago, Rebellions have been a rare occurrence; however, it is crucial that you understand failure cannot be an option. Failure is catastrophic.”

After a dramatic pause, he places the clipboard under his arm and rubs his palms together.

“Now, let’s get down to business and learn how to avoid such devastation, shall we? Are there any volunteers who would like to start us off today?”

Bodies shift uncomfortably in the bleachers. I sink down lower, hoping to make myself invisible.

“We will!”

I groan. Please tell me my ears have deceived me.

“Come on, kid,” Willow beckons, stepping between Rigby and me.

Somehow, I refrain from pushing her down the bleachers and instead follow behind her with much less enthusiasm, meaning that I’m
not
skipping. Being the center of attention, especially in a crowd this large, does not make my list of favorite things.

“We will begin with a demonstration.” Jonathan happily looks down at his clipboard and flips through a few pages. “Grant Bradley?” he asks when Willow and I step onto the field.

“Yeah.”

“Excellent.” He flips the papers back over. “I’d like you to attack Willow, please.”

I clear my throat. “Excuse me?” Not that I haven’t fantasized about this, but she’s a chick, for crying out loud.

“I’d like you to go after Willow. Knock her down. Punch her. Get creative,” he urges.

“I…I can’t.” I sigh weakly, feeling hundreds of eyes burning into me.

“Sure you can.”

How can I make this clearer for Mr. Sure-You-Can? “I can’t hit a girl. Not even Willow.”

Along with Willow, the crowd laughs at my unintended joke.

“Come on, kid. You know you want to,” Willow provokes.

She’s right. I do. I may have even come close earlier in her room (and maybe a few other times, too). But I wouldn’t. Ever.

“Fine. Catch me, then.” She’s much less enthusiastic about this plan.

Jonathan approves. “That will work. Thank you, Willow.”