The only things that were consistently true over and again were a) the adults were lying to him, and b) the adults didn't trust him enough to tell him what they knew, which was more or less the same as lying. He thought, hard, about running away. He had money stashed in a little box under his mother's bed. He knew that he had nearly a thousand dollars saved up, now that Trent was out of the picture.
He wasn't sticking around this place because he was scared; he'd faced down scary and busted its nose, twice, and then faced down something even scarier and won. He wasn't even afraid (not completely) of running across smoking craters where big US cities used to be. And he definitely was not at all afraid of coming across Actives.
What stopped him were the notes he hadn't gotten from Charlotte. There were two that he knew of. Okay, one and a half if he wanted to get technical about it, and even though the evidence suggested she wasn't in danger, he wanted to help her however he could.
There were also a hundred or so Active people in this little gem of a town who could probably track him down, or keep him from leaving. He wasn't concerned with them. His father was Stone and his grandfather was some sort of superhero mafia don. They wouldn't mess with Michael Washington Junior.
Right, another part of him argued, just like they didn't mess with you at the assembly.
The second part was that life got back to normal really quick. His mother seemed to be normal enough, serving him up chopped apple bites and cereal for breakfast, packing his lunch, and reminding him to lock the garage door like she always did. Before he left, though, she reminded him that he needed to be back home directly after school.
“Yes mother,” he said, in what he hoped was his most respectful disrespectful tone he could manage.
The anger came though, and when it arrived, it came on strong. Just who did they think they were, keeping things from him? Did they think he was some sort of little baby? Maybe they did. They thought he couldn't handle the truth about his father, they thought the same thing about his grandfather. As if he wouldn't think it was really cool to have a dad flying all over the world stopping bad guys.
Unless he wasn't stopping bad guys.
Whatever, he thought. It didn't matter much who his dad was fighting, since they were just lying and lying and lying. First about his dad, then Grandpa from the moment he was born, but lord knew what else they were keeping from him.
Christmas came and went. It was probably the worst one ever, since he learned that his father was searching through tunnels in the former Peoples' Democratic Republic of Korea for separatists. So he wasn't home, and he didn't get much for Christmas anyway, since his mother was still really mad at him. He was grounded. No place to go except out in the bitter cold to deliver papers to houses that didn't really need them to begin with. The whole paper route system was probably cooked up by his grandfather, who thought everybody wanted to reminisce about the old times by reading paper instead of an eye-strain-free paper substitute that wasn't a drain on the environment and didn't require hundreds of trees to die every day. He got a ridiculously long hat that was for downhill sledding, which he didn't do because he didn't have friends to sled with. The first week after Christmas, it got caught in his bike chain and stained with axle grease. His mother was not best pleased.
Maybe two weeks after Christmas break, he began to see Charlotte everywhere. When mom gave up and took him out for some post-Christmas bargain shopping (she couldn't just leave him at home, what with the danger of him going Active and burning the house down), he thought he saw her shopping for blouses. When he broke away from his mom, running, he didn't find anybody there.
She was an Active. She could turn invisible or something. Teleport away maybe.
He caught a glimpse of her later as they pulled up to one of the city's few red lights. Charlotte was having an animated conversation...with someone else's family. It wasn't her family, for sure. Instead of Mrs. Sulzsko, it was a strange man driving, and in the back seat were two other girls in ballet outfits, complete with sparkling tiaras.
Michael didn't want to sit bolt upright in his seat and cry out, he regretted it as soon as he did it, but it was something of a reflex. He couldn't have stopped it any more than he could stop a train with his bare hands.
“What was that all about?” his mother asked.
“Nothing,” he said immediately, but she could sniff out a lie at fifty feet. Actually he wondered if she could tell when the neighbors were lying to each other across the street.
“Michael Edward,” she warned.
The sigh he pulled up was a deep one. “I thought I saw Charlotte.”
“But it wasn't Charlotte.”
No, it was. But he wasn't going to insist on something that couldn't be true. Maybe Charlotte could make you see things, like illusions or something. No, that wasn't possible. She was deep under the Marcus Patterson eighth grade school building, under a ridiculous amount of security, including some Actives guarding her. There would be no sneaking in there, even if the rumors of deep tunnel systems under the school were true. They would sense him coming, and they would blast him with acid or fireballs or something.
It was hopeless.
But his mother didn't believe him when he agreed that he was just imagining things. It didn't make sense that she knew something was true, and she made him say it, and then didn't believe him when he listened to her. That didn’t stop him from seeing Charlotte walking a dog before they got home, or sitting on the Henderson’s front porch reading a newspaper he’d delivered earlier that day. Each time when he’d looked back, she was gone, or it was really somebody else. At least there was orientation to take his mind off Charlotte.
To get the students ready for the Marcus Patterson eighth grade building, the faculty had five whole days of orientation activities planned. The first of these took all of them over to the other school.
Just approaching the school, he knew it wouldn’t be good. The Marcus C. Patterson eighth grade wing was a large and hunched over C-shaped structure, facing away from the LADCEMS main building. It clearly used to be something else. Where the main building was a technological marvel of graceful curves and a domed library with a bajillion books and little beanbags and artsy carpeting, the Patterson building felt like it was in danger of keeling over.
“Alright ladies and gentlemen,” Mr. Samuelson said. “You’re going to divide up into groups and take a tour of the building. Last names A through H, follow me please.”
Another teacher took the I through M’s (there were a lot of M’s for some reason), and Michael gulped when he saw who would take the N through Z’s.
Mr. Jackson, the grumpy mind-reader guy who thought Michael was synergistic. He folded his arms over his chest and glared at the lot of them.
“Right, listen close,” he said, and leaned toward them. “You don’t want to be here any more than I do, but we’ve had an emergency at the high school. Three dead. So I’ve got the day off, and I’m here. Live with it. About this school: it is a garbage heap. You’re only going to spend one year here, we hope, and move up to the high school where things get really scary. So stick close, don’t touch anything.” A student who was about to try opening a locker jumped back. She also squeaked. “And whatever you do, don’t make eye contact with any of the students here. They don’t need any more stress than they already have.”
As much as Michael didn’t like Mr. Jackson, he was right: the school was a dump. There were a few banks of lights out, or flickering in a horror-movie-about-to-start sort of way. The walls were freshly painted, but only in select spots, more like something that had been torn out, replaced, and covered over. Dozens of banks of lockers couldn’t be opened at all, just empty spaces nobody would ever fill with books or backpacks. Several classrooms also sat derelict, with yellow warning tape criss-crossing them. Michael believed the whispers he heard, that these were former crime scenes and would have chalk lines somewhere inside, in the shapes of dead students or teachers. The drop ceiling tiles were mismatche
d as well and it wasn’t possible to tell the old from the new, so you always felt like something might fall on you at any time. There were stretches of hallway nobody ever went down. The basketball hoop had been torn down ages ago, just leaving a backboard standing watch over the dirt lot. Michael personally felt, as his imagination caught wind of the strangeness of Marcus Patterson, that there were bodies stashed all over the place, and that one day he might turn one up.
The teachers at LADCEMS were bright, cheerful people who made up nice bulletin boards and smiled when they heard their horrible nicknames, like Conehead Kroner, and Stick-in-the-butt Stackleman. These were the types of people that always came in with a new science experiment or some cheesy but enjoyable video full of singing cartoon cats.
At Patterson, the teachers were more likely to have a wandering eye, strange limp, shuffling walk or bad comb over.
“Who’s that?” one girl whispered to another. Michael followed their eyes to an honest-to-goodness hunchback, who was staring at them with one big eye. Either Michael couldn’t see the other one, or it just wasn’t there.
“That?” Mr. Jackson said. “That, is the English Teacher, Mr. Bones. Everybody wave and say hello to Mr. Bones.”
Instead of waving, everybody exchanged glances with each other. They were about to get up the courage to whisper to each other when Mr. Jackson spoke up again.
“A joke people. Mr. Bones is the day janitor. Now, you will be polite and say hello to Mr. Bones.”
Michael stepped forward and waved. “Hi Mr. Bones.” He felt bad that all the other kids would hardly look at the janitor. His mother taught him that the janitors had a tough job, cleaning up after hundreds of children. He could see her nod in his mind.
Mr. Bones grinned and raised a four-fingered hand at him. He had a mouth like a shark. “Yo. Niceta meetcha.”
A few brave whispers started up behind him, but Mr. Jackson snickered and shook his head.
“Of course you would. Wouldn’t be surprised if you were a synergist after all, Washington.”
The tour included the woodshop, which was down in the basement, and over to where art classes were going on. The teacher there seemed to have a thing for paintings of fire, demons, beasts that were made of different animals mashed up together, and one massive piece where inhuman things were eating and chasing people around toward somebody’s version of hell. Later, they were asked to fill out forms indicating their interests, and what classes they thought might be good for the future. Michael liked computers, but there was a lot of math involved.
Finally, Terrence Jackson called them together and said, “We’re probably going to be late to the gym, so we’re going to take a shortcut. Ordinarily, you should never head to this part of the Patterson building. It’s off limits.”
Michael’s heart leapt into his throat. They were going into the underground Active prison thing!
But he was disappointed. Mr. Jackson led them around a corner, ducked under more of the yellow police tape, and stepped into a dark hallway with one flickering light at the very end.
“Step lightly people,” he said. “Holes in the floor. Single file, Washington.”
It was one of those annoying things that Jackson could just bark out one word as a shout. Everybody always jumped, too, like they weren’t expecting it.
He started to weave his way around the hallway, and now Michael could see some glowing, molten-red spots in the floor here. They were melted deep, which was why he couldn’t see them from far off. The walls also had scorch marks all over them, and in one place he looked out, through the wall, into a classroom, and saw another scorched hole looking out into the center courtyard.
“Mr. Jackson?” Michael asked. “What—”
“Not now. More you open your mouth, more radiation you’re likely to get, Washington.”
Several students screamed, but eventually they all made their way through the crater-filled hallway and past another big X of police tape. The gym was just beyond, and already full of seventh graders from LADCEMS. A large, fat, bald teacher in thick glasses was ushering everyone in. Michael recognized him as Mr. L, the Active who could take powers from someone and give them to somebody else. He turned a lopsided smile on Michael and the other N through Z's and ushered them through.
“Right here, all the way back, pack in tight,” he said. “Here we go, here we...ohhh.”
Most of the students had already made it into the gym, but Mr. Jackson suddenly folded up, clutching his head. One of the veins in his forehead suddenly stood out, and Michael wondered if his head wasn’t going to just pop.
“What’s wrong Mr. Jackson?” he asked, far too nicely.
“Shut up, Washington,” Mr. Jackson grunted. “Get in there before I give you a month’s detention.”
The gym looked like a darker and more run-down version of the LADCEMS one, without the banners hanging from the rafters telling when the school had been state champions in girls' volleyball or boys' basketball.
Mr. L rushed (more like waddled) over toward center court, where a podium was set up. The throat clearing sounded just fine coming through the huge speakers hung high up over the center of the gym, but Mr. L got much too close to the mic when he started speaking.
“Thank you!” he said. “Thank you everybody. Settle down now. Heh. I know this is pretty exciting for everyone, of course.”
Michael watched Mr. Jackson until the lights went out, but couldn’t tell if he was just having a really nasty headache or something else was going on.
It didn’t take a minute. The lights went out, like someone had stolen the sun out of the sky. Girls started screaming and boys laughing. The only light Michael could see was a few specks dribbling in under the doors.
“Nothing to worry about! Nothing at all!” Mr. L shouted. “Just...get...this darned...projector...”
Finally something buzzed to life, and a minute later a light came on. Another spotlight from somewhere high up flared to life, and after some confusion found Mr. L.
“Now, right, then, aha...” he said, and dropped a few of his note cards on the floor. More laughter followed, along with a ripple of disbelief. This was one of the Actives?
“Well, like the bird said to the flying fish, haha, just wing it,” he said, and went on even through the groans. “Not long from now, what, roundabout five months or so, you'll be enrolled in LADCEMS no longer! You will instead be a part of the Marcus Patterson high school preparation building. Which, aheh, doesn't have a good acronym, but there you have it. And things, my friends, are going to be very, very, very, very, very different.”
He beamed at them all. Michael stared at him in horror. He could not for the life of him believe anyone in the world talked like this. He also couldn't believe that person was trying to talk to him like this. He was embarrassed for Mr. L. If he had to give this presentation, he would probably burst into flame out of sheer embarrassment, and not in the good, I’ve-just-activated-my-super-powers way.
“It might not look like much, but Marcus Patterson has a long history of excellence. I’m sure in a few years, it’s going to be bulldozed and remade like LADCEMS, but not next year! You’ll have the pleasure and privilege of attending here next year.
“The programs that we, ah, set up here should help you get orientated to your, ah, new surroundings. This school will be your home for the next, what, nine and a half months? Let's call it a year. You will need to meet some of the people who will be your neighbors, no, your family, for that time. You'll need to be ready for high school, because Lincoln Area District High is very different, very different from what you have experienced so far.
“Why, I remember the moment I arrived at the Lincoln Area District,” Mr. L said. “Takes me back, sure. I had no idea that I was going to be a part of such an exciting and wonderful environment. But then I met Mr. Jackson here, and...”
A bright white stab of pain, much like a two foot long nail, erupted into Michael's head. The gym disappeared. He was blind. br />
No, that wasn't right. The world just dissolved really quickly. Like if you were staring at the place a nuclear bomb was being dropped.
In its place were a few smells. One was a summer smell, the smell of grass cuttings on his lawn, the scent of summer roses and tulips in the city center not far from city hall. A hint of car exhaust. Aftershave, like the stuff his father splashed on his face. Sweat. Fearful sweat.
Blobby voices came into his ears.
“—can't be serious,” one said. “Washington won't stand for it.”
“Won't stand for it,” the other voice said. Both were familiar. “Listen to yourself. Who cares what people will stand for? Look at this place! No, really, look, look around you!”
Michael could look. He wasn't far from the high school, near the edge of town where fewer cars went. Everything was blurry, but he could make out the water tower as a sky blue blob and the chunky forms of trees. Two people stood before him, but they were nothing more than fuzzy smears of color. His eyes were starting to get the handle on this dream...hallucination...thing.
“What do you see? Let me guess. A flourishing community. Something perfect and wonderful.”
“Well yes!” the first voice said. Michael knew it now, the first was Mr. L.
“You only see the shiny red apple, you can't see the rot on the inside. This place is doomed, Archibald. You take my advice and steer clear of here.”
This had to be Jackson. Yes, his eyes were clearing, and he could see them now. Younger, both of them with more hair and Mr. L quite a lot thinner.
“No, no, that's not right,” Mr. L said. “Have you seen the rest of the world, Terrence? They've really built something here. A diamond in the rough.”
Somewhere, a long way off, a siren was going, a shrill blast like a super powered scream. “Eeeeeeee!”
“A diamond in the middle of a volcano,” Mr. Jackson said. “This thing's going to come down, I promise you that. And you, you want to be here in the middle of the eruption?”
“So why are you here?” Mr. L still had that lopsided smile, still had the thick glasses, and only a little more hair than now. Neither of them made any sign that they heard the siren.
“EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!”
Mr. Jackson looked uncomfortable. Finally he pointed a finger at Mr. L and jabbed it in his chest. “Don't let this place trap you, Archie. That's what it does. You get out before they get the hooks in you.”
“I won't listen—”
“EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!”
His head rocked to the side, and the sting of being slapped exploded in front of him. His head was his own again, only it was full of red-hot clamps, like jumper cables attached to his head all over, pumping a steady stream of pain in.
The siren: it was Michael, screaming and screaming. His body was nothing more than nuclear slag on a slow, total burn. Every cell of him screamed, not just his throat, though the sound only came out of his mouth. That one scream wasn't enough. His eyes were open but they wanted to shriek like the rest of him.
The last thing he remembered seeing was Charlotte's concerned face looking down at him, and a bright light. Then everything flashed from white to black.
Michael dreamed of Bangledesh. He dreamed of the dripping jungle leaves as big as his chest and the black, boot-tromped soil, and burning tanks without turrets on them. He was walking through a city, but it wasn't anything like the city he knew. This one was crowded, full of litter, and most of the streets were still dirt. A market was going, and Michael paused to step through. The scents of smoked fish and mushrooms and cayenne pepper assaulted him, but he kept walking. The people stared at him, but then looked away in fear. Let them look away in fear. He'd just saved their smelly, dripping armpit of a country, they were right to be afraid. He caught a reflection of himself in a dirty window, but saw his father instead.
Michael was in a brightly carpeted room with lots of space, plenty of toys and stuffed animals, and windows that looked out on fake sunny skies. It had a carefully disinfected smell to it. He was sure the cleaning people came in every day while he was in the exercise gym and sprayed everything to kill off all the germs. He looked up at the friendly man as he came through the lemon yellow door.
“How are we doing today? Still having headaches are we?”
“Not as bad,” Michael lied. His head was the chopping block they used over at Hildner's meat department, always being whacked by the big guy in the bloody apron. And the strange thing: he had Charlotte's voice. Wait a minute. How was it possible that he was speaking with Charlotte’s mouth?
“Good, that's really good. But just to be safe, we're going to keep up the dose for a few more days.”
“I was thinking...” he said. Charlotte said. Somebody said: “...maybe my family could come and see me? I mean, yeah, I know, you said it wasn't a good idea for me to go out, but couldn't they come here?”
He laughed. Of course he'd laugh. “Well, of course we can't have you running off again. We don't know how your abilities are going to manifest, exactly. Until we know, it's time to stay put and keep healthy.
“As to having your family here: I think that's a really great idea,” he said. “You never know where people get therapy from. Could be from reading a certain book, listening to a certain song, playing a certain game, seeing a certain person. I'll see what I can do, okey dokey?”
He wouldn't though. Doctors always made promises that meant nothing. Like that your dad was going to be all right. Like everything was going to be fine.
He was in his Grandpa's house. He'd been there a million times before, but it felt different now. Like it was his house, not Grandpa's anymore. He turned and saw Susanna, his mother, there. She was angry, which wasn't unusual, but she was holding herself tight, like she was scared. Michael didn't think scared was a part of her vocabulary.
“I'm pulling him,” she said. “I can teach him at home.”
“That's not a good idea,” he told her. Grandpa told her. Michael was... his own grandfather?
She laughed, but there was no fun in that laugh. “Oh yeah? And why not? Because he's made so many friends? Because he's had such a positive experience? It's like he's a walking danger magnet.”
“He's had accidents in the past...” he suggested. “He always bounced back.”
“Accidents? This isn't like him falling and breaking his wrist!” And she did something he hadn't seen since she was just out of high school: she pulled up a pack of cigarettes and lit one. She was silent for a while, just pulling in the smoke (the first step on the road to cancer, like she'd said before).
“Every time my husband comes home we end up in a fight and I threaten to leave,” she said finally. “I'm serious, Harold.”
“We are working on the problem, Susanna,” he said. “We are doing the best—”
“Your best isn’t good enough!” she screamed. “I swear to you, Harold, if my son wakes up in the hospital because of your schools one more time, you will never see us again. My husband can kiss his peace of mind goodbye.”
Michael stared at her. Grandpa/Michael stared.
“And don't even think about sending your little bloodhound Actives after me. Using these, these people every time you have a problem is a pretty poor way of doing things, I don't mind telling you.” She took a long drag on her cigarette, and the end flared up like a sickly eye. Staring at him.
And Michael woke up in the hospital. Again.
Chapter 12 - Keeping the Keys