Chapter Seven #2
I climb to my feet and brush off my leggings, avoiding his eyes. “No. I freaked out.”
“Why?”
“You’ve never freaked out when someone grabbed your nav?”
“Not when I’m trying to channel to them. Sure I didn’t hurt you?”
“I’m sure, it’s—” I stop before mentioning Mirabel. I’m not going to blame my mistake on his teammate giving me a boo-boo. “My bad. We’ve got three options now. I channel to you again. You channel to me again. Or we try leaguing.”
“What do you want to do?”
“I want our practice so far to have been less humiliating.”
He laughs. “Sorry. Nav and humiliation are like peanut butter and jelly. I’ll channel to you again. Ready?”
***
For the next half hour, Vik and I fail at channeling. At 6 a.m., we call it quits. A pristine sunrise filters through the trees as we trudge up the footpath. I dread what Vik will say when we reach the courts: Sorry, you’re useless. Deal’s off.
On the lawn beyond the trees, he pauses. “Same time tomorrow?”
“But I sucked,” I blurt. “We didn’t even get to leaguing.”
He flashes that radiant-nanosecond grin. “When you try something new, you suck at first. See you.”
I stare at him as he strides away, shoulders broad, back straight.
I expected him to be a crappy teacher: demanding and impatient, hurrying through lessons I needed to reach the leaguing he wanted.
Instead, once he agreed to our deal, it’s like a switch flipped inside him.
Now we’re partners. He’s genuinely trying to help me.
Huh.
Baffled, I shake my head and go in search of food.
***
I’d kill a man for coffee.
In the dining hall, pink sun flushes the white walls. Red-faced boys in sweatpants have claimed a long table near the cornucopia. The only other breakfaster is Candace, in a snake-print blazer, sitting at a bar top and staring out the window.
I walk to her. “Early to bed, early to rise?”
“Not as a rule.” She sips from a chunky mug. The skin under her eyes is swollen, mauve. “Bree set her alarm for five a.m. And kept hitting snooze. She has a gift for falling back asleep after The Magic Flute detonates near her head. I have no such gift.”
“Oh, dear. You going to talk to her?”
“I’m giving her one pass. After that…” She raises her mug, tilts it sharply, and frowns.
“Let me get you a refill.”
I return with two full mugs and a bagel (blueberry, so basically a fruit). Between sips, I ask, “What do you know about Vik?”
“Hmm.” Candace picks up her toast. “Just what Griffin’s said.”
“Which is?”
She nibbles thoughtfully. “Griff’s fond of him.
And Griff’s not fond of many people. When he was a toddler, his mom had an affair with a coworker, got pregnant, and left Griff and his dad for her new-model family.
It left him with trite but understandable trust issues.
And an embarrassing habit of calling our teachers ‘Mom.’”
“He trusts Vik, though?”
“It’s more like…Griff’s a high-functioning social creature.
I mean, he has to be. The stepdad expects him to become a Fortune 500 CEO, at minimum.
So. Griff befriends, teases, flirts. Manipulates.
As one does. Except, according to Griff, Vik doesn’t.
He exists on a higher plane, like some intellectually oriented alien.
Griff has a condescending affection for the purity of Vik’s mind.
” Candace shrugs. “Also, he feels bad about how hard Vik took the situation with their old blockmate.”
“The one who dropped out?”
Candace lowers her voice. “The administration said he dropped out. Griff heard rumors he was expelled.”
“For what?”
“Interference.”
We glance over our shoulders and apply ourselves to our food: Nothing to see here, officer.
While I chew my doughy bagel, I wonder what it would be like to have lived with someone suspected of interference.
You must end up second-guessing every choice you made near that person: every word, every gesture.
Sure, choices you make under interference are choices you might have made.
But you would never know whether they were the choices you would have made if someone hadn’t put a thumb on your scales, choices that expressed your hard core, not your soft, erratic edges.
Suddenly I want to be alone, out of other people’s sight and nav reach. I say goodbye to Candace, bus my dishes, and flee.
***
On Monday, in nav clinic, we start our three-week unit on channeling. Last week, the building was packed. Today, all but twenty-three seniors are gone, eliminated in the screening and demoted to Clinic B or C. The big room feels hollower, the echoes louder.
After dinner, Candace, Bree, and I return to our block to practice. I’m not eager to fill our common room with blood and stomach acid, but if we mess up badly, I’d rather we do it in private. I don’t want the sharks in clinic looking at us and seeing chum—any more than they already do.
While Candace perches on the sofa, Bree flops into the armchair. “Who goes first channeling?” she asks.
I hunch cross-legged on the carpet. I should volunteer: I’m the one who pushed the extra nav practice, though we all have a million hours of regular homework.
But I don’t want to hurt Candace or Bree like I’ve hurt Vik in our early morning meetings.
What does it say about me that I picked up siphoning nav in a snap but fail hard at giving it?
After a pause, Bree rolls her eyes. “I’ll do it. It can’t suck worse than siphoning.”
“Pun intended?” Candace murmurs.
“Heck yeah, baby.”
Bree’s courage makes me ashamed to hesitate. “I’ll pair with you. Want to give or take?”
“Giving sounds easier.” She levers herself off the armchair, plops to the carpet in front of me, and pulls cards from her skirt. “You can use these. Ready when you are?”
I take the cards. “Three, two, one.”
In flickerstate, Bree looks like—
Well… The summer after my sophomore year at Saint Cat’s, the Sullivans drove to Branson, Missouri, for vacation.
Mom and Dad had disregarded the PowerPoint I’d made (which included a financing plan and a bibliography) proposing we leave the twins with Grandma Marino and fly to Madrid, so I could practice my Spanish, see Goyas in the Prado, and tell the stuck-up West County girls at school where they could shove their trips to New York and L.A.
Instead, we went to the glamorous Ripley’s Believe It or Not!
museum in yet more glamorous Branson. There, I came upon a giant ball of twine, which The Guinness Book of World Records had acknowledged as the world’s largest as of 1993, before other, more giant balls of twine surpassed it.
I mean, God. It wasn’t even the current record holder.
Sorry. Tangent.
Point is, Bree’s nav reminds me of that giant ball of twine—she’s that huge, that wound up—except she’s also pink and fuzzy, yarn-like, wavering into the air as if the future is crocheting her into intricate patterns of possibility.
As she tries to channel, a skein unwinds from her and wavers toward me.
I’ve failed at accepting Vik’s nav gently because I get greedy and panicked, like a kid fond of swimming pools confronted by an ocean. With Bree, I need to stay calm. I take her skein between my thumb and forefinger and, gently as I can, gather it in.