One (One Universe) Page 6

  My hands fumble for the screws on the tom holders and floor legs, lowering them enough so that I get a sense of what it would really be like to play. I let my foot hover over the high-hat pedal and twitch it, imagining.

  Suddenly Elias’s hand is on top of my left one, and his other hand puts something in my right. He brings my hands together. I stare up at him as my fingers clench themselves around two brand-new sticks.

  “The smallest ones we have,” Elias says. I want to tell him it doesn’t matter what size the sticks are, but thank you. Something stops the words from coming out of my throat, so I nod dumbly.

  He smiles — for real, not sadly — and says, “Go ahead. Let’s hear it.”

  I shake my arms around, loosening my shoulders, and I spin the stick in my right hand. My wrist adapts to the action like that’s what it was made to do. Elias’s eyebrows go up, and he laughs like he’s never seen anything so awesome.

  Heat floods my face, but as soon as that stick hits the tom’s clear head, making the first mark on it, I am in another world. The ends of my sticks explode with a long note on the side and then crash against the cymbals, their sound so crisp and clear that I can practically see the shimmers they send through the air. I bring it down to a steady beat on the snare and side for a few bars, and I’m stunned by how beautiful these drums are, how strong and solid. They don’t tremble or budge a bit.

  After twenty seconds, I start a driving thrum between the snare and the high-hat, my right foot bouncing my leg along to the rhythm I pound out on the bass.

  My whole body moves with the rest of the band I can only hear in my head, letting my drums shine, making them sparkle.

  I hear Elias’s feet shuffle. He must be getting bored, I think, but I don’t really care. Then, all of a sudden, a low chord progression plays over and over again to my drumbeats. I look up for a split second through the blur of the sticks, which are now playing at exactly the same rhythm as my heartbeat.

  Elias is standing there in his t-shirt and jeans, having shed his bulky sweatshirt, holding a deep blue electric, playing along with me.

  A grin so wide spreads across my face that I swear my cheeks will crack off and fall onto the floor. I don’t even know why Elias playing along makes me so happy, only that I start to bounce my shoulders on purpose now and play a little faster.

  Elias keeps right up. He grins now, too, and as our eyes meet, I start to drum more gently, letting him riff. His fingers are moving so fast right at the base of the guitar’s neck that I almost want to stop my drumming so that all I have to do is listen to him play, but I don’t want to make him stop. I close my eyes, feel my body move almost of its own accord, feel it absorb the drums’ vibrations, and let the sound of us playing — together — wash over me.

  A lump rises in my throat, and something hot and wet slides down my cheek. I’m crying. I’m playing the most beautiful drums ever and crying.

  A second after I realize it, I decide I don’t even care.

  For the first time, I don’t have to drown someone out. Elias is meeting me where I am. He’s the only person who’s ever been willing to do that — able to do that. Now that he has, I’m not so sure what to make of him anymore.

  Elias stops playing and basically ditches the guitar on the floor. He crosses the room to me in a handful of long strides. He’s looking at me like he wants to touch me but doesn’t know where or how. I let the sticks clatter on the floor and stand up, turning toward him.

  It’s almost painful how far back I have to tilt my head to look at him. He stands there, looking at me, his eyes a little worried, and he’s so close that all I need to do is lean my head forward and I could just fall into him.

  My stomach feels tight but I don’t know if it’s from embarrassment or nervousness or him being so close to me or me wanting to be closer to him.

  It takes me a split second to figure it out. I let my head fall, and then his arms are around me, letting me decide how close he holds me. Breathing in the scent of his t-shirt — sunshine and aftershave and detergent — is the only thing that could stop my tears now. I step closer to him.

  He’s touching me, body against body in so many more places than I ever imagined letting a boy ever touch me. But it’s warm and okay. The feel of his skin and bones reminds me that he’s just a boy, a sweet one. Not a threat.

  I sniffle, and I’m horrified at myself, but something about being in his arms is so warm and wonderful that I start to laugh. It’s not a giggle, and it’s not nervous. It’s relief, to be standing here in this room being held by a boy who understands me without words.

  He laughs, too, and we stay there for a long moment. He pulls back and looks down at me.

  “Mom really wanted me to take lessons,” he says, his voice low. “I didn’t have the heart to tell her when I finally decided I wanted to quit. You?”

  I laugh once. “Pent-up anger, I guess. Sucking at being a Super pissed me off more than anything else. No one cares if you beat drums, so…”

  He laughs again, and he’s so close I can feel his breath. His eyes focus on some part of my face in such a strange way for the briefest instant. Then, like a switch has been flipped, he stands up straighter, takes the slightest step backward. I try not to make my breath too audible.

  “We’ve, uh… I’ve gotta be back,” he says, his voice gentle and affectionate. He motions toward the door at the back of the room, which leads outside. “Let me walk you to your car.”

  I’m suddenly shy, but I have to say it. “Only if you promise I can come back. You know…to play again.”

  He nods and smiles that smile of his again, the one that’s small but real, and I shake a little.

  “Done,” he says. There’s a pause, and we just kind of stand there looking at each other.

  Elias walks me out the door. On the way down the steps, he reaches out and gently takes my hand.

  “What are you…” I say, and he guides me to the outside wall and presses my hand — palm first and then finger by finger — to a shining black panel there. It glows to life under my skin.

  “Rosie,” he says to the panel, “Give Merrin full house access, okay?”

  “Full house access granted to Merrin Grey,” Rosie says.

  I lean in toward the panel. “Um, thanks?”

  “You have to say her name.” The grin on Elias’s face is so infectious that I want to laugh.

  “Thanks, Rosie,” I say, looking at Elias.

  “My pleasure, Merrin,” she says. I shake my head and look back at the house.

  “When I say ‘come back any time,’ I mean it,” he says softly.

  “But I don’t even…”

  “Know me? Well, maybe you do a little better, now, huh?”

  The idea of driving all the way to Elias’s house to sneak in and play drums sounds enticing and silly at the same time. I shake my head in a way that could mean either “maybe” or “no, I wouldn’t do that,” depending on how he wants to see it.

  He beams. Guess he really does want me back.

  We walk back to my car, and the gravel crunches under our feet. My body shakes with the sudden chill in the air — the sunlight is the only difference between warm and chilly in the autumn.

  “Whoa,” I say. “I should have brought a jacket.”

  Elias picked up his sweatshirt on the way out of the music room but never put it back on. I can see goosebumps on his arms, but he swings it around my shoulders. The sleeves reach to my knees, and he smiles.

  Oh my God. He thinks I said it to flirt with him or get his sweatshirt or something. “No, I didn’t… I mean, there’s heat in my car.”

  “And there are more sweatshirts in the house. No worries.” He smiles at me, but there’s a hint of disappointment hiding behind it.

  Elias unplugs my car from the strip. I duck into the driver’s seat without looking at him, push the startup button, and shiver into the sweatshirt one more time, cranking up the heat. When I start to back up, I roll down the window. />
  “Thanks. Um, you know. For everything.” Suddenly, I can’t make eye contact with him. Or I don’t want to. Or I’m afraid to.

  He starts back toward the house and waves over his shoulders with two fingers extended.

  That night, I have vague dreams, dreams that involve flashing golden light. It’s the only thing I can see. Something makes my hair lash across my face, blows it back again, and then it catches on my skin. It’s the wind, rushing past me. I only feel it on my back, even though my whole body is moving.

  The front half of my body presses up against something, but I don’t know what. It should freak me out — I don’t like being pressed up against anything, not even tight clothes — but it doesn’t. I know how I always expected flying to make me feel — freaking over the moon. But now that it’s happening, now that the feeling is mine to taste, prickling across my skin, I don’t know how I feel, really — confused and euphoric and terrified all at once.

  All I know is that my smile is so wide I can feel the wind against my teeth.

  The flashes of light fade, slowly, but for a long time, the wind keeps whipping around me, and I speed through the blackest night, pressed into the mysterious solid heat. Eventually, the combination of speed and warmth lull me back into a deep sleep.

  EIGHT

  The alarm on my cuff screeches, ripping me out of the most vivid flying dream I’ve ever had. I realize I’m lying on my stomach and think — in my fuzzy half-awake haze — that that makes sense. That’s why I was dreaming about being pressed up against something. I never sleep like that. My body normally takes up the whole bed, limbs flailed every which way.

  I roll over and turn my face toward my window, soaking up the early morning sun. This is my morning’s guilty pleasure and why late spring into summer into early autumn is my favorite season. First thing in the morning, I bask in the gorgeous, glowing rays that invite themselves into my room. I’m obsessed with it.

  There’s something new to the ritual this morning. A foreign scent, unfamiliar and enticing, a little woodsy, a little musky. I open my eyes, reluctant to give up the sensation of the orange glow of sunlight filtered through my eyelids.

  Oh, God. I fell into bed last night still wearing Elias’s sweatshirt. I can’t wipe the smile off my face.

  I stumble out of bed, finding my flip flops — the bathroom I share with the boys is always gross — and wash my face and run a comb through my hair, still wearing the stupid sweatshirt. I look up in the mirror, and sure enough, I’m still smiling. Still.

  It’s the drums, I tell myself, the drums that were so beautiful and sounded so amazing and felt so solid and responsive. But every time I say the word “drums” to myself, all I can think of is how Elias looked, how he felt, in that damn concert hall of his. How his voice sounded when he told me to come back any time, cautious but inviting. The look in those stupid, gorgeous, multicolored eyes of his as I drove off.

  I take a deep breath, unzip the sweatshirt, fold it up, and stick it in my bag.

  I flip through my closet and pull on a stretchy jersey skirt that swings around my knees, red flats, and a t-shirt that clings instead of hangs. I own a ton of skirts because I always liked the way they swung around and let the air move around my body, but after the incident last year, all I wanted to wear was old jeans.

  Today, I feel a little safer.

  I run downstairs, and Mom raises an eyebrow at me. “You look nice, sweetie.”

  I’m not feeling that generous, so I kind of raise an eyebrow at her and make a lot of noise unwrapping my brownies so I don’t have to talk to her. I shift my weight from leg to leg, fidgeting while eating, impatient with the slowness of my own chewing.

  To avoid eye contact with Mom, I pull my reader out and pretend to be reading something. Really, I’m watching the news feed on the countertop. An image of Julian Fisk, President of the Hub, with his arm around a woman in a white coat and holding a beaker, stares at me from the screen. The headline screams, “A STEP TOWARD ADVANCEMENT FOR THE SINGULARLY GIFTED?”

  Holy shit. Are they working on Ones now? Finally?

  Maybe it’s a sign. I should ask Mom and Dad for their signatures today. That application for the Hub internship is due before winter break, but I want to get it in as soon as possible. My heart jumps. I swing my bag around to my front to reach for my tablet.

  Suddenly, Mom clicks the feed closed.

  “Don’t worry about that, Merrin. It’s nothing but marketing. Feel-good stories. I work there. I know.”

  I look up at her, narrowing my eyes, and her face is tight, her stance tense.

  “I’d be one of the first to know,” she says again.

  “I made some eggs, honey,” Dad calls from the stove, breaking the tension.

  I swallow hard and call, “Thanks. Gotta go though.” I would rather die than eat the jiggly yellow-and-white grossness that is scrambled eggs, and Dad knows that. He doesn’t want to feed me. He wants to hear about me studying with other kids. Like I’m normal or something.

  “Oh, and by the way,” Dad says, stepping over to the table and handing me a plate anyway. “I called Mr. Hoffman. A couple of times. Left messages, but I still haven’t heard back.”

  “Um…yeah. Okay. Thanks, Dad.”

  “Do you still want a tutor? I can ask around…”

  “No,” I say, pretending to be very focused on getting my reader in the pocket inside my bag. If I look up at Dad, he’ll be able to see the lie in my eyes. Plus, I’d rather not give him something else to worry about. “I’m okay. I’m doing better, Dad. Just like I said, remember?” I glance up to check his expression as I shove some snacks in my bag. He’s watching me so carefully, with a tight half-smile on his face.

  “Really,” I say. “Remember? Friends? Studying for calculus? The holo-teachers aren’t as bad as I said. I was just being a brat.”

  I snap my bag closed and look up to see Dad’s familiar sympathetic smile. As much as he loves me, even he wants me to be a Normal. Pick a side already, stop moping around, live like a regular person. Stop hoping for something I’ll never be able to have. I can hear that much, at least, in his answer. My fingers mechanically snap my bag shut again.

  I slug back a glass of chocolate milk, throw it in the dish sterilizer, and stride out before I even get to hassle Max and Michael for the morning.

  There’s a damp chill to the air made up of the first days of autumn and the dew from the grass. I slump into my car and fumble through my bag for my keys. My fingers fidget like I’ve had too much coffee, even though I haven’t had a drop since yesterday morning. I crank up the heat, rub my hands together half to warm them and half for something to do. I briefly consider digging out Elias’s sweatshirt and then decide that wearing it would make me look like a tool or, at least, like one of the girls crushing on him. No chance.

  Only then do I glance down at the time on my cuff — quarter to seven. Half an hour before I have to leave for school.

  At least being this early to school means I can sneak into the classroom ahead of everyone else. I duck into the bathroom and spend two minutes checking my makeup.

  The halls are still empty when I get out, even though a few kids are starting to trickle in from the parking lot. I’m halfway to my locker when Mr. Hoffman practically crashes into me from an adjoining hallway.

  “Oh, Merrin! I’m sorry.” But neither his voice nor his expression indicate that he’s surprised at all to be nearly knocking me over. I guess he was always pretty chill in class. He adjusts his glasses. “You’re here awfully early.”

  “Oh, yeah. I’m a little weird with time today, I guess. I was out kind of late last night.”

  He raises an eyebrow.

  I laugh even though most teachers by now would have told me to have a nice day and been on their way. “Just studying with some kids.” He doesn’t say anything, just keeps looking at me with his eyebrow up and a half-smile on his face. “For calc. No science stuff.”

  A relaxed smile spre
ads across his face. “Good. We’ll be studying some high-level material, and I wouldn’t want it slipping out in your study sessions. You understand.”

  I nod. I don’t know if he understands how low-level the science classes are here, but nothing I learn with him will ever come up in a Nelson High classroom. I’d bet my drums on it.

  “I’ll contact you about our next meeting, alright?”

  “Thanks, Mr. Hoffman. It’ll be a welcome change of pace.”

  I don’t even think to ask him what he was doing here so early before he turns and continues on his way.

  Calc is fourth period, and I’m pretty sure Elias has it second. It takes me longer than usual to pack up my reader and tablet at the end of that class. The first students for second period trickle in and give me weird looks — most of the juniors haven’t seen me around much — but no Elias. I walk out, frustrated with myself, and bump shoulders with Daniel. He lifts up his head in greeting.

  I stalk toward my next class through the thinning crowd of students, staring at my shoes, watching them flash across the speckled floor. Where is he? He seemed fine last night.

  Someone nudges shoulders with me, and a flash of orange hair swings in front of my face. “Merrin!” Leni says, smiling. “Lunch with me today?”

  I’m not fast enough to come up with an excuse for why I can’t possibly have lunch with her. She catches my arm, nods, and smiles wider. “Come on.” She drags me through the lunch line while pointing to a table populated with half a dozen girls as gorgeous and confident as she is.

  I punch my lunch choice into my cuff and scan it at the screen at the beginning of the line. I glare down at the tray that rises up on the platform in front of me.

  I don’t care what anyone says — that gloppy, pale yellow mush is not mac and cheese.

  I sit down and crane my neck toward the door, waiting for Elias to show up and stride toward his seat at the table.

  “Hey. Have you seen, uh…”

  “Elias?” Leni smiles at me, like we share a secret.

  “Yeah. I have something to give him,” I say, pointing to my bag to show that it’s not just an excuse.