HEAR (13 page)

Pankaj hears it too, and his expression softens. He nods. “If we surprise the professor with the money by using our talents, seems like it's an even bigger win.”

I nod, liking the plan even more. Uncle Brian might not be willing to take money from my father, but if it's from me, a fair trade for all he's doing for me this summer, maybe he'll accept. “So it's a deal.” I put out my hand to shake Pankaj's. “Consider yourself staked, Rocket.”

Alex pokes his index finger into Pankaj's chest. “Looks like someone has a sugar mama.”

“Let's think of me more as his boss.”

Pankaj purses his lips as if considering his options, but I know he's already made up his mind. “This idea of yours is crazy, Kass. You know that, right?” I nod. “Good,” he continues. “Because this is the kind of crazy I can get behind. Especially since it helps me live by my guru's mantra: ‘you can't win unless you play.'”

“Who's your guru?” I ask.

“The announcer for the Pennsylvania Lottery.”

Alex's smile widens. “So I'll tell Erika you're in, Pankaj?”

“The rocket's all in,” he replies, finally taking my hand and shaking it, a smirk playing across his lips. “Thanks, boss.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The vision was blurry.

But both Pankaj and I saw
something
.

Here we are: the five of us in a lazy circle, cards laid out. For the last hour, we've been huddled together on this narrow dock outside the Henley boathouse as the sun falls behind Sinclair Lake. Now time has stopped. The entire universe has shrunk to just Pankaj and me. I can tell from his searching eyes that neither one of us caught more than the premonition's nebulous wake: someone in our group is supposed to die. And it could be either one of us.

What was bothering me so much until mere seconds ago—whether or not Pankaj was cheating and, more important, whether or not he was being obvious enough about it to get caught—no longer matters.
Unless cheating tonight somehow leads to his death?
Needing more information, I feel something wriggling in that reptilian part of my brain. It's ironic: the longer I'm at Henley, the harder I'm finding it is to restrain myself. There's something about being in this place that's making impulse control impossible.

“ You know, Mara, I'm so curious about all the stuff you do with tarot cards.” I try to sound off-the-cuff casual, but the words come out awkward, in a high register. “Can you get really specific information about things?”

She stares back at me for a moment, maybe studying me, questioning my motives.

“Ask Pankaj,” she replies, turning away. “He thought tarot was total crap when I gave him his reading.”

“Wait, come on. You have to give me a break,” he says in an apologetic tone. “Where I'm from, there are psychics on every corner. You can find them between every check-cashing place and liquor store, and they all promise to help people find the path to riches. But all they do is take your money and spout BS. I would know because my sister ran that kind of racket for a while. And she's a straight-up con artist.”

“Harsh,” Dan says.

Pankaj laughs bitterly. “That's actually one of the nicer things I can say about Nisha. Anyway, I assumed if Professor Black had recruited someone with
my
background into his program, everyone else here would know how to work a scam too.” Pankaj turns to me. “But Mara wasn't looking for any money.” He pauses. “Besides, she nailed a lot of the
details
.” He hits the last word with an odd emphasis.

Mara sets her jaw, but says nothing.

I won't allow myself to become distracted by whatever's going on between them. “So . . .
how
? How do you do it and get all the details?” I ask.

“It's quantum mechanics and particle physics,” she snaps, as if that's an obvious answer when it comes to tarot card reading. “
I
don't do anything.”

“Come on, that's not exactly true,” Pankaj says.

“Well, yes, it's up to the person reading the cards to interpret the events, but quantum forces drive what cards appear. So it's possible to draw the same cards in front of two readers and get two radically different accounts of your life. One could be all right, the other all wrong.”

“Then how do you know what to believe?” I press.

Alex laughs. He's stretched out on the dock, sunbathing with his eyes closed, as if he doesn't have a care in the world. “That's the question, isn't it?” he says. “How do you
ever
know what to believe?”

This whole carefree genius playboy shtick of his is infuriating to me at the moment. “Well,
I
believe that if Pankaj doesn't win big tonight, we're screwed. But my uncle, who'll lose his lab, is screwed most of all.”

Alex doesn't respond. Dan stares at me, as if trying to compute what's going on in my head. Mara just turns away, gazing out on the lake, watching the sun ripple off the water. But when Pankaj's eyes home in on mine, I hear his voice in my mind again, as clearly as I heard him moments ago . . . as clearly as I heard Mara in the lab this morning.

I think I know what Mara was trying to say
,
he tells me silently.
ESP is like a mirror. And as the re
fl
ection is
fi
ltered through your perception, it warps, making it hard to tell what's real from what we simply believe we're seeing.

I know we're both thinking about the vision we just shared. One member of our group won't survive the summer. And of the four who do, three will join together. But neither of us has any clue as to the membership of that group or purpose of those selected.

Standing at the opulent
marble arched door of the Century Club, I notice that both Alex and Pankaj seem tense. Hard to blame them.

In a final moment of pregame styling, Alex runs his fingers through his hair. He's especially well coiffed tonight and wears a blue blazer with a pastel tie that's pulled rakishly loose around the neck. He's also spent a lot of time applying cologne; the scent of a spice garden wafts from him as powerfully as the smell of fries in a McDonald's parking lot. Though he's trying hard to convey his usual unstudied, casual, cool vibe, what's most apparent is that he's trying
really
hard. His desire to be liked by Erika is achingly clear. It's sort of sweet.

Pankaj has also dressed up (at Alex's insistence), and the borrowed blazer makes him fidget, even though it fits him perfectly and accentuates his broad shoulders. I also know he's annoyed at Alex for making Dan and Mara feel unwelcome tonight. Earlier, Alex said only Pankaj and I could come to the game, and he gave the universal lame excuse to explain their exclusion: “It's not my decision.” He said space was limited and I was only allowed to come because I was fronting the money. But it wasn't hard to guess the real reason Alex didn't want Dan and Mara here. He was worried they might embarrass him—Dan with his social ineptitude and Mara with her unpredictability.

Alex takes a deep breath. The door knocker is a bronze lion head; he grasps the ring in its mouth and bangs it against the back plate.

A few excruciating moments later, Erika opens the door. “Well,
hello
,” she greets us in that refined English accent. She smiles at Alex. “My, we're fancy, aren't we?”

I somehow expected her to be dressed in a ball gown or in clothes from the recent Ralph Lauren collection. But her untucked button-down is slightly frayed at the edges and distinctly unfussy. I glance at Pankaj, who frowns. He didn't need to dress up at all. I frown too, but with envy. Erika is one of those lucky girls who looks great whatever she wears. Whenever I “dress to impress,” I wind up looking like a demented sorority girl, somehow always managing to mess up some stupid but crucial detail. Tonight, for instance, I'm in a dress that features a small guppy pattern. I cinched it at the waist with a belt whose clasp, I've only now realized, looks like a whale tail.
I'm like a walking seafood platter.
I'd previously worn this ensemble to my Columbia interview. In retrospect, Columbia was probably glad that they had an excuse to revoke my acceptance.

“Just on time. Come in,” she says.

“Uh . . . hi. Great, thanks.” Alex leans in for a glancing kiss on the cheek. But Erika turns too quickly, and he is left hanging midair.

“Follow me,” she calls over her shoulder.

We trail Erika up the grand staircase to the left of the door. The club's interior is as old-school elegant as I imagined: large portraits of former members line its oak-paneled walls, and the ceiling is decorated with ornate wood and plaster detail—a Fitzgerald novel come to life. We're led into one of the libraries upstairs, all mahogany bookshelves, soft lamps, and leather couches. A few desks face large Palladian windows.

But my eyes are drawn to the large round poker table placed in the center.

Most of the guys—and the other players are all guys this evening—are already seated when we enter the room. They too are dressed super casually, as if a “high-stakes” game is in fact just the opposite to them: it's something they play so regularly, it's of no consequence whatsoever. They glance up at Erika.

She clears her throat. “Everyone, this is . . . Sorry, what's your name again?”

“Pankaj.”

“This is Pun . . . Wait, say it again.”

“ You can call me Punk.”

Erika smiles. “I think I can handle that. Punk, this is Connor, Quartie, Veck, Heath, Trip, and Andre.” Alex and I are not introduced, but I'm just as happy to remain anonymous in the background. “Do you guys want a drink before we start?”

“No, thanks,” I reply.

Pankaj shakes his head.
That's all I need, a fuzzy head on top of all the rest
,
he communicates silently.

My head jerks as I hear his unspoken words in my mind as clearly as if he'd whispered them in my ear. Luckily nobody is looking in my direction. All eyes are on Pankaj.

How are we doing this?
I ask.

He gives me a subtle smile.
Not a clue.

“I'd love a drink, thanks!” Alex says, a little too eagerly.

“Hard alcohol's in the bar at the back, or the taproom is on the ground floor, to the right of the stairs,” Erika replies. Her tone is brusque.

Alex's smile falters. “Oh, okay. Maybe I'll get one later.”

Pankaj takes his seat at the table.

“Let's start,” Connor says. He's skinnier than the others, and his large white short-sleeved Izod polo shirt looks borrowed from his father's closet. “We're playing no-limit Texas Hold'em. Trip's button.”

Trip, ginger haired, nods and shuffles the cards. He's spent a lot of time in the sun, perhaps rowing with the Henley crew team; his face and neck are tan, and he's sprayed with freckles across his cheeks and nose. Veck, on his left, wears classic Ray-Ban aviator sunglasses and a sleeveless green Patagonia fleece. He puts in a stack of five $100 chips. The player to his left, Heath—the largest guy at the table (the one who looks like he might feel quite at home in Roman gladiator garb)—puts in two stacks of five $100 chips.

I know from my dad's weekly poker games that these are the “forced” bets, the small blind and big blind respectively. They encourage you to stay in the game rather than fold right away if you draw bad cards. The logic is that if you've already put down a substantial amount of money, you may as well just play out the hand. Of course, $1,000 seems like a lot of money to put down right off the bat, but that's why we're here. Big money.

Still, something about this evening has already begun to bother me. Maybe it's the conspicuous privilege. Maybe what I'm feeling is simple fear. Maybe it's concern for Pankaj and his level of comfort.
His
face, however, remains neutral. Score one for Pankaj.

Gladiator Heath turns over his cards to reveal a queen of spades and jack of spades.

Pankaj smiles. He's holding a pair of sevens, with a third seven showing in the center of the table, and three of a kind is good enough for the win.

“Well done, new guy,” Erika cheers from the sidelines. “And gentlemen, I'd encourage you to keep your timepieces away from our man Punk.”

Alex laughs, but Erika ignores him, her eyes on the game. He scowls, and his eyes dart furtively toward the stairwell. Cards soon start flying around the table again, and when I look at skinny Connor, I get a feeling he's got the hand to beat.

Pankaj looks around the table and also seems to zero in on Connor. After glancing back down at his own cards, he folds. Moments later, Connor scoops up the pot.

I focus my thoughts, concentrating on Pankaj.

Well, well, well, the boy might have some sense in him after all.

Pankaj casts a sidelong glance at me.
And the girl might have noticed that sooner if she hadn't been so focused on my butt. Which, I'll grant you, is awesome.

I stifle a smile.
You think Mara and Dan are okay?

He puffs out his cheeks as new cards are dealt; he's worried about them too. I don't want to be a distraction, but with this new channel of communication, it's impossible to keep my feelings to myself. Even partial access to each other's thoughts seems as useful as it is awkward, if not horrifying. Previously, I only ever had to worry about blurting out something I'd regret before I could think twice. It's possible that Pankaj will now know what I'm thinking as my thoughts are still forming.

From what I can tell, though, he isn't experiencing the same fears. He's not even focused on me. He's in the game, “
all
in,” just as he said.

The longer I watch him the more impressed I become; he's cool under pressure, and as I know very well, when you're playing for someone else, that's not only important; it's difficult. His pile of money—our
pile of money—continues to grow.

I'm fairly certain that he's not counting cards. Of course, he probably
is
using his psychic abilities to intuit what the other players have in their hands. So depending on your definition of “cheating,” you could make the argument that he's not playing a completely clean game. But those are details. His opponents wouldn't believe the psychic stuff anyway. Besides, this is all for Uncle Brian, for preserving the research that might one day allow Pankaj to use his talents for something more constructive than a poker win.

Alex, on the other hand, seems nervous. His eyes keep flitting around the room, and he looks between Erika and the table several times a minute. I can't read what he's thinking. If there really is an open channel of communication between those of us with extrasensory abilities, Alex doesn't seem to be on our party line.

Hey, how much do you have at this point?
I ask Pankaj silently.

He pretends to study his hand as if unaware of my question, but his thoughts boom back at me.
Kass, you don't count your money when you're sitting at the table. Damn, girl, there's even a country music song about that.