Satellite: The Satellite Trilogy, Part I (14 page)

“Congratulations!” a breathless voice says, pulling me from a memory that was just getting to the good part. “They’re saying you’ve beat some record or something—the quickest Satellite to go through training.”

I push up into a sitting position and shade my eyes to see the dark silhouette hovering over me.

“That’s because he had the best trainer ever!” Willow gloats to Anna.

“Fat chance it had anything to do with the trainer,” Jordan says, walking up with Rigby and Shane.

“I don’t know. If Willow was my trainer, I would have blown through training as fast as possible, too,” Shane says.

Willow shrugs them off. “You boys,” she smirks, “always intimidated by strong women.”

Anna’s the only one who finds humor in Willow’s statement.

“Nice cali,” Rigby says, pulling the toothpick from his mouth. Not catching the sarcasm at first, I hold out my wrist so Rigby can examine it. His eyes narrow. “How was your date?” he asks sourly.

“You’re so lucky. I can’t wait to start my assignment,” Anna says, clearly uncomfortable.

“Newbies,” Jordan jokes, shaking his head.

Having scarier things on my mind, I ignore Rigby’s glare. My nerves make my laugh come out wrong, but no one seems to notice.

In Benson, everyone eats but me—even Clara, whose diet usually consists of a single can of Dr. Pepper.

“You’re missing out,” she says. “The Thanksgiving feast here is the best in the world!”

I longingly scan Clara’s plate. It’s overflowing with turkey, sweet potatoes, a couple of rolls, dressing, and cranberry sauce. I swallow, wishing I could enjoy the food from one of my favorite holidays. I don’t dare fuel my stomach, though. Instead, my palms wear out the thighs of my jeans while my leg bounces up and down. Twice, Willow places her hand over mine to stop me and gives her best “chill out” look.

After what seems like just minutes, the room thins out. Terrified, my knee bounces higher.

“I’m outta here, guys.” Clara bounces around the table and plants a quick kiss on my cheek. “Best of luck, Grant. You’re going to be great.” She vanishes an instant later. The warmth crawling up my face is not from embarrassment this time, but rather from Rigby’s emanating hate for me. His chair slides loudly behind him and he stalks out of the room.

Liam ignores Rigby and says, “Good luck, pansy,” before disappearing.

Owen kisses Anna and whispers something to her. Now that they’re public, we all have to suffer through their PDA. “Dude,” Owen says to me when they’re finished, and then he vanishes too.

“You’ll be awesome, I know it,” Anna encourages.

“Ready?” Willow asks, placing her hand on my knee again to stop the bouncing.

“I guess so.”

“When you arrive, be sure to read up on your assignment. Your book will give specific details of what you need to do.”

“What will you be doing?”

“I’ll be in Programming. They tell me my husband will be joining me soon. That’s good news, right? I mean, something I should be thankful for?”

Ryder’s dad
. I try to smile, but it doesn’t work. My insides twist into a tighter knot thinking about Ryder’s loss. My old man and I weren’t nearly as close and I miss the grouch more than I would have ever thought possible. Ryder, having a much better relationship with his dad, is surely going to be a mess.

“Dude, relax. You’re getting all pale on me again,” Willow says, but she’s nervous, too. I can hear it in her voice. “I’ll be waiting for you at the next break. You’re gonna be stellar, kid.”

I dig into my backpack, wrapping my hand so tightly around the rock that my fingernails dig into my palm. “Displace,” I force out, only because I can’t face Willow for another second.

The floor disappears, finally giving the sick feeling I’ve had an excuse for being there. I hear a new sound this time—a higher-pitched whistling—but I keep my eyes closed and ignore my stomach.

When I land, I strain to find the source of the distant rumbling. Wet snowflakes hit my face and arms. Their temperature is that of bathwater.

A dark blur slides around a corner and screams past me. Another brushes my side. A third goes through my left hand—and more rumbling is coming. I jump out of instinct and float ten feet over the bluish-white path while the last snowmobile races by underneath me.

Floating feels natural to my body, but not to my head. I focus on the ground below, and my body slowly drops. I jump again, wobbly, but then more controlled, and stay suspended above the earth much higher than before while my head grows accustomed to the feeling.

When I was alive, the glare from the lowering sun would have been blinding, but now my vision isn’t affected. Paths weave throughout the precipitous mountain of evergreens below me.

The engines cut in the distance. Aside from my own breathing, it’s like someone hit the mute button. A few branches drop their loads of snow, but even that is eerily silent.

Remembering my purpose, I mentally slap myself for being such an idiot. Ryder has to be one of the snowmobilers, or I wouldn’t have displaced here. I lower to the ground and sprint along the trail, but there are too many forking paths, and with the engines cut, there’s no sound to follow.

On my next stride, I push off the ground and soar into the air like Superman. The trees blur below me, and I catch the faintest hint of voices. I slow down by leaning back and follow the left trail. It opens to a flat, white field. Eight snowmobiles and their riders (and hopefully my Ryder) are parked along the far edge.

“You’re full of it—there’s no way you got that kind of air!” a guy says.

“Seriously, man. It was unbelievable,” someone answers.

“Figures it’d have to be when I was in class.”

“Carter, you always miss the good stuff,” a girl says.

“Someone’s gotta get an education around here.”

“Hey, watch it, man.” I recognize Ryder’s voice easily. Now just a few feet away, I lower to the ground.

“I wasn’t talking about you, Mr. Grad School,” the guy says, and the snowball he’s formed splats against Ryder’s head.

Ryder brushes away the remains of the attack. “Oh, you want to start that? You know your mom’s turkey always makes you slow.”

“Hey, don’t talk about my mom!” The guy launches himself toward Ryder.

In an approach similar to his playground attack years ago, Ryder bear hugs the guy, and they both hit the ground. Ryder pops up with a snow goatee and shakes his long hair like a dog.

“Oh, you think it’s funny?” he says to one of the laughing girls, rocketing up and chasing her across the field.

“I wish they’d just get together, already,” one of the guys says, while Ryder’s target squeals in the distance.

“Seriously. He’s all Hannah talks about,” a girl’s voice adds.

Shoot! I haven’t read the book!

I drop my backpack from my shoulders, retrieve the assignment book, and skip ahead until I reach the newly titled page, “The Present.” The paragraph narrates what’s going to happen—or rather, some of what has already happened (snowball fight). Ryder will be receiving a call. After that call, it is essential that Hannah goes with him.

I flip to the next page, and another situation is explained. Instead of reading it, I fold the corner down and close the book. In the distance, Ryder is already on the phone and flattening the snow where he paces.

Damn!
I’m across the field in less than a second.

“I’ll be right there,” Ryder says urgently before shoving the phone into the pocket of his thick coveralls. He takes off running.

“What’s going on?” Hannah asks, sprinting behind him.

“I have to go!”

“What is it? I’ll come with you.”

Block, you moron! Block!

I hastily drum up the blue filter and bring it in as quick and tight as possible. “Haze!” I shout.

Take her with you. Take
—
ahhhhh!

As I experience the excruciating current, my thoughts can only focus on one thing: I must stop the pain. My muscles are in knots.
Think, Grant—think!

“Block!” The electrocution halts the instant the word flies from my mouth. Relief spreads through my burning muscles. Does blocking have to be so ridiculously painful?

Ryder stares at Hannah in a daze and then yells, “Fine, but we need to go now!”

Whew, success.

They run back to his snowmobile and Hannah jumps on behind Ryder, wrapping herself around him as the engine roars to life. They jet across the field, leaving the others staring, open-mouthed, at their hasty departure.

My feet move under me, leaping to soar above the snowmobile. I easily keep pace above them, even around the sharp turns.

Flying is a rush, no doubt, but being on one of those machines has to be even sicker. Having Tate’s warm body hugged around me the way Hannah is holding Ryder would be the cherry on top. The closest Tate and I ever got to this kind of fun in Missouri was ATV riding, but we never reached speeds like this. Letting my imagination go, I can almost hear Tate’s shrill of excitement in my ear.

Ryder doesn’t hit the brakes until the trail opens into the parking lot.

“Whoa, what’s going on?” a man working on one of the machines asks when Ryder nearly takes him out.

Ryder cuts the engine. “I think my dad had a heart attack,” he says, running to his car with Hannah two steps behind.

While Ryder and Hannah argue over who’s going to drive, I hurl myself through the side panel of Ryder’s car and land almost gracefully, though my knees bend awkwardly into my chest to keep from ghosting through the front seats.

In the passenger seat, Hannah strips off her heavy coat and hideous rainbow sock hat. I realize she’s the same blonde girl from Ryder’s past, although she’s much more…developed.

“Mya drove Dad home from my grandparents’ house about an hour after I left. She said he collapsed in the kitchen after they went inside. An ambulance took him to Portsmouth Regional,” Ryder explains while driving the Shelby like it should be driven.

“He’s not—” Hannah starts to ask.

“I don’t know.”

I do.

“He’ll be all right.” Hannah tries to sound convincing.

No, he won’t.

“He’s all I have,” Ryder says, his voice pleading.

I pull out the book and open to the marked page. The paragraph says that Ryder is going to insist on driving. Hannah needs to drive instead. Panicked, my eyes shoot to Ryder and back to the page. The words disappear and new text emerges. I read as fast as I can, which isn’t impressive.

New scene: I must make Ryder stop the car before running through a red light. A handwritten sentence follows:

Please do try to keep up with your reading, Grant. We wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.

—S

I look ahead to the stoplight. At this speed, we’ll be there in no time. I concentrate on my energy and the blue filter clouds my vision. “Haze!”

Red light. Red light. Red
light.

Even though I know it’s coming, there’s no way to prepare for the torment. The bolt electrifies me. This time, however, it’s easier to remember what I’m supposed to do.

“Block!”

The pain subsides, but my muscles tremble. I hope this guy’s not going to be like his mom in the blocking department.

The tires squeal and the car’s back end fishtails when Ryder slams the brakes. When we abruptly stop, an SUV passes an inch in front of us.

Hannah finally closes her mouth, then opens it again and yells, “Get out!”

“You’re not hurt, are you?” Ryder asks, as if he didn’t hear her.

“I said—get out!” Her door squeaks open and she storms around the back of the car.
“Get out!”
she demands, jerking his door open.

Ryder’s expression morphs from disbelief to frightened before he wisely obeys. When Hannah falls into the driver’s seat, he gapes down at her. She stares narrowly back until he goes around to the passenger side.

I can’t help but laugh. If I didn’t know better, I’d think I was watching Tate.

I read during the rest of the drive, not eager to make another mistake. Scene three, Cliffs Notes’ version: go to the hospital and keep Ryder calm.

When I flip ahead for more, the next page simply says “break” and the pages that follow are blank. I look at my calimeter and internally deflate. The notches are nowhere near each other.