Satellite: The Satellite Trilogy, Part I (18 page)

I mischievously wrap my arm around her neck. “You know me.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” She appears contemplative, like leaving me alone may trigger the next world war. Finally, she says, “See you later,” and ducks under my arm, disappearing down the hall.

When I’m sure she’s halfway to wherever the heck Programming is, I bolt. I’m almost across the lobby when I jump at my name being called.

“Hey, man.” Willow’s pierced and tatted advice guy (who’s clearly spent too much time lifting weights) says when he reaches me. “I’m Reed.” He shakes my hand before I’ve fully extended it and then leans into my ear. “By the looks of you, I’m guessing you got that problem ironed out?”

I hope my face doesn’t show my guilt for not being where I’m supposed to be. “Um, yeah. Your advice worked, so, uh—thanks.”

“Your situation is certainly unique. I’m curious to see how it all pans out.”

“Er…me, too,” I reply, not knowing what else to say.

“Cool. See ya around.” He leaves me standing there as he whistles down the hall. My father was right, and if he were here at this moment, I may even consider admitting it to the old man. Tattoos and piercings are a red flag for weird.

When I’m about to beeline for my hall, Rigby approaches. Sheesh, I’m never going to get out of here.

“Hey, man. Was that Reed Devereux?” he asks, his toothpick hanging from his lip while he watches Reed walk through the crowd toward Benson.

I turn to watch him, too. “Yeah, I guess.”

“What’s he like?”

That’s an odd question. “Um, well…he’s as strange as Willow if that tells you anything.”

“Dude, he’s a legend!”

“Legend?” I question, still looking at the overly muscled Reed.

“He’s one of the seven,” Rigby says, like the guy is an MVP for the Cardinals.

“Reed’s an Elite?”

“Oh, come on, man! Don’t you know anything about this place?”

Guess not.
I turn back to Rigby, not caring in the least who Reed is. As far as I’m concerned, he’s just another Willow. “Listen, about Clara…” I say, wanting to clear the air.

He bites on his toothpick hard enough to flex his jaw, and with a new bitterness in his voice, says, “Yeah, about Clara. I thought you weren’t interested.”

“I’m not,” I argue.

“So your date with her—”

“It wasn’t a date!”

Rigby studies me for a few seconds. “She seemed to think it was a date. She still talks about it.”

She does?
“Rigby, you gotta believe me when I say I’m not interested in her. Honestly,” I add, because he obviously isn’t buying it.

“It’s cool if you are.” His tone contradicts his words.

“Rigby, I’m not! I went to Tate’s,” I blurt out before I can stop myself, having no idea where that came from.

“You what?” He’s loud enough that a few people look our way. He grabs me by the arm and pulls me around the corner of the
B
hall. “You what?” he says with the same enthusiasm, but in more of a whispered hiss this time.

“I went to see her,” I whisper back. “I know I shouldn’t have, but I couldn’t help it. I miss her so much, man. Being away from her is killing me.”

“Dude, you’re already dead.”

“That’s not funny,” I say to his very lame joke.

“How’d you do it?”

“I displaced with my frame. She made it for me so it worked like a tocket.” Evidently he hasn’t gotten to displacement training yet. “A tocket is what takes you to your Tragedy,” I explain.

“Oh.” He’s clearly not thrilled about me knowing something he doesn’t. “You could get in some serious heat for that, right?”

I nod. “Willow caught me.”

“Dude,” he says sympathetically.

“Yeah. She wasn’t nearly as understanding as you.”

“I can imagine not. So you still have all your memories?”

“So far.” My stomach does a nervous flip.

“Does Clara know?”

“No. Why?”

“Well, I was just thinking…maybe if she did, I would have a better shot with her.”

“Maybe. But, dude, I can’t go around around telling everyone.”

“You’re probably right. I hate to be a downer, but you know you’re going to have to move on eventually.”

I suck in a deep breath and pinch my bottom lip. “I don’t know how I’ll ever let her go. I love her too much.”

He claps his hand on my shoulder. “Maybe you should talk to Jonathan. I mean, what if he could help you forget?”

I smack his hand away. “I don’t want to forget!”

Rigby shoots a narrow look at a guy who’s staring as he passes us, and then lowers his voice. “But it’s necessary. Think about your Tragedy, man.”

Ryder.
If I let Willow down, I could never forgive myself. “I know. I just need more time to work it out. Promise me you won’t say anything to anyone.”

Rigby considers and then puts his toothpick back in his mouth, barely nodding. “We’re cool.”

“Thanks.”

I look down at my calimeter when it buzzes and then push on the face, deflated because my chance to see Tate again is gone. “I gotta jet. Appreciate it, man. Really.”

Ryder and Hannah unfreeze at the kitchen table. I complete my reading while perched on the counter. It’s nice having Hannah here. My muscles are grateful because she’s a decent help when it comes to comforting Ryder. The unsightly holes peppering the yellow wall are a reminder of how broken Ryder is. They are also a reminder of how broken I feel inside. The weight of losing Tate and my parents—of never being able to have a conversation with any of them—feels heavier than ever. I wish I could patch the drywall myself.

Later in the evening, as written in Ryder’s book, Hannah insists on sleeping over. This turns out to take very little convincing on her part and not a single block from me. With the two of them looking equally fatigued, Hannah curls up on the sofa while Ryder takes another turn in the recliner. Throughout the night and into the morning, I feel guilty for the disservice I am doing Ryder. My mind should be on him, not Tate. I know this, but I can’t help myself. Seeing her has made the pull even stronger.

I block Ryder six times later the next afternoon when Mya, Lucas, and Lennon join the photo-collecting party for the upcoming funeral. Seeing so many family memories of the good times in their lives is enough to make me sad, and I didn’t even know Troy. What stings the most is that Willow was absent for so many years. What she missed out on—it’s just not fair.

By the time my calimeter sets me free, my arms and legs are trembling. I should code—I
need
to code—but I can’t miss another opportunity to see Tate. And since Willow isn’t in my room when I get back, I take that to mean I’m meant to see Tate. I race across the room and grab my frame, making sure to take my bag with me this time.

Tate’s house is quiet when I arrive. A few Christmas decorations have been added to the kitchen and living room, but nothing compared to the winter wonderland of years past that could put the North Pole to shame. At one time, Tate shared her mom’s Christmas spirit. I suspect Tate’s newfound Goth phase probably has much to do with the lack of decor.

Edgy from the silence and not knowing where Tate is, I pace her empty room while my few free minutes tick away. I stop at Tate’s dresser and push Willow’s warning out of my head. That girl wouldn’t know fun if it high-fived her in the face.

I force my eyes away from the disgusting, diseased me in the photo on the mirror and concentrate on one of Tate’s rings. Remembering Willow’s instructions, I focus my energy like I’m blocking. The sapphire-blue filter tints my vision. Squinting to focus the blue filter tight around the tarnished silver circle, I flick my finger against the ring. It flies across the room and hits the wall with a
ting.
Drywall dust rains down from the new dent in the wall.

Oops. Too hard.

I walk to the side of Tate’s bed, bend down, focus again, and pull my filter in until the ring appears to be blue instead of silver. Pushing the ring with my index finger onto the palm of my other hand, I keep my energy tight and carry the ring across the room. I almost drop it when I pass the chair I always thought looked like a giant stuffed button, but I maintain my focus. My wrist flips to drop the ring onto the dresser and the tiny circle spins before settling.

Better.

The front door clicks open downstairs, and a deep voice says, “Can I come up?”

“Uh, sure,” Tate replies.

I’m in the foyer an instant later watching an ugly badger-faced guy stand too close to Tate. He matches her in eyeliner, clothing color, and shirt size. The chain strapped to his jeans is conveniently long enough to wrap around his neck.

“Where are your parents?” he asks.
What a creep.

“I don’t know. Out somewhere, I guess.”

“Oh, come on, Tate!” I scream at her. What is she thinking? And why isn’t she with some preppy doctor-to-be instead of this guy?

Creep follows her up the stairs with me close enough behind to breathe down his neck.

“Nice room,” he says on his way to the dresser. He flicks the corner of the photograph of me tucked into the mirror and rolls his eyes. Then he stalks toward her like a serial killer.

When she turns from her stereo, he pins her against the wall. My teeth grit together while hundreds of violent things I want to do to him play through my head.

He brushes his thumb across her lips. “You’re beautiful.”

“Thanks,” she whispers.

My fingernails dig into my palms to keep me from snapping his thumb off. “Get away from her,” I growl in a voice I don’t recognize.

Obviously not hearing my warning, he kisses her.

I stagger into the dresser, feeling truly dead for the first time when she kisses him back. I keep both hands clamped over my mouth and look at the ceiling. This is what she wants?
Him?

“I’m sorry, Patrick. I can’t,” Tate’s voice says, and my eyes snap back to them.

“He’s dead. You need to get over it. I can help you do that,” he offers, putting his mouth on hers again.

She turns her face away and pushes her fists against his chest. “You need to go.”

“Come on, he couldn’t have been that great. Seeing you mope around all the time is getting old.”

“Shut up!” Tate yells, now using all of her strength to shove him away.

He grabs her wrists and forces them over her head while she struggles and squirms under him.

I growl and spring. My fist, and then my body, ghosts through him. I soar through the wall and land in a pile of dead leaves outside. Stunned, I turn and look up at Tate’s window from the front yard.

Oh, come on!

I jump, aiming for her drawn shades, and I am back in her room less than a second later. “Stop fighting me,” he’s whispering into her ear.

Panicked, my eyes dart around the room, stopping on the small dent in the drywall. An idea hits me. It’s a shot in the dark, but it’s all I’ve got. I use my mind this time to envelope the creep in my energy. I pounce and my body makes contact with his shoulder. Bingo.

When he hits the floor, the house shakes and a hairline crack runs halfway up Tate’s wall. Saying oops would be a lie. I would have preferred to transform this guy into an inanimate object and welcome him into my world.

He and Tate share the same puzzled expression; then, he awkwardly stands and straightens his black T-shirt. His narrowed eyes are filled with a fury that doesn’t even come close to mine.

Tate slowly moves along the wall, putting space between them.

“You’re nothing but a tease,” he hisses, and then, thankfully, he limps out of the room.

When he’s through her door, I exhale in relief, and the filter I was holding around him dissipates. I follow him downstairs, and it takes all my willpower to keep my fists to myself. The photographs in the hall shake when he slams the front door.

Now really noticing the searing pain in my hands, I check out my palms on the way back to Tate’s room, relieved to see they are unscathed. I expected blisters at the very least. I rub them on the tops of my thighs, and the imaginary flames slowly extinguish.

Watching Tate tremble on the floor and cry into her knees infuriates me. This is the path she’s supposed to be taking? Why doesn’t she have a Satellite? And who the hell has she been hanging out with?

I sit down, too, and try comforting her as if she can hear me. “Shhh.” The more I whisper, the harder she sobs. This makes me even angrier because I can’t hold her—I can’t save her.

When the door downstairs clicks open, Tate’s head snaps up. She sucks in a breath and dries her eyes while I lunge up and brace myself in front of her. Someone’s bounding up the stairs.

“Hey, can you help me with the groceries?” Elliott asks at Tate’s open door. It only takes him a second to inventory her condition.

I jump out of the way before Elliott walks through me to sit by Tate. She leans into him like I, so desperately, wish she could do with me.

“Bad day?” he asks. She sniffs.

He fidgets with the laces on his faded blue Chucks. “Anything I can do?”

She takes a deep breath, trying to hold herself together, but says nothing.

“I miss him, too. I don’t care what anybody says—there’s nothing that could make me understand this. It sucks.”