Tunnel Vision Read online

She has her scientist on now, full teaching mode. “When you finished an object, there was a period of theta wave activity followed by normal alpha and beta activity. But after the last one, your brain transitioned directly from delta to beta without theta transition. The T-680 put your brain back into theta, giving you a chance to transition.” She clasps her hands together. “We don’t know why it caused pain—”

  “Extreme pain,” I add.

  “—or why it happened. But if we hadn’t had the T-680 on hand, I don’t know quite how we would’ve stopped it.”

  Great. As if the tunneling weren’t enough, now I have my own personal side effect to watch out for.

  “Have you ever had anything like that headache happen before? Did you know that could happen?”

  I shake my head. “I’ve never tunneled more than a couple times in a row before.”

  “Tunneled? That’s what you call it?” She’s intense again.

  “Yeah.” I pause, not really wanting to talk to her about it, but I’m in deep enough already. “That’s what it’s like. Like the object makes a tunnel to the person, and I just move through it to wherever they are.”

  She purses her lips. “Tunneling. I like it. I think that’s what we’ll call this project: The Tunnel. Now. If you’re up to it, it’s time we discuss the details of our arrangement.”

  God, she has the ability to just whip me in and out of emotions. I dive straight back into tense. “Okay.”

  “I was right—you are extremely valuable. And accurate. You got every single one right, down to the room. That’s incredible.” She waits, like I’m going to say thank you or something. I’m silent. “Thanks to your work today, the project has been approved to be fully funded, under DARPA control. The difficult part, as I said, was getting permission to work from the field. But I got it.” Her smile this time is so wide I can see her back teeth. “You can continue to live at home, finish high school. We will post a security team for you, and we will work with you through them. For the most part, you won’t even have to come to our facilities. We don’t want anyone noticing anything out of the ordinary, so we’ll keep to your normal schedule as much as possible.”

  It’s scary as hell. Work with them on what? I’ve already agreed to full, willing cooperation, so it could be anything. Anytime. But after the past two days, the pseudonormality she’s dangling is a relief, something I can live with. “And the people who were following me?” I ask. “The ‘private’ people?”

  “We’ll deal with them, I promise. You’ll be protected. Oh, and I do think you should be rewarded for your time, Jacob. I believe in our first talk, you mentioned colleges you applied to? We can assist with that. If you help us fully, I can guarantee you’ll be accepted to whatever college you want. Full ride.”

  “Stanford,” I say, without a second thought. “History major. Public History / Public Service.”

  She nods, pleased. “Stanford it is. Look for your early acceptance in the mail.”

  God. Stanford. Just like that. I’ve wanted Stanford since … ever.

  I’m not naïve. I see it for what it is: a deal with the devil. She has the stick, the carrot, the vague description of what I’ll have to do for them with “full cooperation.” But the carrot—my life, family, friends, future—I can’t pass up. Maybe I should want to get into Stanford only on my own, but this is like having a connection. It opens the door so I can prove I’m worthy to be there.

  And the stick I can’t even think about.

  “Fine,” I say, “You have a deal.” I thrust my hand out. She shakes it, her grip dry, firm.

  “Excellent.” She stands, brushes off her skirt. “Now let’s get you home.”

  7

  “Home” by Marc Broussard

  Liesel’s true to her word: I’m home in time for dinner. A car follows me from Starbucks, but it’s a silver minivan—not Liesel and not the Durango. I figure it’s my new “security,” courtesy of DARPA. This is going to take some getting used to.

  It’s such a relief to have the familiar weight of my phone in my pocket, Dad’s watch on my wrist. It makes me feel almost normal again. But the best, the moment that makes it worth it, is when I open the door to the smell of Mom’s spaghetti sauce, and see Myk at the table, head bent, working on her usual mound of homework.

  I stand in the doorway and blink hard for a second. “Hey! I’m back.”

  “Hey,” Myk says, without looking up from Principles of Chemistry. As it should be.

  In the kitchen, Mom’s dumping hot pasta into a strainer. “Hi, sweetie.” She smiles, briefly, as steam clouds billow up around her face. For a second she looks otherworldly, like a witch over a cauldron. “How was skiing?”

  I have to remember they’ve had a normal day. I’ve had a normal day. It’s time to activate Operation Massive Lies. To protect them.

  “Good,” I say. “The snow was kinda icy. But good. Can I help?”

  “You can get your sister to clear the table. Myka!” she hollers, even though the dining room is ten feet away. “Can you get your books off the table now please? I’ve asked you three times. And set it, both of you. I’m serving up.”

  Myk grumbles, but I help her shift the books onto a pile on the floor, ready to pick up again after dinner. Genius School homework never ends, even on Saturday. We set the table team style, like usual: me, plates and glasses, her, napkins and silverware. In the middle of laying down Mom’s fork, she stops and looks up at me, serious.

  I don’t want that look on me for long. She might burn through my skull or something.

  “We should talk later,” she says, low. “You know, about yesterday. Figure out what’s going on. I have a couple ideas…”

  I’ve had time to consider this—all those hours in the chair—and thought of a way to explain it that makes sense, as far as I can see. Operation Massive Lies part 2.

  “Oh, yeah. I found out what that was.” I straighten the napkin she set out for me, line up the fork with the edge. Look up. “Some of Chris’s idiot drama geek friends were playing a trick on me. That creepy guy’s a theater major at Georgetown. Pretended to be a hit man and freak me out, see what I’d do. Nice, huh?”

  She blinks, narrows her eyes. “Really?”

  “Yeah.” I shrug and pick up a couple of glasses to go get ice, escape. “I’m sorry it scared you. Don’t tell Mom, though, okay? She’d be mad you got tangled up in it. I’m gonna kick that guy’s ass, if I see him again.”

  I sure as hell want to. I probably couldn’t—okay, I couldn’t. But I want to.

  Her face lightens, and I let out my breath. “Good,” she says. “You should. That was a douchy thing to do.”

  When did douchy become part of her vocabulary?

  Mom comes in with the bowl of spaghetti, and we finish our jobs, and it all snaps back to normal.

  It isn’t till we’re almost done eating that I’m reminded of my new reality.

  Mom’s drinking a glass of red wine, a sure sign that she’s missing Dad. She does on weekends. Being alone, having to do all the things he used to do—I guess it’s still hard on her. She seems relieved when it’s time to go back to work on Monday. She fills her glass again and strokes the stem with her fingers, absently.

  “So,” she says. She clears her throat. “I have a family situation we need to discuss.”

  I put down my fork. Myk was ripping apart a fourth piece of bread—the girl eats like a ravenous beast—but she sets it down, with a glance at me. The last time we heard that phrase, it was followed by “your father’s been in an accident.”

  Mom circles one finger around the rim of the wineglass. “I’m getting more responsibility at work. It looks like I’m going to have a lot of travel coming up, some of it extended. That’s great, for the job. It’s more money, and we could use it. But I’m already having a hard time keeping up with the house, and meals…” She meets my eyes. “And I know you’re both plenty old enough, but I don’t like leaving you alone all the time. I could use some help
around here.”

  “Mooooooomm,” Myk says, long, drawn out. “We’re fine.” She nudges me with her foot, under the table. “Jake, say we’re fine.”

  I don’t say anything. I wait. That’s just the lead-in.

  “I know we’re fine.” Mom sighs. “But we could be better. And this opportunity dropped in my lap. My boss’s sister is moving, and they have this fabulous housekeeper they can’t take with them. A live-in housekeeper, the finest references you’ve ever seen. She needs a place right away, and I really think we could use the help.” She looks at us, one after the other. “And we have the spare room. It’s perfect.”

  Myk and I are silent, for different reasons. Then Myk breaks it.

  “A housekeeper? Living here with us? Like a babysitter?” There she goes, the first steps on the road to a major freak out. It’s been happening more often lately.

  I focus on Mom. Trying to be rational, make sure I have this straight. “Your boss recommended you take a live-in housekeeper?” Her boss, the deputy secretary of state. I smell DARPA. “When?”

  I try to say it casually, but it comes out too loud.

  She raises her eyebrows. “He called this morning.” She sips her wine. “And really, I wasn’t interested, and I said so, but he e-mailed me her résumé, her references. Jake, she sounds perfect. And he said since they were giving me the extra travel assignments, work would pay for it.” She smiles at both of us hesitantly. “It’s a no-brainer, really. As long as you kids are okay with it. I know it’s unexpected, but…”

  I set my hands flat on the table, for balance. It is DARPA. Planting security in my house. Through my mother. The same damn day I made the deal.

  Myk plows ahead into full-on outrage, how this is a strike against her independence and she isn’t a child and she doesn’t need a babysitter, thank you.

  I don’t really listen. It isn’t Myk who’s getting a babysitter. It’s me. There’s going to be an agent with my family, living in my house, watching me. All the time. Right there to take me in if they ever choose to. I knew there’d be security, but I didn’t think it would be like this.

  Liesel is fast. And more powerful than I realized. Somehow it all feels a lot more real. I want to tell Mom no way in hell, not let this anywhere near them.

  And yet I know what Liesel would say. It’s for my protection, and theirs. I also just agreed to cooperate with everything.

  Damn it.

  “Jake? What do you think?”

  Mom and Myk are both looking at me. Myk has tears running down her cheeks, which seems a bit over the top, but she is twelve. I meet her eyes. I wish I could back her up.

  “I think it’s fine,” I say, dragging the words out of my mouth. “I think it’s a great idea.”

  Mom’s face eases sharply, and I have a flash of irrational panic. Is she pushing this because she knows? Because she’s in on it all?

  I shake myself. She doesn’t know a thing. She’s just being used, wants to please her boss, probably really does want the help. She worries about us. Even her boss probably doesn’t know anything, really.

  “I thought you’d agree with me,” Myk says, low. “No one listens to what I say.” She shoves her chair back and runs down the hall to her room, crying.

  Mom drains her glass, lets out a long, slow breath. “Thanks for the backup. I think the housekeeper will be ready to start on Monday. I’ll need you to help smooth it with Myk.” She stands. “But I’ll start now. By the way, I forgot to tell you. Grandpa Lukin called for you this morning.”

  “Grandpa Lukin?” I frown. “Why?”

  She shrugs. “Said to call him back as soon as you got in. Oh, and he reminded you to call him on the landline.”

  I sigh. Not only is Grandpa Lukin—Dedushka—Russian and a little bit crazy, but he doesn’t believe in electronics. No computers, TVs, video games, or God forbid cell phones. Landlines only, and that not often. I wonder if he even approves of movies, or if those are too modern.

  Whatever it is, it’s going to have to wait until tomorrow. I have a lot of catch-up texting and Internet stuff to do with Chris and everyone. And once Mom is done, I’ll go talk to Myka. And then I figure I deserve about fifteen hours of sleep after last night, after today. I’m wiped. Yeah, about noon tomorrow will be a good time to face the world again.

  * * *

  At 6:00 a.m. the phone rings, and I ignore it. Someone else answers.

  At 8:00 a.m. it rings again. I ignore it.

  At 9:00 a.m. again, over and over, shrill, like someone screaming. I slam the pillow over my head. A few minutes later there’s a bang on my door.

  “Jacob!” Mom’s voice. “You need to get up. Grandpa Lukin is on the phone, and he says he needs to talk to you now.”

  Oh, come on. I don’t even have a landline in my room, and we have an old-style one. I’d have to get up, get dressed, and go out to the kitchen to get it. I groan.

  “Jacob. Get your butt out here.”

  “Okay, okay. I’m coming.”

  Three minutes later, I pick up the phone. “Hello?” Even my voice feels rumpled.

  “Yakob. You are all right?”

  I stifle a yawn. “Of course I’m all right, Grandpa.”

  “Do not use that tedious word.” I can practically see him scowling over the phone. It’s a specialty of his.

  “Sorry. Dedushka.”

  Mom walks by in her pink robe, a cup of steaming coffee in her hands. I wave at her. Coffee, I mouth. Please? She throws me an I-am-not-your-servant look, but heads back to the kitchen.

  “Why did you think something was wrong?”

  “It is no reason. I was poking at your father’s things, and it made me to thinking … and I was suddenly worried for you, Yakob.”

  Ah. After Dad died Dedushka had gone through a period of being really attentive to me and Myka. He’d called all the time, dropped by every other week—which wasn’t easy, from upstate New York. He’s also extremely paranoid, with all these Russian superstitions I’ve never heard of before. Spitting over your shoulder three times for luck. You shouldn’t hand a knife to someone, or it will bring conflict. But the attention had tapered off. We hadn’t heard from him at all since Christmas.

  “I’m fine, Dedushka. I promise.” If you don’t count secret government agencies. But I can’t talk about that. I can’t even think about it before coffee. Mom hands me a cup, black with a touch of sugar, and I slurp gratefully. She sits on the stool next to me, listening. Curious.

  “Your mother said you went on a ski yesterday?” he asks, gruff.

  “Yeah—yes, with a friend of mine. To Bryce.”

  Pause. “Very good. You must come here and visit me next weekend. We have the wonderful skiing here, and I wish to see you.”

  I blink. I haven’t been to his house for years. “Okay.”

  “Good. It is set—you come see me next weekend. We have a good visit.”

  I guess I could do that. Even with a DARPA deal and babysitters, I can still go on a road trip. I still have a life. “Okay, Dedushka. I’ll check with Mom and Myk to make sure they can—”

  Mom raises her eyebrows.

  “No. Just you, malchik.”

  I shrug at her. “Just me. Yeah, okay.”

  “Oh, and Yakob. When I was going through your father’s things, I found a jacket I think you should have. Nice leather jacket. Yes? You can try it on when you are here.”

  I’m still not sure why I had to get up right away for this, but if he’s worrying I guess it’s all right. I don’t want him to worry. “Sure, Dedushka. Thanks.”

  “Also, I could not find a watch that I knew he had. I meant to give it to you, but I do not remember … did I, or did I not?”

  I rub the watch. It’s stupid, maybe, but I sleep with it on—I have since I got it. It makes me feel close to Dad. “Yeah, you gave it to me. I’m wearing it right now.”

  “Ah.” Pause. “Thank you, Yakob. I will see you soon, then.”

  He clicks off, and I se
t the phone down, take a big swill of coffee.

  “What did he want so badly?” Mom asks. “So … ridiculously early and often?” Her hair’s all wild, in dark swirls around her head—like mine, only a tiny bit longer—and she has makeup smudges under her eyes. She yawns. She must have been sleeping in too. Except for the phone calls.

  “It’s weird. He wants me to go see him next weekend in Standish. To go skiing, he says. And visit. Just me.”

  She purses her lips up. “Well, he’s always been an odd bird, but it sounds like fun. It looks like I might be in Chicago next weekend, but I suppose you can go, if you don’t have anything else on. If we like her okay, Mrs. Delgado will be here to stay with Myka.” She perks up, gives me a wide smile. “See? It’s working out already.”

  Mrs. Delgado, huh? I’m reserving judgment on how well that’s going to work out until I see her for myself on Monday.

  Crud. That’s tomorrow. Plus school. Plus whatever else DARPA may bring.

  Maybe it isn’t too late to go back to bed.

  8

  “Eye on You” by Rocket from the Crypt and Holly Golightly

  I’m late. Even after crashing most of Sunday, I still slept through my alarm. Almost twenty-four hours of sleep is apparently not enough after a marathon tunneling session plus headache plus experimental drug plus stress. The morning is a blur of shouting and throwing things: throwing clothes on, throwing my books in my backpack, throwing some food in my mouth. Nice and relaxing.

  I manage to get Myk to her school on time, barely, but then I still have to make it back across town to VHS in Monday morning traffic. It’s ugly.

  It’s fifteen minutes past the bell when I push into Mr. Vargas’s class and stumble to my seat, muttering an apology. Then I pull out my calculus books, notebook, and figure out what the hell we’re working on today.

  So it’s a few minutes before I realize that Eric Proctor is sitting next to me, head down, writing the problem from the board.

  There’s no doubt. It’s him, red hair and freckles and all, wearing a black sweatshirt and jeans instead of his DARPA white coat and badge. My first thought is that I’m right: he does look my age. He fits right in here.