One

Chapter 3

The boys tromp in, dropping their gear all over the floor, which Mom hates. But instead of yelling at them, she just watches them jostling through the front hallway, punching each other on the shoulders.

“Mom, you okay?”

My words break her gaze. She shakes her head and looks at me for a second before answering. “Oh, yeah. Yes. Just thinking about…just some things at work.” She reaches out to pat my hand, and my shoulders stiffen.

Max tumbles into the kitchen dribbling a basketball and punches me on the shoulder. “D’you have to redo freshman year, Merrin?”

I snort and cuff him on the head. “Yeah, just like you need to go back to kindergarten.” He laughs, grabs a bag of chips from the cabinet, and heads toward the stairs. Michael strolls in after him and leans in to smack a kiss on my cheek.

“Glad to see you made it through in one piece,” he says.

“Thanks,” I mutter, squeezing his shoulder and swallowing hard. Michael darts his hands out in front of him to catch the basketball, which Max has hurled at him so quickly I barely had time to notice.

“What have I said about no sports in the house?” Mom growls.

The boys stifle laughs and head up to their room.

Mom sighs and opens the newsfeed on the touchscreen countertop. Julian Fisk, the head of the Biotech Hub, wearing his trademark impeccable suit, waves from the picture, flashing a grin back at me. The headline reads: FISK ANNOUNCES RENEWAL OF YOUTH OUTREACH INTERNSHIP PROGRAM.

The subtitle should say, “For Super-Extra-Gifted Super Kids Only.” They’re the ones who have been enrolling in mainstream Normal colleges like Harvard and Stanford in increasing numbers over the past few decades. Because, Normal or Super, smart kids are smart kids, and they want prestigious degrees in addition to working for the greater good at one of the Hubs.

It’s not enough anymore for the United States government to pay us for using our Supers, Mom and Dad keep commenting over dinner — now people want to be more integrated into mainstream Normal society than they have been since before the Wars. So the Hub has to do “outreach” — wants to keep our most talented kids close.

The curve of Fisk’s smile challenges me. It’s like he’s daring me to try for that internship. But if I’m getting that internship, it’s not to impress anyone or meet anyone’s challenge. It’s to save myself.

I stare at the countertop feed. I think I catch the phrase, “uncovering decade-old research,” but it’s hard to read most of it upside down. I let my eyes glaze over until the letters blend together and run through the checklist of steps I have left before my application is complete. I already got my freshman year transcript, sat for hours completing the tests until it felt like my stylus would rub my finger raw, and typed the essay. Only two pieces left. Signatures from Mom and Dad — which I would fake if they weren’t fingerprint verified — and a recommendation from Mr. Hoffman.

I sit there, gnawing on the candy and pretending I don’t notice Mom raising her eyes from the feed. She looks sad.

“What?” I snap.

“I didn’t know that still happened, sweetie.”

I look down and groan. The stool is now about three inches below me, and I can see down into Mom’s lap over the screen. I make myself heavy again and plunk down, scowling.

It happens when I lose control. Emotional control, that is.

It started three years ago in junior high, when I used to get teased for being so tiny. Before I knew it, I’d be freaking floating six inches above my seat, and everyone would laugh at me even more.