CHAPTER SEVEN
My second class is Atlantis Tech. I wonder what in the world that means as I climb up the stairs all the way to the fourth floor, pretty much dying on the way, after the physical exertion I’ve just endured. Admittedly, it’s not really that bad—at least not for a normal athletic teen. But I’ve managed to avoid P.E. or take the easiest classes possible, for years. And now it’s all catching up with me . . . at the worst time possible.
The fourth floor landing is identical to the others, brightly lit and sterile. But instead of double doors leading to one ginormous room the size of the Training Hall or the sleeping floor, this one leads into a corridor with many classroom doors on all sides. My schedule said “Room 17,” and so I go down the hall past a stream of other students—no, wait, I need to stop thinking of everyone here as just students. No, we’re Candidates. Candidates for Qualification, fighting for our lives. And we are all sporting our yellow tokens, which suggests to me that our classes are likely going to be Yellow-Quadrant-only, or maybe even limited to our own Dorm Eight, whatever it really means.
And for a brief moment I wonder how my brothers and sister are doing. . . . I’ll have to go look for them as soon as the classes for the day are over. My chest feels a sudden constriction, a pang of nerves on their behalf.
But first, Atlantis Tech.
Inside, the classroom is filled with Candidates. I am one of the last arrivals, so I get a lousy seat in the back. The front of the class has a usual teacher’s desk and on it is some kind of equipment. There is also a large whiteboard.
The Instructor is a middle-aged man, definitely not Atlantean. He’s wearing a plain grey suit and a yellow armband. He has a balding head and a mild and somewhat abstracted expression.
“Good morning everyone, I am Mr. Warrenson. I will be one of your Atlantis Tech Instructors.” His voice is pleasant and he looks over the packed room kindly. “I’m sure you’re all wondering what this is all about. Well, to be honest, when I got the intensive crash course on the basic principles of their technology, I was pretty much stunned—all the scientific community was. But their technology is so different from our own, so original, the principles of physical interactions of wave and particle mechanics, heat and energy transfer—”
I see the kids’ eyes starting to glaze over. At the same time I watch the excitement gathering in the way this man is starting to slur his speech together, and recognize he is a nerdy science type who got tasked with teaching us some advanced stuff that’s unfortunately going to go over many of the teens’ heads.
But not mine!
“Anyway, the main initial point I’m trying to get across,” Mr. Warrenson says, motioning with his hand at the spread of unrecognizable objects on the desk before him, “is that Atlantis technology is based on sound. To be precise, it is based on the interactions of various tones and frequencies and the opposing bombardment of sound waves from different directions in order to conduct, transfer and convert sound energy and in the process create physical movement and other tangible manifestations in the physical world.”
Mr. Warrenson pauses and stares at us, as if to give us time to let it sink in.
Everyone mostly kind of stares back at him, blank faced, expectant, uncertain.
“Huh?” a boy mumbles.
Me? I’m kind of getting blown away.
Disappointed in our lack of reaction, the Instructor continues. “Let me put it this way. It’s sound, it’s music!—tones and notes—that make those amazing hoverboards levitate! Sound is what makes the bulk of their technology work! It’s mindblowing! Oh, if only we had more time! More time to get a thorough in-depth look at the functionality, the things I could tell you—But in any case, what’s important is that the one solid reason why you all passed Preliminary Qualification, a reason I can reveal to you now, is that all of you here can more or less carry a tune. Or at least you can replicate auditory signals correctly. Which means you are prime Candidates for being able to use Atlantis technology!”
This time the class is paying a bit more attention.
“So,” Mr. Warrrenson picks up one of the weirdo gadgets on the table. “What we’re going to do in the very brief time we have, is learn how to use their technology, their computers, their engines, their mechanisms. We—or better to say, you—won’t know how or why it works, but at least, by the time we’re done here, you will all know how to use it!”
A curly-haired girl raises her hand. “Okay, does this mean we’re going to be singing in this class?” she quips.
“Actually—” Mr. Warrenson smiles. “You’re not too far off.”
And then he kind of launches into a rambling lecture on music theory. In a nutshell—and believe me, even I am a little bored with the thick overload of theory and mega-rambling in this one—in a nutshell, different notes, scales, tones, and progressions of sound waves create real usable energy.
“The Yellow Quadrant,” Mr. Warrenson tells us, “is directly related to sounds and musical notes that are classified as sharp. That’s one of the four sound divisions within their system—with the Green Quadrant representing flat notes, Red Quadrant referring to major musical keys, and Blue Quadrant related to minor musical keys. Supposedly they all have special functions and very important roles and meanings in Atlantean science and physics. But all we need to know is how to make the correct musical sounds at the appropriate times and in the right places.”
So, we are going to be singing indeed.
I feel myself freezing up on the inside. . . .
I haven’t mentioned it previously, but I don’t sing.
And I don’t mean I cannot form notes—I can, reasonably well, otherwise apparently I wouldn’t have passed Preliminary Qualification. What I don’t do is sing for pleasure or for entertainment or for anything. I used to love to sing, when I was younger, a tiny little kid, singing along in delight to her opera singer Mom’s arias and solo repetitions. If I can even remember any of it, I think I was even kind of good at it. . . .
But none of it matters.
Not anymore. Not since Mom got cancer and it metastasized to her lungs, and caused her to stop being able to make the gorgeous mezzo-soprano notes, and forced her to quit her musical career and then stop working altogether. At that time something weird happened to me also. I don’t know what it is, and no, I am not being dramatic or a pretentious jerk.
It’s just . . . something.
So, I don’t sing. My brothers and my sister, sometimes they still sing a little, the way we used to do all together, and they still play their instruments—but I don’t.
And so, as Mr. Warrenson starts explaining Atlantean audio gadgets to us, and then makes us echo the notes he makes in a chorus, demonstrating random levitation and other fascinating mechanical functionality, I keep as still as possible, and barely open my mouth.
This class is going to be hell after all.
* * *
At noon, we break for lunch.
I get up and follow the stream of jostling Candidates downstairs. Some of us stop in the girls or boys dormitory floors to grab our stuff, or a fifteen minute nap, or check our belongings to make sure nothing has been taken from our beds, whatever—not that it would be, considering the immediate threat of disqualification, and all the supposed security cameras (I haven’t seen any beyond ordinary yet, but it doesn’t mean they’re not there).
I don’t bother. As if anyone is going to steal my books or my cheap trinkets. And I’ve never been one for naps, not even when dead-tired.
Instead, I go directly to the Common Area on the first floor. On impulse I consider skipping lunch and instead heading out in search of Gracie and my brothers right now, right this moment, to see how they’re all doing. Poor Gracie, I can’t imagine how she must be dealing with Agility Training. . . .
As I come down the last flight and enter the landing, still thinking about taking off, I notice a freight elevator right around the corner. It dings, its wide door swings open and I see Blayne Dubois in his wheelchair. There’s no one else in the elevator with him. He uses his hands to rotate the wheels but a wheel appears to get stuck on the small ledge between the elevator and the ground floor.
He looks up, and I see his intense expression.
Normally I’m the last person to stick my nose into other unfamiliar kids’ business, but something prompts me to pause. Especially since in that moment, no one else is around in this spot—all the noise is coming from the Common Area and the cafeteria, and there’s a brief lull as, in the last thirty seconds, no one else has come down the stairs behind me. . . .
“Hi,” I say, and start moving toward him. “Need some help?”
His gaze flits in my direction, and I meet his dark blue eyes.
“No!” he says, just as my hands connect with the back of his chair at the handles.
I freeze, and at the same time the heavy elevator door starts closing in on us, then bobs open again.
“No! I don’t need any help!” he repeats, with a frown. His voice is stubborn, not at all faint or reedy. It sounds stronger than I remember from the auditorium last night, or the Training Gym an hour earlier. Since I am already halfway in the elevator, and this is a weird situation, I say, “Oh . . .”
And then, because the elevator starts to close again, I grip the wheelchair from the back, and give it one small shove. “I’ll just push it over this part here,” I say.
He bites his lip, and up-close I see his angular chin, his pale skin, and the brown wisps of hair falling over his eyes. He appears my age or a little younger, but I’m not sure.
The wheelchair snags momentarily, then we’re out of the elevator.
“Thanks,” he says coldly. “But I can get around by myself. Really.”
Now I bite my lip, then mumble something like, “Sorry, yeah, I know. You’re Blayne, right?”
“Yes.” He looks up at me. “You can let go now.”
“Oh yeah, okay.” I smile nervously, step back, then add, “I saw you ride the hoverboard yesterday in my school back in Vermont, that was amazing—”
Blayne stares at me, and his frown deepens. “Oh yeah? What’s so amazing about not wanting to die?”
“Oh no, I mean, you were really inspirational, and it helped me and my sister, and a whole lot of other people, I bet, seeing you there—”
I should just shut up now, because I am only digging myself in deeper.
“So, it’s inspirational to see a loser cripple crawl onto that board and barely hang on?” He smirks. “Some inspiration! Why are you talking to me anyway?”
“Sorry,” I say. “I was only trying to help—”
Blayne says nothing. He looks away from me, and I briefly see the hard flash of his blue eyes before his hair falls in his face. He then furiously starts turning the wheels with his hands, and the wheelchair rolls along the floor, away from me.
Other people finally come down stairs and pass us on the way to the cafeteria, and I am still paused like a fool, blocking traffic. I stand and watch his retreating shoulders and arms moving powerfully, and notice that they are more muscular up-close than I thought. I guess they have to be, since it’s how he gets around.
Well, apparently Blayne Dubois is a bit of a jerk.
Or maybe he’s not. I immediately feel rotten for thinking it. He’s probably just pretty much sick of people treating him this way. Kind of like how I just did, without meaning to.
Yeah, I screwed up.
I bite my lip and continue into the Common Area, past a whole bunch of people I don’t know. I doubt I’ll have time now to search for Gracie and our bros. It’ll have to wait till later tonight. For now, best to just grab some food before the next class.
As I make a beeline for the cafeteria, keeping myself as small as possible out of habit, and looking mostly straight ahead, I hear a minor commotion just off to the side near the lounging area. Loud guy voices, harsh female laughter, and a general hard tone I am used to associating with danger and in-crowd unpleasantness. It almost always means someone is getting picked on—or about to be—and it’s usually me.
There’s a cold sinking feeling in my gut as I pass the source of the noise, the loud group of teens who have taken over the lunge chairs. These are exactly the kind of loud popular crowd that terrifies me, so I try not to look at all. . . . Until I hear what they’re saying.
“Hashtag wheelchair. Hashtag effed-up-loser. Hashtag how-long-will-he-last. Hashtag Atlantis-meals-on-wheels. Hashtag send. Okay pretend I just sent it to you, since the !@#$% stupid crap e-damper is on.” The guy who is speaking is an older teen, a big muscular jock type with dark blond hair and a thick neck. He’s sitting with one foot up on the sofa armrest and wearing the yellow token on one shoulder in a kind of careless show of contempt, while he’s got a sports team pin on the other. I’m guessing it’s a smart-pin.
“Oooh, good one, Wade!” The speaker is also an older girl, sleek and auburn-haired, perched up on the sofa’s back, with her tight hip-hugging jeans showing off her curves. She’s leaning over him with her big chest pushed forward provocatively, and using a high giggly voice that tells me she is flirting hard. I vaguely recognize her from the girl’s dorm floor, and I think her name is Olivia.
There are five other guys and three girls gathered around, variously spread out on the sofas and chairs. One of them, I notice, is Claudia Grito, who immediately glares at me. Great. Do I have some kind of nerd alert cowbell round my neck that announces my arrival to the haters?
“Okay, my turn,” says another guy, dark-haired and hard-faced, with a prominent tattoo on his equally thick neck. “Hashtag wheelchair. Hashtag total-waste-of-space. Hashtag he-needs-to-go-pronto. Hashtag Atlantis-qualification-fail. Hashtag screw—”
They’re not supposed to be hashtagging. And apparently the smart devices being rendered non-functional by the e-dampers is not stopping them from messing around anyway. Except, in some ways this is even worse. Normally, hashtagging is just a stupid online thing. It raises the popularity of a keyword phrase transmitted by a bunch of people and gets it trending across the various social networks, for various reasons, mostly stupid harmless ones. But it can be used as a personal assault bomb—in order to devastate some poor victim of the online mass attack. Since it is a known bully tactic, hashtagging is strictly forbidden in school, even though it happens all the time anyway, being the latest hot teen trend. But this—this “pretend hashtagging” done verbally in the person’s hearing is devastating.
Because I see Blayne Dubois just a few feet away, paused near the wall. He is staring straight ahead, and not moving. His wheelchair is blocked by the extended legs and feet of four guys who have cleverly positioned themselves to surround him. Their feet are stretched, sticking out, or otherwise dangling off furniture just so that he cannot maneuver past them.
I pause, freezing up completely, as fear renders me useless for about ten seconds.
And then something crazy happens. I turn and walk toward Blayne in his wheelchair. It’s as if I have nothing to lose. Claudia’s been staring at me for all these long seconds anyway, so screw everything. I move past everybody’s legs sticking out, bumping them casually while saying, “Sorry, oops, sorry. . . .”
“Hey,” I say, stopping next to Blayne, as if we know each other well and he’s expecting me. “Sorry it took me so long, let’s go in to eat.” I take hold of the back of his wheelchair, and before Blayne even opens his mouth, I start pushing him through the people’s feet-and-legs barricade, while everyone kind of goes really quiet and stares at me, stunned.
“What the f—” A boy cusses at me as the wheelchair hits his leg.
“Watch it, bitch!” says another guy. “Who says you can walk here?”
But I keep going. Blayne only turns his head and looks at me, but smartly says nothing. I think he’s kind of stunned too.
We roll several feet past the lounge area, and then we’re less conspicuous, since there’s people traffic here as most everyone is heading to the cafeteria.
“Okay, why the hell did you do that?” he says, putting his arm down hard to stop the wheels from moving, and we are paused near the cafeteria entrance. Teens are jostling past us, and the smell of fries and cooked burger is overpowering.
“I thought you were . . . well, stuck, and needed a reason to get away.” I let go of the wheelchair and look at him, attempting a friendly expression, but managing only slightly sour.
“Seriously?” He cranes his neck to the side to better look at me. His hair falls from his forehead and eyes, and I see he is furious.
I am kind of amazed, and this time I am getting ticked off too.
“I told you before,” he says, “I don’t need your help. What part of ‘I don’t need your help’ did you not understand? Are you an idiot?”
“Jeez, thanks a lot. . . .” I start to say something awful, then bite my lip. “Look, I just got you out of a crappy situation that was about to get ugly. The least you can do is say thanks!”
But Blayne continues to look at me as if I am the one who’d just cornered him and called him a waste of space. “You really are stupid,” he says. “If you think they were going to do anything. It’s just words. And words don’t hurt me. And they know better than to do anything that could compromise their place here, their precious chances to Qualify.”
“It sure didn’t look like that to me. Trust me, I personally know how it is, how these a-holes operate. Things can deteriorate—just like that. And no one would notice, not even with all the security cameras. . . . Oh yeah, and thanks for calling me stupid, so much appreciated.”
“You still don’t get it.” He shakes his head at me with a cold expression. “I had it under control. I know how to deal with it. I’ve been dealing for years. And now you’ve only made it worse.”
“Worse? Worse—how? Okay, I am sorry—sorry if I insulted you somehow,” I say, stumbling on words. “But I just couldn’t watch them do it to you.”
“Here’s what. Before you interfered, they were just bored, just venting. But now, they are pissed. And they’ve noticed both of us. That’s how worse.”
I shrug, and my frown is back. “Okay then. I don’t know what to say. . . .”
Blayne suddenly relaxes his face. He is not exactly smiling, but at least he doesn’t look like he is going to lash out and scorch me. “That’s the first intelligent thing you’ve said,” he mutters.
I let out a breath. I should be pissed at him, and in some small way I still am. But I also suddenly understand. And somehow that makes it okay.
My gaze falls down momentarily at his legs. They are thin, stick-like, encased in blue jeans. His feet, looking oversized in comparison, in white tube-socks that are folded neatly around his ankles, are stuck in a useless pair of sneakers. It occurs to me that his sneakers are so pristine, so clean.
“Since we’re here,” he continues. “I’m going in, to eat.”
And Blayne starts rolling his wheelchair through the cafeteria entrance.
I follow him.
* * *
I watch Blayne collect a tray and start putting stuff on it with skill born of practice. A plate with a burger, some fries, cole slaw, a dish of orange jello. He is balancing the tray on his lap and pouring a glass of milk from the dispenser and I don’t dare help him. As I get my own plate, and ask the server for extra fries, I see Laronda. She’s carrying an overloaded tray and motioning with her head at me toward an empty table.
“Hey, Gwen! Over here, girlfriend!”
I turn and see Blayne has disappeared. A quick scan of the busy room reveals him at a distant table near the wall, alone. His wheelchair is positioned so that his back is turned to the rest of the hall.
“Gwen! Wake up! You coming?” Laronda’s making googly eyes.
“Why don’t we go sit over there?” I say, and carry my tray to Blayne’s table.
Laronda’s right behind me.
“Hey,” she says, as we stop near Blayne and his wheelchair. “Who’s your friend?”
Blayne reacts by tightening his shoulders and staring at me. The half-eaten burger is suspended in his hands, and his mouth is full, so I simply put my tray down next to his, and pull up a chair.
I realize I’m acting a little crazy-weird even for me. Why am I doing this? He’s clearly not interested in human contact. And normally, neither am I.
Blayne continues chewing and stares in fascination as Laronda plunks down her tray, making dishes and plasticware rattle, and sits down on the other side of him. “Hi, I’m Laronda.”
He finally swallows, looks at her once then completely ignores her, and gives me a sideways glance. “Did I say you could sit here? No? What makes you think I want to—”
“Well, I wouldn’t want to eat alone,” I mumble.
“Then don’t. There’s another empty table over there. Or that one, with people on it.” He points with the hand that’s holding the burger, and takes another bite. He’s no longer looking at us but at his plate.
“Hey, hey! Hold your seahorses!” Laronda opens her mouth and puts her hand palm down. “We just want to eat lunch, okay? Not date you. Gwen, how come we’re sitting with this guy? I thought he was your friend or something.”
“He’s definitely something,” I say, while my cheeks are turning red in angry embarrassment.
And then I glance at Blayne and he is silent, hunched over, and something about him twists me on the inside. I see the yellow token on the front of his shirt, lit up brightly, as a strange reminder of everything, of this impossible situation we are all in.
“Look,” I say. “I completely understand you want to be alone, but it’s probably better you’re not, at least not right now. Those—those mean people out there, they could come in here any moment and bother you again and do something bad.”
“So?” Blayne tips his glass to wash down the burger. “Big bad meanies are gonna get me. What’s it to you? Why are you taking to me like a three-year-old?”
“I’m not—I mean, sorry. It’s nothing. Nothing, I guess, but—” He’s got a point. Why am I talking like that? What’s wrong with me?
“Okay, what’s going on?” Laronda says, starting her own lunch, jello-first. “Big bad who?”
“I’ll tell you later.” I glance at Laronda. And then I continue to Blayne. “Sorry—and I—I’m not sure. It kind of really upsets me, I guess. No—I don’t just guess, I am pretty certain it upsets me. Really sorry for being annoying and possibly weird. I’m not stalking you or anything. I mean, I don’t even know you.”
“Okay.” Blayne is done eating the burger and his fingers are drumming on the table. He looks at me, and his expression is direct and sarcastic. “So what do you want? My irresistible self? My four-wheel drive wheelchair?”
“Jeez, you some kind of jerk . . .” Laronda mutters with a mouth full of jello and frowns at him.
“He’s not!” I say quickly, turning to her, then back to Blayne. “It’s not you, it’s them. They’re the jerks.”
“Thanks.” Blayne is watching me expectantly. “So, answer the question.”
“What I want? I guess I want to make sure you’re going to be okay, at least short-term—at least before that asteroid hits Earth. So let’s just start over, please.” I meet the gaze of his very blue eyes. ”Hi, my name is Gwen Lark. I go to school in Northern Vermont, snow country. I’m guessing you do too. Nice to meet you.”
* * *
Not sure what’s happened, but a few minutes later we’re all still talking, and Blayne is no longer trying to get rid of me—at least not actively—although he still has a closed-off expression. Laronda has taken it in stride and just as quickly seems to have forgotten the initial person-to-person weirdness. Now she is complaining loudly about her Atlantis Combat class that she just had before lunch, and for once both Blayne and I are interested in hearing this.
“Okay, I have no clue why we need to learn their fighting stuff. Like, are we expected to enlist in some kind of Atlantis army, or what? Do they have street fighting there? Space gangs? Anyway, first there was all this funky rope and netting stuff. I can’t even begin to describe—well, then they made us line up and throw these martial arts punches! Whoa! Whoa!” Laronda makes a wild slash motion with one hand and then the other. “I dunno what it was, but it was c-raaazy! Like real King Fu or Karate, kick-boxing stuff you only see in those action movies! I mean, I can’t do that! Holy crap, but I almost had my eye poked out by this one dumbbell guy who was supposed to be my partner. He did this, and I did that—” she again motions with one hand and then the other, and almost knocks over her glass.
“Did you say rope? Martial arts? Wow. Ugh. I have that class last today,” I say while a new pang twists my stomach. “So, Combat is going to suck. Though I can’t imagine it’s any worse than Agility.” I explain to Laronda what happened in our first class. “Blayne and I both had it first thing. At least he got to use the hoverboard while I died and went to gym hell.”
“I actually like the hoverboard,” he says softly. “It makes me feel like I can get around for once. Kind of evens the playing field.”
“Oh, yeah?” I lean my head to the side, watching him.
Blayne glances sideways at me then looks away and fiddles with the plastic spoon on his empty plate.
“I wouldn’t mind having a hoverboard instead of this stupid wheelchair,” he says. “Then I wouldn’t need disabled access. I could just fly around on it, upstairs or anywhere I like. It’s amazing.”
“You could take it to the bathroom with you,” Laronda jokes.
But he’s all serious. “Yeah, I could.”
“You know, that’s not a bad idea.” I bite my lip thoughtfully.
“What, a hoverboard in the bathroom?” Laronda snorts, enjoying this.
“No, but he could ask for one. Maybe the Atlanteans would let him borrow one for the duration of this Qualification thing.”
Blayne shakes his head. “I doubt it.”
“You should ask them, at least.”
But he only shrugs.
At the same time a claxon alarm sounds, and suddenly everyone in the cafeteria is getting up. It’s five minutes till our 1:00 PM classes.
“See you later, Blayne . . .” I pick up my tray.
“Yeah, good luck in crappy Combat, hope they give you a hoverboard,” Laronda tells him, since it’s his next class.
He gathers his tray with one hand and mutters a short and sardonic “Yeah, sure, whatever. . . . Bye.”
Then the two of us head to our mutual Atlantis Culture class up on the third floor.
As we’re walking up the stairs, Laronda says, “Well, this Blayne guy’s a piece of work. But I like him.”
I smile slightly. “I do too. Don’t know why, though. He’s got an attitude.”
“Well yeah, wouldn’t you? Poor guy’s stuck in a wheelchair. Do you know what’s wrong with his legs?”
“No. . . .”
“You gonna ask him about it?”
“Probably not. It’s kind of rude, at this point.”
“Too bad. Well, maybe I’ll ask him—later, eventually, don’t worry. He’s kind of cute. In a pitiful puppy sort of way.” Laronda waves her hand and casually slaps the stairwell banister.
“Pitiful? I don’t know about that. Asocial, maybe, but I wouldn’t call him pitiful. I don’t think he is at all. I think—”
“He could be kind of hot, if he moved all that hair out of his face, so you could see his eyes.” She winks at me. And then she remembers. “Hey! So have you seen your hunky Logan yet? What’s the name, Logan Sangre?”
“Not today.” We turn onto the fourth floor landing, both already out of breath, and my heart skips an additional beat at the thought of Logan Sangre. “He’s probably in his own dorm, Number One, I think. He’s in the Red Quadrant, like my sister Gracie.”
“Same dorm?”
“I wish. No, she’s in Five. I’m going over to see her tonight after dinner—that is, if I survive two more classes.” I laugh bitterly.
We go down the long, now familiar fourth floor hall, in search of Room 9.
* * *