CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Everyone is super high-strung in Agility Training. The only consolation is, because of the Assembly time cutting in we get an abbreviated version of the class.
But first, true to her drill sergeant form, Oalla Keigeri makes us run nine laps, which is two laps more than the previous day. We all struggle, and by lap seven hardly anyone is actually running—more like dragging ourselves in a slow walking “jog” around the perimeter of the gym hall.
I come in dead last once again. But at least I make Jack Carell, the heavy kid, really work for his second-to-last spot, locked in a dead heat with Janice Quinn, who manages to beat him at the last minute and comes in barely ahead of both of us.
Oalla approaches me to scan my token for the last-place demerit. For once her face is unreadable, and she barely registers my presence.
She is still grieving. . . .
For some reason I find it more frightening than having her wrath directed at me head-on.
Later, we get out the hoverboards and practice making sharp turns on a flat and level plane, sticking to six inches above the floor—no going up and down, thank goodness, so that my fear of heights gets to take the day off.
I notice Blayne Dubois, riding his hoverboard and generally keeping away from the rest of us, as he is practicing rather advanced maneuvers from his lying-flat position. His form is sleek and he looks focused and confident on that board.
At the end of the class, he once again pushes himself up by this hands and arms into the wheelchair, sends the hoverboard away and instantly becomes the same withdrawn and angry guy who slouches with his hair in his face and who does not talk to anyone.
Once again I get the crazy impulse to approach him, but think better of it.
Instead I head upstairs to Atlantis Tech.
* * *
Mr. Warrenson starts out the class by teaching us a few more musical note sequences to orient and move levitating objects.
Laronda is not in my class today, so I am partnered with an older teen boy, Antwon Marks. Antwon has super dark skin and wears a smart earring in his left pierced nostril that has a gold chain running from it to the one in his ear.
It does not seem to interfere with his ability to make rich tenor notes that sound like honey.
We face each other across our desks, with pieces of orichalcum hovering at eye-level before us.
“ . . . Just think of it as playing ping-pong,” Mr. Warrenson tells the class. “See if you can attempt an avoidance exchange so that your pieces do not collide head-on as they approach, but go around each other smoothly. Remember, three quick staccato notes, followed by one long one, sustained . . . Minor notes if you want to maneuver below, major notes to pass above. . . . Half-step up for a sharp note to go around and pass on the right. Half-step down for a flat note to go around and pass on the left.”
I face Antwon and try to sing the sequence, while gripping my hands in fists underneath the desk to mentally steady myself. Except, my lungs and throat are still sore from yesterday’s smoke inhalation, and I am unable to sing cleanly without breaking out into small fits of coughing after every few notes.
“Are you okay?” Antwon says, as I turn bright red from the effort to suppress the cough, then still end up coughing for yet another time in the span of five minutes.
“Yeah, sorry . . .” I choke out. “I think I might be getting a minor cold.”
“Yow, sounds more than minor to me. . . . Get some water.” Antwon’s expression is sympathetic. He then saves me by taking an extra turn to move his own levitating piece smoothly around the hovering obstacle of mine. His singing voice is beautiful and sends shivers down my back.
Next, Mr. Warrenson starts getting deeper into the physics and theory of it, so the class begins to wilt with boredom.
“The ability to hover its own weight plus carry additional weight is dependent on the mass of orichalcum present. For example, one square inch of pure orichalcum can support up to twenty pounds of weight in Earth’s gravity—”
I force myself to focus on what he is saying, because this is suddenly very important.
“Just imagine those hoverboards for a moment,” Mr. Warrenson says. “They are approximately seventy-two inches long, twelve inches across and two inches thick. How many pounds can each board support?”
“Oh, no . . . math . . . eeow . . .” Someone moans from behind me.
I scribble some numbers in my notebook then raise my hand. “That would be 72 times 12 times 2, which is 1,728 square inches per hoverboard. And multiply that by 20 pounds, which makes it 34,560 pounds of weight! Oh, wow! One ton is 2,000 pounds so that makes it—”
“Yes, Ms. Lark, it makes it just over seventeen tons! One hoverboard can carry seventeen tons of freight,” Mr. Warrenson says with satisfied emphasis.
Next to me, Antwon Marks whistles.
Another boy raises his hand. I glance around and it’s Derek. He looks at me briefly with a light smirk then addresses Mr. Warrenson. “Wouldn’t that be overkill? Are these hoverboards pure orichalcum or do they make them part orichalcum part something else, to save money and resources?”
“Good question,” Mr. Warrenson says. “What is your name, Candidate?”
“Derek Sunder.”
“All right, Mr. Sunder, our assumption so far is that hoverboards are pure orichalcum. But as far as I know, no one has tested the specific seventeen-ton weight limit in the lab—at least not when I was on the original Atlantis tech research team. We know for a fact that a hoverboard can easily support several full-grown adults and stacked boxes of heavy equipment. But this is definitely something to consider and to verify. Hoverboards could just as well be made of only thin veneer layers of orichalcum applied over other inert materials.”
I raise my hand.
“Yes, Ms. Lark?”
“So, would it be possible to levitate an object with orichaclum that is just a minor part of its overall material, such as a lid on a box, or a rope band or something? Or, what about a person? How about an orichalcum belt—or even a belt buckle? Maybe, wrist bracelets or armbands? An orichalcum vest or harness?”
“Sure, and why not orichalcum underwear?” Someone snickers, and the whole class bursts out in nervous laughter.
I stare straight ahead and feel my cheeks begin to burn.
But Mr. Warrenson raises his hand to hush us. “Actually that is one of its experimental uses that we are trying to achieve. Orichalcum, in properly measured weight amounts, strategically worn on the body can theoretically create a commercial flying suit.”
“Yeah!” a girl says, clapping. “I could definitely use that kind of outfit!”
“We all can.” Mr. Warrenson turns to her. “Unfortunately there is one small problem, something I’ve mentioned before—the Atlanteans are just not willing to part with sufficient amounts of it for us to experiment on a large scale and actually make useful things. Plus, we’re unable to properly break down orichalcum under lab conditions. The only way we know of using it ‘raw’ is as the building-block material in their special type of 3D printers. In fact, we have a couple of these 3D printers here in the RQC, in the Arena Commons building, upstairs in the offices. . . .”
I listen with fascination—even managing to ignore Derek’s relentless stares in my direction—and now all kinds of weird idea gears are turning in my mind.
* * *
As soon as class ends, I decide I am going to go look for Gracie. I head downstairs, first stopping by the Girls Dorm floor to grab a sweatshirt for the evening chill. Yeah, I’ve learned my lesson about walking around in nothing but a sweaty T-shirt at night, and my throat is still sore from breathing in all that smoke yesterday—whatever it is, I cannot risk getting sick, not now, especially since I am expected to sing those dratted notes in class. . . .
On the first floor, Candidates are heading into the cafeteria to eat dinner. I see Laronda and Dawn, and wave to them as I hurry by. “I’m just going to see my sister,” I say.
“You go, girl!” Laronda winks at me meaningfully. Dawn, a girl of few words, gives me an amused silent look. I bet they think I’m off to meet up with Logan.
I roll my eyes at them then walk through the lobby and outside.
When I get to Red Dorm Five, and look around their Common Area lounge, Gracie’s not there. Neither is she upstairs on the third floor, when I head there. Girls with red tokens stare at me and my yellow token as I wander around past their beds, asking if “Grace Lark is here.”
“Her bed’s over there,” one girl tells me, pointing to an empty bed near the back of the hall. “But I think she’s gone to dinner.”
I glance at the made-up cot, see a familiar duffel bag of Gracie’s then look around the large dormitory hall, which looks exactly like my own dorm floor. “Thanks,” I say, and head back downstairs.
I peek inside the noisy cafeteria, and again, no sign of Gracie.
At this point I wonder if she’s gone to look for me, or our brothers. Okay, I think, she might be over at George’s Green Dorm Eleven which is way in the back of the compound. But Gordie’s Blue Dorm Two is closer, so I head there first.
As I walk between buildings in the brightly lit areas filled with other walking Candidates, I see more guards out on patrol tonight. The evening sky is deepening indigo. And from the direction of the airfield I hear the noise of helicopter blades cutting the air. With a sinking feeling, I wonder if those are military or police helicopters, and what they’re doing. . . . Are they working with the Atlantean Correctors on the investigation?
Blue Dorm Two has a large blue square logo up above the entrance. I go in, and once again, it looks identical to all the other dorms I’ve seen so far, down to the furniture and bland floor carpeting in the lobby. The lounge area is half-empty, since most people have gone in to eat. The Blue cafeteria is just as noisy, and I smell meatloaf, the same thing that they’re serving to us today in Yellow and Red.
I mill around, thinking. . . . To be honest, I am getting more and more uneasy. Where is Gracie, is she okay? It’s my bad that I didn’t immediately go after her when she ran off last night. And yeah, George could’ve been a teeny-tiny bit more helpful too. Really, what would Mom and Dad think of us, if they knew?
I take a big breath and peek inside the Blue cafeteria, and again, no sign of my sis. And no sign of Gordie either.
So I trudge upstairs to the second floor, Boys Dorm. I don’t feel comfortable going inside a dormitory possibly full of half-naked teen boys—nor, now that I think about it, am I even allowed to do so, according to the rules of conduct. So, at the doors, I ask some kid if Gordon Lark’s inside.
“Who?” the kid says, squinting at me.
“He goes by ‘Gordie,’”
“Okay, let me check.” The boy goes back inside while I wait. Then I hear him yelling out, “Yo! Gordie Lark! Hey, loser, some girl’s here to see you. Oooh!” And then I hear a few rude hoots and laughter.
Moments later, my younger brother peeks around the door sheepishly, adjusting his glasses over his nose, as usual. He’s in his jeans and dingy sweatshirt, with sweat stains around the neck and armpits.
“Gordie!”
“Oh,” he says, in some relief, seeing it’s just me. “Hey, Gee Two. What are you doing here?”
“Have you seen Gracie?”
“No. . . . Why?”
I exhale. Suddenly I feel a weird cold knot building in my stomach.
“I don’t know where she is. And I’m worried. She’s not at her dorm.”
“So? She’s probably just walking around. Have you tried the big Arena building?”
“No, should I?”
Gordie shrugs. He looks exhausted, and his face with its fading bruise on the upper cheek near the eye is extremely pale, except for the bruise itself, which is now turning purple-green. Ugh! Not to mention, he also slightly reeks. Oh, Gordie. . . .
I put my hands on my hips. “Gordon Lark, you look like a disaster. Have you had dinner yet? And a shower wouldn’t hurt either.”
“Heh? No . . . I’ve got homework to do. I’m not really hungry.”
“Are you kidding me? You’re always hungry! Okay, that’s it, we’re going downstairs right now and eating in your Cafeteria.”
Gordie frowns . . . kind of freezes for a moment.
I stand at the doors, giving him my meanest older sibling look. “Let’s go, Gee Three, don’t make me drag your sorry butt,” I add. “You know I could, I’ve been working out!”
“Okay . . .” he mumbles, but he doesn’t look all that happy.
“Move it!” I say, and he finally starts walking.
Downstairs in the Blue cafeteria, there’s pretty much nobody I know. It’s packed and eventually I see a few faces that might be kids from our school back in Vermont, but I’m not one hundred percent sure.
Gordie looks sullen as he pushes his tray along the counter shelf stretching before the food bar. He gets his plate of meatloaf and mashed potatoes from the server and I notice he’s keeping his head down and not looking around him at all. I’m right behind him, and finally we make it past the desserts, with cherry pie slices on our tray, and pour our drinks from the dispensers.
“See anyone you’d like to sit with?” I ask.
“No,” he replies, without even looking around to check who’s in the room.
Okay, now I’m really starting to wonder what’s going on.
We find an empty table off to the side and sit down. Without much ado, Gordie digs in hungrily, being entirely his usual, normal, pig-out self. So what was the problem?
“Gordie,” I say, lifting a forkful of meatloaf up to my face. “What’s up, now? Are you okay? Is everything okay?”
“Uh-uh,” he mumbles with his mouth full.
I notice he still looks only at his plate and does not look up or around the room. Even for blissful loner Gordie that’s kind of abnormal.
“Wanna tell me how you got that big bruise on your face?” I say. “You never told me yesterday what happened to you.”
“It’s no big deal.”
“Oh yeah? Just tell me.”
“This guy and I argued in Combat. It was something stupid. He hit me, I hit him back. The Instructors told us to cut it out. . . . It’s over.”
I turn my head to the side, looking at him. “Wait, I thought it happened in Agility, not Combat. And is it? Over, I mean?”
“Yeah. . . . Agility, Combat, one of these two, whatever. And yeah, it’s over.” But Gordie does not meet my eyes.
“So how come you’re acting kind of weird? And don’t even try to pretend, I know you too well, Gee Three. You’re avoiding something or someone.”
In that moment, two guys with blue tokens, carrying trays with dinner leftovers, pass by our table. One of them looks to be Gordie’s age, a freshman with brown hair, and the other is slightly older with darker hair. The brown-haired kid slaps our table with one hand and glares at Gordie. “We’re not done, loser,” he says, leaning in.
Gordie looks up, and his already pale face goes perfectly still.
The second older kid stares with a hard expression. And then he says a crude obscenity.
“Hey!” I set down my fork and look at them with a frown.
“What, you got your Yellow girlfriend here to fight for you, coward loser?” the freshman says.
Gordie opens his mouth and starts to get up. I grab his arm and push him back down, barely holding him with all my strength.
“You guys want to get Disqualified right now?” I say to the other two. “Because they have cameras on us.”
“Shut up, bitch.” The freshman turns away from Gordie and is now glaring at me.
For some reason I am not particularly fazed. “Disqualification,” I repeat a single word in a loud voice, meeting his crazy look calmly. And then I add, “Oh, and all those pissed off Atlantean Correctors are all over this RQC, interrogating—pardon me, interviewing people. Just give them a reason! They’d love to have a one-on-one chat with you. Hey, I think I see one now, over there, at the doors. Or maybe that’s just another surveillance camera pointing at us.”
My words seem to have their intended effect. The two guys frown and give Gordie mean stares, but then decide to move along.
Only after they exit the cafeteria does Gordie exhale in some relief.
I find I’m still holding his arm. And it occurs to me, that was weird, I just talked down two mean jerks and wasn’t scared one tiny bit. What’s happening to me?
“Wow,” I say, releasing Gordie. “That was really ugly.”
Gordie mutters something incomprehensible, and I notice his face is flushing now, a funny delayed stress reaction.
“Gordie, you’re gonna be okay. Stay safe by being reasonable.” I look at my poor brother. “Remember why we’re here. This is not summer camp, and screw the bullies. I’ve got some of my own, and now that I think about it, it’s . . . well . . . okay.”
Gordie looks at me, and his angry flush is still there, but it’s going down. He picks up his fork again and begins shoveling meatloaf and mashed potatoes in his mouth.
I smile; I cannot help it. “You know, there’s a good chance those guys will still try to beat the crap out of you,” I say with rueful amusement.
“Oh, yeah.” Gordie nods, chewing, but this time he’s grinning too.
“Just don’t make it easy for them. Be smart, kiddo. As smart as you always are. After all, you’re in Blue, the Smart Kids Quadrant.”
“So are they.”
“They? Oh, phooey!” I bite my lip. “Nobody beats a Lark when it comes to brain power. Right, Gee Three? Keep that in mind!”
“Okay!” Suddenly Gordie pauses eating, chortles with his mouth full, and says, “Talking about brain power—I heard that some girl in a Yellow Dorm did this really cool thing yesterday in Combat class. Everybody’s talking about it, they call her ‘shoelace girl!’ Supposedly, when they ran out of their net and cord weapons, she ended up without one. And so she pulled out her own shoelaces and tied them together into a cord before the Instructors could catch her and give her a demerit—”
“Gordie,” I say, and now my mind is kind of reeling. “Okay, wow. . . . That was me. I’m Shoelace Girl. I had no idea that people are talking about this outside my dorm.”
“That was you? No way!” Gordie’s jaw drops and now he looks totally impressed.
I laugh, seeing his expression. And then I add, “Hey, see, there you go! That just goes to show what I’m talking about here—Lark brain power! We’ve got it!”
Gordie looks at me with an expression that approaches normal.
He then tells me proudly that he got to shoot a real gun in Combat class. “It takes brain power too, I guess. We had to shoot at a target fifty feet away, and I hit right near the center at least four times!”
I smile and shake my head at my brother. “Gee Three, you with a gun? Holy moly, amazing! See, Gordie, that’s what I’m telling you!”
At last I can see that Gordie relaxes completely, because he’s got the dopey grin as he looks at me.
We finish up eating uneventfully, even take time to scarf down that cherry pie, and then I leave Gordie to his “homework”—which is basically him hiding in the corner of the dorm lounge with his nose in his sketch notebook as he pretends to look over notes and instead draws something—and off I go to wander the compound in search of Gracie and George.
An hour later, after checking both the Arena Commons super structure and Green Dorm Eleven at the edge of the RQC compound, and finding neither of my two other siblings, I decide to head back. Short of going inside every dorm, there’s no way I am going to find them before first curfew.
Gracie had better not be hanging out with Daniel Tover, lord knows where, I think. Only, I have a very grim idea that it’s exactly what she’s doing.
* * *