Assumptions (3 page)

A police cruiser sped, lights flashing, to
the end of the next block where it swerved, stopping across the
lanes of traffic, shutting down one of the city’s busiest
thoroughfares, previously closed only for state funerals and
Oprah.

Near the building, burly men wearing day-glo
green windbreakers unhooked the rope line and released the
privileged into the street.

A visceral rumble reverberated off the
buildings.

The jade eyes blinked.

A mounted officer on the opposite side pulled
his radio to his ear, nodded and, with a motion to his crew,
released the unbraceleted gushing onto the pavement.

Another rumble surged through the crowd,
hushing them in its sonic wake. A distant violin cried, sustaining
a single plaintive note, then seamlessly transformed into a woman’s
voice, lush and poisonous.

I . . .

travel alone

hear my song

no companion

to light my way

outside the walls I wait

timeless . . .

striking . . .

I . . . .

satisfy my soul

illuminating truth

in eternal retribution . . .

The media façade flashed bright white. The
jade-eyed girl tore away the virtual film, exposing a knowing,
half-cocked smile on a waifish face surrounded by wisps of jet
black hair. A thick bronze spiral decorated with chicken-scratch
symbols hovered at the hollow of her neck. The amulet radiated
blades of hot white, overlapping until its eye burning halo filled
the screen. The symbols floated off, morphing into the serpentine
logo,
Serendipity Smiles
. The crowd roared.

The silk fell away from the arch. The singer
stepped through and took a deep breath, the tops of her breasts
spilling over the top of her corseted gown of ruby taffeta. She
repeated the refrain. Her chestnut hair fell in soft waves over her
shoulders.

She marched slowly to the piano and slid onto
the bench. Her slender fingers moved over the instrument
gracefully. The melody rose and fell as she attacked then caressed
the keys in confidence and woe, fury and hope. Her song circled
back, ending where it began, on a single mournful note, leaving the
crowd still and uneasy.

She pounded out a few notes. Three men
dressed in black jeans and scuffed leather jackets raced onto the
stage and pumped out the first grinding chords of a goth-pop
anthem. The crowd bobbed like a manic whack-a-mole. Half-an-hour
later, the music dissolved as the singer’s band mates left her at
center stage to finish the last defiant refrain, quieting the crowd
once again. She held the moment.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Mr.
M.L. Quig.” she announced coyly. The crowd exploded in applause,
taking up a low-toned chant, "M. L., M. L., M. L."

A wiry man with head of thick, strawberry
blond hair filled the media façade. The camera followed him closely
as he bounced up the steps. Bulgari sunglasses flapped casually at
the breast pocket of his dark, custom tailored suit.

He met the singer at center stage. She pushed
the microphone bud away from her
Cherries in the Snow
lips
and whispered in his ear. Quig grinned. She lingered at his cheek,
brushing her mouth across his skin as if no one were watching then
walked off stage. Quig ogled the elegant line of her back and the
luscious swish of her skirt as she descended the stairs and
disappeared into the executive entrance of his new building.

He adjusted the tiny microphone at his chin
and turned his attention to his crowd.

“Wow, this is amazing. You’re amazing!” Quig
waved, working both ends of the stage. The din rose. He applauded
his fans who responded with more volume.

“I know some of you have been waiting a very
long time for this. Well, so have I!” He raised his arms, clapping
his hands above his head, whipping the crowd's enthusiasm to near
frenzy, sustaining the ovation for several minutes before
continuing.

“About fifteen years ago now, in a cramped
apartment on the north side of this very city . . .” The crowd
howled in raucous approval. “ . . . Serendipity was released from
the Underworld, unwittingly born into our world with consequences
none of us, not even those of us on the working side of the screen,
could have imagined. In what seemed like an instant, she captured
the imagination of gamers, like all of you, the world over.”

Quig continued with a thoughtful tone, “I
hope you have enjoyed her journey as much as I have. Today, we mark
a new era as we celebrate the return of my company, Serendipity
Smiles, with our new headquarters and research and development
center right here in my hometown, sweet home, Chicago.”

Quig stepped back, allowing the wave of
admiration to swell.

“My friends . . ,” he attempted to break
in.

“My friends,” he repeated, “as you know, we
held an online competition to select a gamer worthy of welcoming
Serendipity home and of being the first to join her on a new
adventure, a gamer worthy of unveiling
Serendipity Returns
.
Allow me to introduce ConstanZa.” Quig hopped off the side of the
stage.

A petite girl with dishwater hair tied up in
a loose ponytail at the back of her head stood timidly near the
gleaming doors. She wore skinny jeans and a pink t-shirt beneath a
brighter pink jacket. The camera on his heels, Quig walked over and
shook the girl's hand. She giggled, her loose hand rising to
conceal rosy cheeks and a mouth full of braces.

Quig handed ConstanZa a pair of cartoonish
scissors and shuttled her toward the ribbon on the door. A handler
positioned her so as not to block the company name etched into the
glass. She opened the scissors wide then closed the blades with a
sharp click. The ribbon dropped to the concrete below. Quig
collected the pieces, handing half to the girl. He led her up the
steps and paraded her along the front of the stage, ending at
center. Quig counted with his fingers . . . one . . . two . . . on
three they tossed the ribbons into the writhing crowd below.

A knot of tweens near the front of the stage
screamed and waved homemade banners proclaiming
ConstanZa
rocks!
The girl shifted her weight to one foot, tapping the toe
of her other plaid sneaker on the stage. Quig stepped back.
ConstanZa daintily adjusted the mic at her chin, closed her eyes,
and whispered each syllable with purpose: “Ser-en-dip-i-ty,
Ser-en-dip-i-ty.” The crowd joined in, the speed and volume
increasing until the chant exploded into cacophony.

The media façade faded to black. A jagged
burnt-orange cliff burst onto the three story screen. At the
bottom, Serendipity stared up, lean and small against the towering
rock. A spark glinted off a thin shackle encircling her bare ankle.
She looked over her shoulder, tied her long hair in a knot, blinked
her jade eyes, and waited for ConstanZa’s direction.

Quig slipped away, abdicating center
stage.

ConstanZa kicked off her sneakers, a shining
ring at her ankle. She pulled a pair of palm-sized sticks from her
jacket pocket. She studied the knobs and buttons, then raised her
head, eyes focused intensely just above the crowd at her feet. She
stretched herself tall, thrust her shoulders back, blinked once,
and turned to lead Serendipity up the cliff.

Quig passed through the front doors of his
building into an airy lobby which still smelled like wood sealer
and wet paint. Tuxedoed servers circulated among the VIPs with
silver trays of blood orange martinis and miniature toasts topped
with slices of applewood bacon and quail eggs, sunny side up.

Quig made his way to the center of the room,
shaking hands with half-a-dozen men in suits then jogged up a
flight of glass stairs to the second floor vestibule. He stood in
front of the doors admiring the serpentine logo he had designed
fifteen years earlier. He waved his company ID at the small box at
the jamb, waited for the click, then went inside.

Just beyond the doors, a woman in a severe
skirted suit waited in the corner office. She leaned on the edge of
a desk still piled high with cardboard boxes.
Elizabeth
Denton
, read her ID,
Senior Vice President, Operations,
Serendipity Smiles, Chicago.

“At last,” she said, exasperated.

“Beth! Good to see you, too!”

“Where’s the Kleenex?” She dug through a box.
“Hold on, here we are.” She plucked a tissue out of its box and
scrubbed the lipstick off Quig’s cheek. She handed him a company
check and a pen.

“What’s this?”

“Band. They’re getting ready to leave.”

"Mmm, too bad." He signed and handed
everything back to Ms. Denton. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to
these events."

“Oh, don't give me that."

Quig pulled his smartphone from his jacket
pocket and tapped at the screen. “Look at the time.”

“She’ll be fine."

“I know, I know. I just . . .”

“Come with me.” Ms. Denton took his upper arm
and led him to the front window. “Look at that. Kids and parents
and everyone in between standing shoulder to shoulder, all
mesmerized by one little girl playing your game. Do you think she
would want you to miss that?”

“No, of course not.” Quig scanned the street
below one last time. He turned to Ms. Denton and smiled. “So, what
do you think of my new office?”

CHAPTER FIVE: NOBODY

Eastview College Preparatory Academy
commanded half a city block on the north side of Chicago, all red
brick and uniform windows, more factory than school. Only a narrow
band of well-kept lawn dotted with mature parkway maples, now
losing their leaves to the autumn chill, softened the harsh façade.
A six-story clock tower marked the main entrance. A lithe
strawberry-blonde girl loitered in its shadow. She pulled her
backpack to her hip and unzipped a pocket. She slid out a small
mirror. Holding it above and to the side, she smoothed a loose
strand of hair into the tidy knot at the back of her head.

She tucked the mirror away, leaned the
backpack to the opposite side, and dug out a crumpled hot pink
sticky note. She pressed the note against her thigh, ironing it
flat with her fingers.
Have a great first day! Sorry I couldn’t
see you off. Happy Birthday, my Sweet Sixteen! See you at dinner.
Love you, Pumpkin - Dad.

She smiled a sideways smile then returned the
note to her backpack. She knelt to re-tie the laces of her oxfords,
savoring a last few minutes of anonymity.

The school bell buzzed a cranky first
warning. The girl popped up and flung her backpack over her
shoulder. She brushed a stray bit of fuzz from her stiff navy
blazer, adjusted the pleats in her gray plaid skirt, and jogged up
a couple of steps to the door. Her shoes tapped against the
well-worn limestone. She inhaled, preparing herself to pass through
the thin barrier separating her from what waited for her on the
other side.

She reached for the door. It swung out fast,
just missing her outstretched hand.

“You must be Jordyn!” gleefully shouted a
chunky girl with short, over-highlighted hair. “I’m Cooper Lawson,
Year Ten Representative." She stood in the open doorway, straight
and tall as she could, her chest puffed out as if she had rehearsed
in front of a mirror more than twice. “Funny name, I know. I’m
pretty sure Mom and Dad wanted a boy. Oh, well.” She let out a
laugh that sounded nearly as unnatural as her introduction.

“Come in, come in,” she added,
enthusiastically shoving her chubby, pink hand toward Jordyn. A
dozen other students, more boys than girls, watched the abrupt
introduction with zealous interest.

A woman with a frilly coral colored scarf at
her neck poked her head out of a nearby office. “On your way now,”
she chided, sending the gawkers down the corridor craning for a
glimpse of Eastview’s newest.

An athletic boy wearing an “Eastview
Football” pin on his lapel lagged behind. He smiled in Jordyn’s
direction and walked toward her. She looked over her shoulder
hoping to see someone else.

“Hi. I’m Logan Harris.” He offered his
hand.

Jordyn jerked her head forward, quickly
crossing her arms behind herself, fiddling with the zippers on her
backpack. Logan dropped his hand.

“Hi,” Jordyn responded curtly, looking past
him toward the office door.

Logan persisted. “Don’t pay any attention to
them. They’re just curious.”

“About my dad, I know. M.L. Quig, my golden
ticket."

“Can you blame them?”

“Guess not.”

“Wow, your eyes are nice,” he said.

Jordyn’s hand shot up to her face. She
scratched her forehead then let her hand fall casually. “You say
that to all the girls.”

“That sounded really bad, didn’t it?”

“Um, yeah. It really did."

“I meant they’re so mocha-y, uh, -ish, uh,
brown . . . uh . . . sorry.”

“Maybe you should quit while you’re
ahead.”

“Yeah. I should.” The first period bell
buzzed. “Saved by the bell.”

“Very funny. I think it's me who's
saved."

“I gotta get to class. Maybe I’ll see you
around?” He offered his hand again. “I’m Logan.”

Jordyn took his hand. “Nice to meet you,
Logan.”

“Miss Quig,” interrupted the woman from the
office, “please, come with me. We need to assign you a locker and
get your class schedule.”

“See you,” said Logan. He turned and jogged
away.

“Miss Quig, please step into the office for a
minute while I get your schedule." The woman held the door wide
open, tapping her index finger on the knob.

The second bell buzzed. A dark-haired boy
rushed down the corridor, clumsily peeling off his backpack and
coat as he skidded around the far corner.

The woman frowned in his direction. "Late and
out of uniform again."

Jordyn entered the office. She followed the
woman to the far side of a large room filled tight with desks and
beige file cabinets, all aligned in orderly rows. A fluorescent
light flickered overhead.