Overtaken (6 page)

“That we've changed,” Jackson calmly replied, looking up, “permanently.”

“Shit,” Oliver muttered, his eyes widening with comprehension that Jackson had hit upon a scary truth.

My mouth dropped open. Could it be the three of us would never be normal again? It wasn't that the thought of being permanently altered had never crossed my mind. It had many times. It was facing down the stark reality that threw me for a loop. This was the new me.

“What do we do now?” Feeling confused and scared seemed like an extravagant luxury that we couldn't afford when what we needed was a plan of action.

“Jackson?” a sweet voice called out, breaking our circle of secrecy. “You back there?”

I recognized the voice immediately and grabbed three books off the closest shelf and shoved them into Jackson's hands before Dana rounded the corner.

“This a secret club, or can anyone join?” Her smile sparkled. Not a trace of adolescent angst permeated her beautiful facade. Any club would be thrilled to have Dana as a member.

“No big secret,” I blurted out nervously. “We just get together to discuss books.” Lame, I know. I realized how crazy I sounded only after the words flew out of my mouth. But it was too late to come up with a more plausible explanation.

“The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich?”
Dana asked with a raised eyebrow as she snatched one of the books out of Jackson's hand. “Pretty heady stuff for a book group.”

“You know what they say,” interjected Oliver brightly. “Past is prologue.”

“Actually, I think it was Shakespeare,” Dana replied knowingly.
“The Tempest.”
She studied our faces, still not buying it. “Are you guys really worried about Nazism infiltrating Barrington?”

“It's more a cautionary tale,” I said, hoping to put an end to her persistent questioning. “Never know when and how evil will rear its ugly head.”

Thankfully, just then the class bell rang. Lunch had ended, as did my brief encounter with Jackson and Oliver. No doubt we had more to discuss when Dana was not around.

“Walk me to Spanish?” Dana asked Jackson. There was an inflection in her tone of voice that made it sound less like a request and more like an order.

“Lead the way,” Jackson answered, looking at me, uneasy at being put on the spot.

We exchanged a few polite nods and waves as Dana and Jackson left the library. I shoved the books about Nazi Germany back onto the shelves where they belonged.

“This all feels different,” I admitted to Oliver. “Deeper than before.”

Oliver looked at me and nodded solemnly. “For me too.”

Even though I had no definitive proof that what was happening to my body was a permanent change, I could feel it in my bones. My ability wasn't receding the way it had before. In some ways it felt stronger, more powerful. I had to prepare myself for it being part of me forever. Which only meant that Oliver, Jackson, and I were in even more danger than before.

It was undeniable. We might not be running for lives at that moment, but our Bar Tech nightmares weren't going away either. They were certain to get worse. I knew it; I could feel it in my gut. It was just a matter of time before Cochran showed his hand.

Something was building, but I didn't even know where to start. How do you fight the intangible?

I counted off the minutes until I got out of school. After enduring an excruciatingly long day of feeling as though I'd been strapped inside a straitjacket, I fidgeted in my seat, unable to find a comfortable position and sit still. I hated feeling so paranoid and worried about disappearing in front of people. Obsessively checking my limbs every other minute to make sure I still had two of each, along with the rest of my body, was exhausting.

During my last class, I received a terse text from Jackson to meet him in the parking lot. He'd been so standoffish all day that I was relieved to hear from him, brief as it was. I was eager to continue our conversation from the library without the risk of Dana Fox or anyone else interrupting us.

As soon as the final bell rang, I grabbed my bag and dashed out of the classroom. I tore down the staircase from the second floor and was racing through the main lobby toward the exit sign when I heard someone shouting my name.

I almost ignored it. But my ingrained good-girl impulse forced me to slam on the brakes. My biology teacher, Mr. Bluni, strode right toward me. I was confused. He and I had barely ever exchanged more than a few words outside class before. What could he possibly want with me?

“Hey, Mr. Bluni. Everything okay?” My eyes were on the doors, looking for Jackson. I didn't want to miss him in case he was looking for me inside.

“You tell me, Nica.” Bluni's laser-eyed gaze was unsettling. “You seemed distracted in class today.”

“I did?” Caught off guard, I felt every joint in my body stiffen. What else might Mr. Bluni have noticed about me? Denying the charge was too risky. And I didn't want to seem defensive. “Sorry. I promise I'll be more focused tomorrow.” I smiled sheepishly, copping to it so I could quickly get on my way.

“I hope so,” he cautioned with an air of vague disapproval. Mr. Bluni had an agenda, and it didn't include letting me run off just yet. “I expect my research assistant to be attentive and prepared at all times.”

“Research assistant?” I had no idea what he was talking about. Had I been so zoned out in class that I missed something important?

“For that journal article I'm writing on the human genome,” he declared.

I racked my brain and vaguely recalled Mr. Bluni mentioning the article but not the research assistant part. And we certainly had never discussed me being his assistant.

“Nica,” he continued, “you're smart, insightful, and could use the challenge.”

“Oh—” Shit . . . is what I almost blurted out, but I wisely held my tongue. His offer totally flustered me. Truth was, I had enough challenges in my life without taking on another one.

“It's a terrific opportunity,” he added, hoping to entice me and seal the deal. “Plus, it'll look great on college applications.”

“I'm sure it will,” I muttered. “And I'm honored by your offer and confidence in me, Mr. Bluni. Truly I am.” I kept blabbering, hoping to land on a good excuse. “But I'm already overwhelmed and stressed by all the work as it is. I just don't think I'm the right person for the job. I'm really sorry.”

“So am I,” he responded icily, body going rigid with extreme displeasure. Then he turned and walked away quite brusquely. It was unnerving.

“Shit.” It was obvious that Bluni was really pissed at me. But I had more pressing matters to deal with than worrying about hurting my biology teacher's feelings.

•  •  •

Jackson was impatiently waiting for me inside the cab of a truck, idling in the middle of the student parking lot. It was a loaner from his parents ever since he'd given Maya the keys to his beloved Mustang.

“What took you so long?” Jackson snapped at me, uncharacteristically testy.

“Pleasure to see you, too,” I snapped right back as I threw open the passenger door and hopped into the seat next to him. “I got cornered by Bluni, if you must know.”

“Anything serious?” Jackson asked with concern, as he threw the pickup into gear and sailed out of the lot.

Dared I tell him? It seemed so trivial. I shook my head and shrugged it off. We had more important things to talk about.

He drove through town, not saying a word for several minutes. Neither did I. It was an awkward, uncomfortable silence and reminded me of those early days after we first met. There was so much I wanted to say to Jackson, but I clenched my jaw tight, refusing to turn all weepy and sad about the state of our relationship or non-relationship. I was determined to sound rational and grown-up. But first I had to collect my thoughts about Dana, Bar Tech, him, and us. Except there were so many conflicting thoughts bouncing through my head that it was like a traffic jam up there. Finally, I couldn't hold my tongue any longer.

“I don't trust her,” I declared, getting right to the point, which surprised me. Then again, skillful diplomacy was never my strong suit.

“You don't know Dana,” countered Jackson. “Give her a chance.”

“Is that what you're doing?” I avoided weepy and somehow went straight to accusatory and angry. I didn't mean to act crazy, but the words were just flying out of my mouth like unpinned grenades.

“Nica, I'm sorry,” Jackson replied with a pained, anguished look. “Dana and I . . .”

“Have history. You and I . . . don't.” I honestly didn't say it so coldly to be snarky or elicit pity or sympathy from Jackson, only to state the hard facts, which seemed to be in short supply.

“It's complicated. You know how I feel about you.”

“I thought I knew,” I responded, my heart pounding and emotion welling up from the pit of my stomach as I recalled being in Jackson's arms a few nights earlier. “I'm not so sure anymore.” My anger was subsiding, with sadness taking its place. It was an awful, empty feeling. It was all I had.

“Give me time to figure stuff out,” he asked.

“Time's in short supply,” I reminded him, “in case you've forgotten. I'm not waiting around for Bar Tech to kidnap me or you or Oliver like they did Maya. I've got to do something before they find out that my—
our
—powers are here to stay.”

“I'm not asking you to sit on your hands and do nothing, Nica. Just tread lightly. We don't know who our friends are. Who to trust.”

“That's why, until I know which side Dana's on,” I said, “I'm keeping my distance. And so should you.”

“Please trust me,” he pressed, his normally bright blue–green eyes projecting confusion and regret. “Let me handle things my own way.”

I had to turn away. It was too painful to see him struggling with his complicated feelings about Dana and me.

Two minutes of silence later, he arrived at my house and pulled into the driveway. I quickly exited the pickup and slammed the door. Without saying another word, I hurried up the walkway and disappeared into my house, fighting off a wave of hurt and tears that I didn't want Jackson to see.

Once Jackson had pulled out of the driveway and I was safely behind the closed front door, I threw my bag across the foyer and screamed at the top of my lungs.

“Fuck!”

Jackson was right about not knowing whom to trust. Truth was, my emotions were all over the place. I didn't even know if I could trust myself anymore.

That's when the tears came.

•  •  •

I woke up several hours later buried underneath a mountain of bedcovers, completely disoriented as to whether it was day or night. Then I heard my dad calling me downstairs for dinner and the roller-coaster ride of a day came rushing back to me in living color, along with my looming problems. One of which was the massive headache that was suddenly pounding in my head. I staggered to my feet in no condition to face anyone—least of all my father.

I shuffled down the stairs into the kitchen, not caring that my hair looked like a Medusa fright wig.

“What happened to you?” The expression on Dad's face said I looked far worse than I imagined. He was dishing up delicious chicken curry and lamb tikka masala from Dhaba, the one and only Indian restaurant in Barrington.

“Can we not talk about my day?” I grumbled.

My dad respectfully nodded and didn't press me to open up. Unlike Lydia, Dad respected boundaries and never tried to push me into sharing the source of my anguish. Although I sounded calm and in control, my desperation clearly shone through, because he pulled out a chair for me. I gratefully plopped into it. I didn't stop inhaling my meal until every ounce of food was gone. At least my appetite was unaffected by all the turmoil.

•  •  •

Later that evening my dad knocked on my bedroom door.

“Come in,” I muttered from my cozy window seat while staring out at the neighborhood. I had sequestered myself into my room after dinner, pretending to do homework when I had in fact been texting back and forth with Oliver.

“Feeling better?” My dad opened the door and lingered in the doorway, not violating my space.

I nodded that I was feeling better even though it wasn't entirely true. It was obvious he had something on his mind he wanted to discuss.

“You found out something,” I said, sitting up, hoping he'd have the answer to all my problems and make my life go back to normal. A pipe dream, I knew, but a dream I had nonetheless.

“Cochran is planning something major. Top secret. At the highest levels.”

“Levels above him at Bar Tech? I thought he was the one in charge.”

“He is,” my dad acknowledged. “But Bar Tech's tentacles reach out from the company to all sorts of places.”

“You mean like the military?”

“I wouldn't be surprised,” he admitted. “What about you? Were there any run-ins with Bar Tech Security? Anything strange happen at school or with Dana?”

“No. Nothing. Which was weird. I didn't see security anywhere.”

“That doesn't mean they're not watching,” he said ominously, mulling over the significance of it all. He then turned to leave.

“Dad . . .” My throat constricted, suddenly parched.

“Yeah?” He paused and looked at me, half listening, his mind still preoccupied.

“There's one other thing that I probably should mention,” I confessed. “Remember how I said my power only lasts twenty-four hours after the pulse?”

“Yes. What about it?” His attention riveted back on me.

“This time it didn't happen. My power didn't go away. And I'm scared it's permanent.”

My father leaned back against the doorjamb. My revelation stunned him like a jab to the solar plexus.

“The frequency of pulses must've caused a kind of genetic critical mass,” he said, “which permanently activated your ability. Like flicking on a light switch.”

“Lucky me,” I scoffed. “Some girls get nose jobs when they turn sixteen. I disappear.”

Dad stayed up until the wee hours of the morning reassuring me that other than Bar Tech already knowing about Maya, they had no way of knowing who else was affected. And Maya was safely in hiding and out of reach. All the other blood samples drawn from students at school had also been tainted by my father, effectively creating a protective firewall around my friends.

“How long will it hold?” Dad heard the trepidation in my voice. He took me by the shoulders and looked me right in the eyes. Cool, calm, reassuring.

“I'll make sure Richard Cochran never harms you.”

Dad planted a kiss on my forehead. It felt like his kiss could protect me from all the evil that was out in the world. For that moment I felt safe. Protected.

Nothing could've been farther from the truth. But I was too self-involved and wrapped up in my own emotional turmoil to see anything else clearly. I should've been worrying about my father. Who was protecting him?