Satellite: The Satellite Trilogy, Part I (11 page)

“Thank you,” I say when Jonathan lowers me onto the cushion.

“You’re welcome. You should feel well after some rest. Can I get you anything before I go?”

“No, I’m OK.”

Jonathan nods and crosses the room, but turns back when I call his name.

“What do you think got into Willow?” I ask. “I mean, I’ve never seen her like that before.”

“Willow likes to be in control. I believe this afternoon’s events left her feeling a bit out of sorts, with someone so new getting the upper hand.”

“Has anyone else ever reacted that way?” If so, I pity whoever was on the receiving end.

“No, not that extreme. That’s Willow, though. Go big or go home.”

I’d like to laugh, but I haven’t recovered from my beating.

Jonathan continues. “It’s important to consider the internal struggle that takes place throughout a Legacy’s transition. Embracing the promise of the future means letting go of the past. This doesn’t come easy. One day, you may find yourself faced with the same difficulty.”

I’m facing it right now,
I think.

“I hope you can forgive Willow for her actions. I’m certain that she feels bad about today’s events.”

Uh-huh. Right.

I stay on the sofa when Jonathan leaves, because unless I want to army crawl across the room, I have no other choice.

An hour later, I trust my legs enough to carry me to the kitchen. When I return to the sofa, the assignment book on the trunk catches my attention. I hesitantly set my coffee down, open to the page with the bad glove drawing, and push my hand down. The book yanks me in without pause this time, sending me on the blind, oxygen-free roller coaster of needles. Thankfully, I land more quickly than I did on the previous ride.

Because she’s such a lovely hostess, GPS Jeanette extends her welcome, and like before, the wall spins to present a single rusty door.

After the handle sends the expected jolt, I step into 2001. The chirping crickets are deafening, and my steaming breath seems to float even longer in the air. Ryder’s sitting on the grass beside a blonde girl. Behind them, Granite lifts his head when the street lights blink on.

“Only a week left, you know. Are you ready to go back?” the girl asks.

“I dunno. It’s been great hanging out with you this summer,” Ryder answers.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah!” he says, but then adds with less confidence, “Don’t you think?”

Oh yeah, she’s definitely into him. An airplane skywriting her feelings across a clear sky would be subtler than her current glowing expression.

From across the street, a woman yells in the thickest New England accent I’ve heard yet. “Hannah, honey, time to come in!”

“Be right there, Mom!” the girl shouts back. The woman closes her front door. “See you later?” the girl asks Ryder.

Ryder looks disappointed, but then his face brightens a little. “I’m working on a new magic trick. Wanna see it tomorrow?”

When the girl unexpectedly hits him with an open-mouthed kiss, I laugh. “Shut your eyes, Ryder!” I yell, though obviously he can’t hear me.

Hannah pulls away and bolts across the lawn. Ryder’s goofy expression stays on his face until Granite scoots up and leans against him.

“Don’t tell Dad,” Ryder whispers to Granite.

I’m pulled away in a quick jerk, and the metal door slams shut.

As instructed, I step into 2004 when the spin cycle is complete. Ryder, now as tall as me, exits a brick-faced building in a historic district. He fidgets with his keys under the streetlight, locks the front door, and unties his apron.

“Ready?” his father asks from inside the rusty truck parked on the curb.

Ryder slides into the passenger seat and slams the door, but his voice carries through the open windows. “Uh, yeah!”

“It needs a lot of work. You realize that, right?”

“Come on, Dad, we’ve been over this how many times? It’s a Shelby, for crying out loud! You said you’d help, so don’t start flaking out on me now.”

“I won’t. I just want to be sure you understand what a big project this is going to be. You had to cut an awful lot of lawns and make hundreds of pizzas to come up with that money.”

Now annoyed, Ryder grumbles, “Can we go now?”

“OK, if you’re sure.”

“Dad!”

After a deep chuckle, the truck roars away, and I’m sucked back into the room.

“Please proceed to 2005,” GPS Jeanette says after the ding stops the wall. When I step through the door, the combination of gasoline fumes and loud music makes me homesick for the days Tate accompanied me when I worked on my truck.

“Hey, Dad, hand me the ratchet!” Ryder yells from under the Mustang’s faded red hood. His grease-covered forearm hangs out the side, hairier and thicker than ever.

His dad, almost fully gray now, adjusts the radio’s volume before rummaging through the toolbox. He steps around Granite, who’s aged the most, and passes Ryder the ratchet. “Is Madison stopping by?”

“Yeah. Is it cool if she stays for dinner?” Ryder murmurs from under the hood.

“Sure. She seems like a great girl.”

“She is.”

“Does she make you happy?” I’d have fallen over if my dad ever asked a question like that. No, I would have gotten something more along the lines of, “Why were you late to work?”

Ryder’s reply is strained, like he’s tightening a bolt at the same time he’s talking. “Mmm-hmm.”

“That’s what it’s all about.” His dad walks around the car and bangs his fist on the trunk. “You should have this thing purring by next week.”

I’m jerked away, but this time, I don’t land in the dirt. Instead, a force shoves me back through the same door, where antiseptic replaces the smell of gasoline. In a small room, Ryder hovers over Granite. I look down at the fur-covered animal on the linoleum floor, already knowing what’s coming.

“The blockage is in a difficult area,” a graying woman in a white lab coat explains to Ryder. “Even if he tolerated the anesthesia, I honestly don’t know if we could get to it.”

“There’s got to be something else we can do,” Ryder pleads into Granite’s wiry fur.

The woman squeezes Ryder’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry. You gave him a full life.”

When Ryder chokes out his OK, she leaves the room and closes the door. Granite pants and trembles. I look at the ceiling tiles, wishing I couldn’t hear Ryder’s profuse, sobbing apologies to his dog.

The doctor comes back a few minutes later. “Are you ready?”

My breath creates miniclouds in the suffocating room. I squeeze my eyes closed until the cold slam of metal tells me it’s OK to open them.

I mash my palms against my eyes while the room spins. As instructed, I step into 2006.

“That’s great.” Ryder talks into his cell phone in a modest but bright kitchen, then thumbs through a stack of mail while he listens. When he gets bored with the envelopes, he moves to the outdated fridge and grabs a carton of milk. “This is what you wanted. We’ll figure it out.”

Mya looks up from a stack of magazines spread across the round table and watches Ryder. If it weren’t for her familiar brown eyes, I probably wouldn’t recognize her. She’s prettier than ever.

“I know. Don’t worry about it…OK, I love you, too. Bye.” Ryder hangs up and locks the screen on his phone.

“What’s up?” Mya asks lightly, not acknowledging that Ryder has just slammed his glass of milk on the counter.

“Madison got into NYU.”

“You don’t sound too excited.”

“It’s a long way from Dartmouth.”

“You guys will make it work.”

“I know,” he says, but his tone doesn’t match the certainty of his words.

“I need a guy’s opinion. Do you think Lucas would like this dress?” Mya asks, flipping her magazine around so Ryder can see.

“I’m not so sure you should be wearing white,” Ryder jokes.

Mya hurls her pen at him before I’m jerked backward.

The stone room spins to 2008, and I step into another kitchen—this one even smaller than the last. It’s crammed full of weird artsy stuff.

Ryder slumps through the back door. “What’s wrong?” Mya asks him. The question should, more fittingly, be directed at her, because she looks like she swallowed a watermelon.

“Madison and I called it quits tonight,” Ryder mumbles, hugging his arms around himself. “How are you feeling?” He eyes the growth where her stomach once was.

“Look at me—how do you think? I’m sorry about Madison. I know you were worried that this was coming.”

“She thinks that by having a boyfriend, she’s missing out on the whole ‘college experience,’” he says, making mock quotations in the air. “Apparently her idea of college includes sleeping around.”

“Stop it. Madison’s not like that.”

“I know.” He combs his fingers through his black hair, which looks like it hasn’t been cut (or washed) in years. “This just sucks. I love her.”

Mya crosses the kitchen in three waddles and rubs his shoulders. “Hungry? I always feel better when I eat.”

He points his stare at the giant bump in her belly. “That’s obvious.”

She squeezes his shoulder until he shrinks in pain.

“Kidding! Jeez, woman! I’m not hungry, but I’ll stick around. Where’s Lucas?”

“Late shift tonight. He should be home in about an hour.”

Mya digs around in the fridge for a long time. “Nothing looks good,” she says from inside the box. She comes out with a bottle of orange juice and then gasps.

Ryder jumps up from his chair to get to her. “What happened?”

“Uh…I think my water just broke.”

Ryder, instantly changing his mind about helping his sister, leaps back until he’s pressed against the wall and gawks at the puddle under her feet.

“Wipe that look off your face! It’s not like I just peed myself!”

“That’s disgusting! Can I call Lucas or something?” Ryder inches further away.

“Yeah, on our way to the hospital. Go grab my bag. It’s up in my room by the dresser.” Comically, she tries to bend over to sop up the fluid with a towel. Ryder stares, repulsed.

“Go!” Mya shouts.

Ryder disappears up the stairs, returns less than a minute later, and announces, “We’re taking your car!” He flings a bath towel at Mya and then throws her flowered bag (which is bigger than her) up over his shoulder.

Mya rolls her eyes. Funny, she looks just like—

The yank through the door cuts off my thought, and I forget to look down. The stone wall makes me dizzy.

“Please proceed to 2010,” GPS Jeanette says when the spinning stops. “This will be your final door.”

The huge crowd throws me off, and it takes a second before the loud speaker registers. “Joseph Alexander Becker…Ryder Collin Beckmann…Julie Rene Behlman…”

Ryder’s dad, Mya, and another guy (presumably Lucas), jump from their seats around me, whooping and hollering like banshees. A two-fingered whistle almost blows my eardrum.

“Lennon, look! That’s Uncle Ryder!” Ryder’s dad exclaims to the little boy in Lucas’s arms, and then proudly points over a sea of black square caps to the stage. No way would my old man have been this enthusiastic about his son receiving a college diploma. Heck, the only reason he was excited about my high school diploma was because he got five more days of work out of me every week.

“Ry-ry!” The boy, Lennon, has Mya’s eyes.

“Yeah, Ry-ry!” Mya shouts.

I’m yanked back into the stone room, and GPS Jeanette says, “Thank you for your time,” as if I had a choice. Then, to be even more polite, she says, “Best of luck with your assignment.”

I’m jerked painfully into the oxygen-sucking darkness, though I stay calmer this time, knowing it will end eventually.

I catch my balance in front of the sofa and the book jumps away from me, landing on its spine and flopping closed. Grateful to be done with all that, I grab the book and put it on the trunk before settling into the worn sofa cushion.

A minute later, Willow barges through the door.

So much for relaxing.

.

8. A punch in the face would be more subtle

“OK, kid, let’s get this over with,” Willow’s voice barks from behind me.

I lift my head. “Well hello, Willow,” I say with feigned politeness. “I’m fine. Thank you for asking.”

“Just shut up and let me get this out.”

I kick my legs off the cushion before she plops down on them.

“I’m sorry about what happened on the field today,” she starts, wringing her hands together. “I don’t know what got into me. You have every right to be angry.”

“You’re giving me permission?” I plan to fully relish her apology.

Willow continues talking to her lap. “Look, I realize I made a fool of myself out there. I never react like that; I was out of control. Being a Satellite is everything to me. It’s all I know—I mean, really know.” She shakes her head. “I don’t remember my life, and to make things worse, my husband and I are expected to have this magical reunion or something. I barely know who he is!”

She lays her head back and stares at the ceiling. “Sheesh. I’m rambling.” After a minute, she looks over at me. “I’m sorry, kid. It’s inexcusable what I did out there. Can you forgive me?”

Just to make her sweat, I pretend to consider before agreeing.

She seems surprised. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“Wow! That was way easier than I thought it was going to be.”

“Oh, come on, Willow. I’m not heartless.”

“I know, but I expected a little more resistance. Wait—did Jonathan get to you?”

“What do you mean?” I ask, pretending innocence.

“He did! I should’ve known. Too bad. I had a whole slew of things I was planning to say.”

“Well, let’s hear them,” I urge her.

“Fat chance now. I’ll store them away for another time.”

“So you’re planning to go crazy again? Super. Give me a heads-up next time.”

“We’ll see.”

After sitting in silence for a while, she says, “I really am sorry.”

“I know.”

She smacks my knee before pushing up from the sofa and sauntering to the kitchen. “So I talked to Reed, and he thinks I should observe you while you code,” she announces.

“When?”

“You totally look like crap, so the sooner the better. You feel up to it now?”

“Sure, but can we do it from here? I’m super comfortable,” I joke, resting my head back on the cushion.

“Isn’t that sofa the best?”

“If you’re blind.”

“Ten to one says you keep it after I’m gone.”

“No chance,” I say.

“You don’t want to lose another bet, do you?”

“Another?”

“I hear your having dinner with Clara tonight,” she says.

I twist around to look at her. “How did you know about that?”

“News travels fast, kid. Everyone loves new gossip.”

Un-frigging-believable.

“Should I go ahead and spread the word that you’re off the market?”

“No!” I yell harshly and then level my voice. “I mean—no. We are definitely not a couple. I barely know her.” Not to mention there’s no way I could ever be with someone else. The thought ignites like a match behind my ribs. I push up from the sofa and storm past Willow. “I’m ready,” I declare, anxious to see Tate again.

Willow catches up, and soon we’re sitting on the black mats. She faces me while I stare at my fists in the mirror.

“Reed said you should do everything just like before. While you’re under, I’ll see if anything seems off.”

This entire situation is off. “Good luck with that,” I retort, closing my eyes.

It’s easier than I expect to tune Willow out. I visualize my room—and Tate—and the scene comes even faster than before. Tate’s body is curled into my side; her arm sprawled across my chest. Her shallow breath feels hot on my neck. To prove she’s awake, she sighs heavily.

When she raises her head, her eyes give away that she’s been crying. She brings her mouth close until our lips and tongues are moving together. She clings to me, and I tighten my arms around her.

“Tate, please stay,” I whisper when she pulls away, tracing my finger on her lower lip.

Her reaction doesn’t change. It’s as if she didn’t hear me.

“Tate, please. Stay with me!” I beg.

She leaps up and grabs her favorite pink T-shirt from the floor and then violently rips the cotton in half at the collar.

Ice floods through my veins, and blackness covers me for less than a second. It’s long enough for me to recognize the feeling, but it doesn’t make any sense. Not now.

When I blink, I’m back in the coding room. I bolt up and snatch Willow’s arm. “We’re not on the field anymore!”

Her eyes dart down to her bicep. “Grant, stop! What are you talking about?”

“Observe? Was this your idea or his? Probably yours—you’re so twisted!”

“Stop! Let go!” She jerks her arm out of my grasp.

How could she? How dare her! Enraged, I pace in the room. She follows behind me, wisely keeping a considerable distance between us.

“Calm down and talk to me.”

I spin around. “How could you block me in there?”

Willow freezes. “What? I didn’t. What do you mean, block you?”

“This isn’t one of your little training exercises! This is my life!” I growl.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I continue pacing like a madman until she grabs my shoulders and forces me to stop. “I didn’t block you! Come on, let’s go into the other room and figure this out. You need to sit down. You’re shaking.”

I try to make fists to steady my hands, but my muscles are too weak. She wraps an arm around my waist and leads me into the other room. On the sofa, my trembling increases and sweat drips down my face.

“Tell me what happened.”

“You honestly didn’t block me?” I ask weakly.

She looks directly into my eyes. “I swear I didn’t.”

But the feeling—it was exactly the same: the blackness, the temperature drop.

“Tell me what happened. Start from the beginning.”

“There’s not much to it. I was in my room with Tate. We were kissing. Everything went black and cold, and now, here I am.”

“Why do you think you were blocked?”

“It felt the same.” I shake my head in frustration. I’m missing something. “Did you notice anything off?”

“Other than you were out a long time? No.”

“It was just a couple of minutes,” I say, correcting her.

She studies me. “No. It was a long time. An hour, or maybe longer.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

Willow looks as puzzled as I feel. “I’m at a loss here. I’m sorry, kid.”

“Don’t apologize. It’s not your fault that I’m eternally jacked up.”

“Oh, you’re jacked, all right, but for reasons way beyond this. I just wish I knew why.” She looks down at her calimeter. “Go clean up so you don’t look like a hobo on your date.”

Clara
. My stomach drops. “It’s not a date!” I yell and then level my tone. “I mean, uh, it’s definitely not a date. There’s nothing we could possibly have in common.” Plus, I would never do that to Tate. “How awkward do you think this will be?”

“If your enthusiasm is any indicator, I’d say extremely. She’s a nice girl. At least try to act like you’re having a good time.”

I strip off my sweat-soaked shirt in the closet and search for the right words to explain it to Willow without coming off like a jerk. “It’s not that I don’t like her. I just don’t like her like
that
,” I yell into the kitchen.

“Seriously, kid. How old are you?”

“Sorry,” I murmur, embarrassed. “I suck at this stuff. I just get the feeling she wants to be more than friends.” I pull on a new pair of jeans and bring my boots and a new shirt into the kitchen.

“You get the feeling? A punch in the face would be more subtle. She’s been ogling you since you arrived.”

“Did you seriously just say ogling?”

“Yeah—so?”

“Dude, you are so old.”

She dramatically clears her throat. “Timeless and wise, thank you very much.”

“A wise something,” I say, pushing my feet into my boots.

Willow snorts and then eyes my chest before I get my shirt on. “I bet Clara would get a kick out of that look.”

I shoot her a deadly look before putting my arms through my shirtsleeves. “Why can’t she be into Rigby?” I complain.

Willow shrugs and slings her bag strap over her head. “Because she’s obviously into you. Next time don’t make bets you’re guaranteed to lose.”

“It’s your fault! If you had told me about your past, this wouldn’t even be happening.”

“Oh no, don’t pin this on me! Besides, she would have found some other way to pull you in. Clara’s a persistent little thing,” she snickers.

“Looks like she didn’t forget,” Willow says when we walk into Benson, crushing my last bit of hope.

I follow Willow’s stare to Clara, who is sitting in the corner at a table for two. Alone.

“Try to be a gentleman, kid.”

Willow bounces off to the table I wish I was joining, leaving me standing by myself. Rigby glares at me, which sucks. I’d be glad to trade him places right now.

On my way over to her, Clara stands and waves. Holy hell, she’s wearing a tight red dress and high heels. I sigh, knowing I should feel underdressed in my jeans and work boots, but instead, I’m thankful for my wardrobe choice. Maybe she’ll realize this isn’t a date. At least, it’s not to me.

I force a smile. “Hey, Clara.”

“I was starting to think you weren’t going to show. Looks like you lost, huh?”

“You knew I’d lose,” I joke.

She throws her arms up. “Guilty.”

“Do you wanna get something to eat?” I ask.

“Nah, I’m not hungry.”

“Is anybody ever hungry here?”

Clara laughs. “No, I guess not. You all right? You look tired.”

She sits rigidly, like she’s nervous, and crosses her legs. I pull out the chair across from her and sit. “I’m good,” I lie. “What are you drawing?” I ask to change the subject.

She blushes and conceals her sketchbook even further under her arm. “Nothing.”

“It looks like more than nothing.”

“Just doodling.”

“Can I see?”

She reluctantly pushes the book across the table, and I flip through the pages, growing more impressed with each sketch. “This is great stuff. Seriously, Clara, this is really good!”

“Thanks,” she replies, blushing. “Most of them still need a lot of work.” Despite her opposite-in-every-way appearance, she’s artistically more like Tate than I would have guessed—and humble like her, too.

“They look finished to me,” I argue, fanning through the pages of landscapes. “Are these places you’ve been?”

She stares at the page I’ve paused on. “Previous assignments. That one is of a bay in California.”

“It’s amazing.”

“If I had known before I died how beautiful California was, I would have insisted on going there while I was still alive,” she says in a softer voice.

“How’d you die?”

“Heart failure. I was on a transplant list by the time I was three. Having an uncommon blood type made finding a donor difficult. In my case, impossible.” She looks up at me and blinks her long, dark-painted lashes.

“How old were you?”

“Nine.”

“How are you so much older now?” I ask, surprised.

“We take our best physical form when we die.” She pauses. “I never made it to mine, which turns out to be seventeen.” She looks down at the table and shakes her head. “I can’t believe I’m about to tell you this, it’s so embarrassing, but I was happy about my new body when I got here. Stupid, right?”

“No, I totally get it. I was, too.” Getting rid of my diseased body is one of the only good things about this place. “I can see why you wouldn’t be disappointed.”
Crap! Why did I say that?

Clara blushes again. That’s what I get for trying to be nice. I bite my tongue to avoid paying any more compliments.

She talks while I flip through more of the sketchbook. “My mom prayed for a new heart, but the ugly truth is, she was praying for someone else to die. I heard her tell my dad that she felt like a
monster
for that. That’s the word she used. But I was the real monster. It was all my fault.” She looks away. “That’s one of the few memories I got to keep.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

She looks back at me. “Wasn’t it? It was my genetic makeup, after all, that made me this.”

“Were you angry when you got here, when you realized you were never meant to get another heart?”

“I felt regret more than anything. My parents were too afraid to let me do much, like my heart might spontaneously combust or something.”

“What would you have done?”

“Danced. Taken gymnastics. Gone to California.” She turns her head to the side and her blonde hair falls from her shoulder. “Lived. Really lived, you know?”

I nod.

“Would you have done anything differently?” she asks.

My deepest regret would totally kill the mood, so I keep it to myself. “I’ll get back to you on that.”

“Fair enough. I’m holding you to it, though. So, cancer, huh?”

“Lymphoma. Who knew something as small as a mole would eventually kill me?” I say dryly.

She slides her index finger along her glossy lower lip. The action is not sensual, yet my eyes lock on her mouth. “The Schedulers.”