The Thought Readers (6 page)

I sip my tea quietly for a while. Eugene comes back to the table and sits down again, sipping from his own mug. My brain is on information overload. There are so many directions this conversation could go. I have so many questions. I’ve never met anyone who even knew the Quiet existed, let alone knew this much about it—other than Mira, of course, but chasing someone through a crowded casino doesn’t technically qualify as ‘meeting.’

“Are there other theories?” I ask after a few moments.

“Many,” he says. “Another one I like is the computer simulation one. If you’ve seen
The Matrix
, it’s relatively easy to explain. Only it doesn’t answer as many things as the Quantum Universes explanation does. Like the fact that our abilities are hereditary.”

I was initially curious about the computer simulation theory, but the heredity angle stops me dead in my tracks.

“Wait, does every Reader have to have Reader parents?” I ask. In hindsight, it’s obvious from what he’s said thus far, but I want it spelled out.

“Yes.” He puts his now-empty teacup down. “Which reminds me. Who are your parents? How could you not have known that you’re a Reader?”

“Hold on.” I raise my hand. “Both parents must be Readers?”

“No.” He looks upset for some reason. “Not both. Just one.” It’s obvious that this is a sensitive subject for Eugene.

Before I can question him about that, he continues, “I don’t understand why your parents didn’t tell you about this. I always thought this was an oral tradition, a story that every family who has the ability passes from generation to generation. Why didn’t yours?”

“I’m not sure,” I say slowly. Sara never told me anything. In fact, it was just the opposite. When I told my moms about falling off that bike and seeing the world from outside my body, they told me I must’ve hit my head. When I repeated the feat by jumping off a roof and told them of another out-of-body excursion, they got me my first therapist. That therapist eventually ended up referring me to my current shrink—who’s the only person I’ve spoke to about this since then. Well, until I met Eugene, that is.

Eugene gives me a dubious look in response. “Really? Neither your mother nor your father ever mentioned it?”

“Well, I didn’t know my father, so he’s the more likely candidate, given that my mom never said anything,” I say, thinking out loud. Based on the confusion on his face, Eugene isn’t getting it. Why would he, though? My history isn’t exactly common for your typical American family. “I was conceived through artificial insemination,” I explain to him. “My father was a guy who contributed to a sperm bank in Israel. Could he have been one of us—a Reader?”

My genius father. What a joke. I rarely tell people this story. Having two moms can be awkward enough. The fact that Sara went shopping for good sperm to have a smart kid—that’s just icing on the cake. But that’s exactly what she did. She and Lucy went to Israel, found a high-IQ donor bank, and got one of them knocked up. I think they went overseas to make sure I would never, ever meet the father. Now you can see why I consider my shrink’s job too easy. Whatever happens, blame the mother.

“What? No, that can’t be,” Eugene says, interrupting my ruminations. “It has to be your mother. Giving sperm like that is not something our people would do. It’s forbidden.”

“What do you mean?”

“We have rules,” he says, and it’s clear something about this upsets him again. “In the old days, all Readers were subject to arranged marriages—hence the whole selective breeding theory, you see. Today things are more liberal, but there are still a number of restrictions. For example, a Reader’s choice of spouse, regardless of how powerful he or she is, is considered personal business now, but the expectation is that he or she be a Reader.”

I file away the mention of ‘powerful.’ I’m curious how one can be more or less powerful when it comes to Reading, but I have other questions first. “Because of the selective breeding thing?” I ask, and Eugene nods.

“Right. It’s about the blood. Having children with non-Readers gets you banned from the Reader community.” He pauses before saying quietly, “That’s what happened to my father.”

Now I understand why this is a sensitive topic. “I see. So your mother wasn’t a Reader? And that’s forbidden?”

“Well, technically, marrying non-Readers and having children like me and Mira is no longer forbidden. You don’t get executed for it, like in the old days. It
is
highly frowned upon, though, and the punishment for it is banishment. But that’s not an issue in your case. What you’re talking about—a Reader giving sperm—is forbidden to this day, as it can lead to mixing of the blood and is untraceable.”

“Mixing? Untraceable?” I’m completely confused now.

“A Pusher mother might somehow get impregnated by Reader sperm,” Eugene explains. “Readers consider that an abomination, and, according to what my dad told me, so do Pushers. They wouldn’t give sperm either. The risk is admittedly infinitesimally small, since Pushers themselves wouldn’t dare risk getting pregnant that way. Also, mixing aside, Readers like to keep tabs on everyone, even half-bloods like me, and sperm bank pregnancy would prevent them from keeping an account of the whole Reader family tree. Or at least it would require oversight of the whole process, which would be complicated.”

That makes sense. But this leads to only one logical conclusion. Sara, my biological mother, must be a Reader. How could she keep this from me—her son? How could she pretend I was crazy?

“I’m sorry, Darren,” Eugene says when I remain silent. “You must have even more questions than before.”

“Yes. Your gift for understatement doesn’t fail you,” I tell him. “I have hundreds of questions. But you know what? You know what I really want to do?”

“You want to Read again?” he surmises.

He’s spot on. “Can we?”

“Sure.” He smiles. “Let’s ring some doorbells.”

I have to admit, I like Eugene. I’m glad I met him. It’s refreshing to have another smart person to talk to, besides Bert.

It takes us a few minutes to choose our next ‘volunteer,’ a tall guy in his mid-twenties who lives a few doors down from Eugene and Mira.

“Hi Brad,” Eugene says. “I ran out of salt as I was cooking. Mind if I borrow some?”

The guy looks confused. “Salt? Um, okay, sure. Let me see if I can get some.” As he turns away, Eugene winks at me. As we agreed, I phase in and touch Eugene’s forehead to bring him into the Quiet.

It works, as expected. We are in the Quiet, which I guess, given Eugene’s favorite theory, might be another universe of some kind. I don’t dwell on the many questions about this alternate reality, if that’s what it is. I have something much more interesting to do. I walk up to Brad, touch his temple with my index finger, and close my eyes.

Then I do the breathing meditation.

* * *

What the fuck? Who runs out of salt? The thoughts running through our mind are less than flattering toward Eugene. And who’s this other guy? His boyfriend? Wouldn’t surprise us. We always suspected that Mira’s geeky brother was gay.

I, Darren, realize that Brad knows both Eugene and Mira. And I know I only have seconds before I play his memory to the current moment, which Eugene told me would force me out of the guy’s head. So I try to do something different. As Eugene instructed me earlier, I try to ‘fall’ deeper into Brad’s mind.

I picture myself lighter than air. I visualize myself as a feather, slowly floating down into a calm lake on a windless day. I become a sense of lightness.

And then it happens.

We are in a movie theater. We are on a date. We look at the girl sitting next to us, and I, Darren, can’t believe my eyes. We’re sitting next to Mira. When we start making out with her, I, Darren, think that maybe I really have gone crazy. But no, there is a simpler explanation. I get it when I try falling deeper again.

We’re standing in front of Mira’s apartment door holding flowers. “These are for you,” we say when she opens the door.

We feel pretty slick. The flowers are a means to an end. We want to get our hot neighbor into bed.

“Oh, how sweet,” she says drily when she sees us. “Am I supposed to swoon now?” She then proceeds to tell us exactly what she thinks we’re planning. I, Darren, realize that she must’ve done what I’m doing. She must’ve Read Brad’s mind—or maybe she just used common sense. Why else does a guy give a girl flowers?

We’re surprised at our neighbor’s bluntness. Impressed, even. We admit that, yes, we want to sleep with her, but that she should still take the flowers. She does. Then she sets the ground rules. Nothing serious. She has no time for relationships, she says. A movie, dinner, and, if she thinks we’re worth it afterwards, maybe she’ll go to our place. That’s it. Just a one-time thing, unless the whole thing goes exceptionally well. In that unexpected eventuality, she might, maybe, initiate another encounter.

We agree. What sane guy wouldn’t?

I, Darren, experience the dinner and the movie. It’s awesome. All of it.

We get back to our—Brad’s—apartment.

We’re in the bedroom. We’re kissing Mira. I, Darren, am jealous that an asshole like Brad gets to do this with Mira. That feeling doesn’t last, though. We’re immersed in the experience. Mira’s perfect naked body. Her lips on ours. It’s everything we ever hoped it would be.

Unfortunately, it’s too much of everything we ever hoped it would be. I, Darren, can feel us—Brad—losing control. No amount of baseball stats will pull this guy back from the edge. Just like that, we have a problem. Apparently Mira is a little too good-looking, because before I, Darren, even realize what’s going on, things happen somewhat . . . prematurely.

Mira’s reaction to the situation is admirable. She’s not mad, she insists. She says not to worry about it. Says she had a good time. She isn’t fooling us, though. She leaves quickly and never speaks to us about this night, or anything else for that matter, again.

* * *

I’m back in my body in the Quiet, and the first thing I do is punch Brad in the face.

“What are you doing?” Eugene exclaims, looking at me like I’m crazy.

“Trust me,” I say, resisting the urge to also kick the guy. What a loser. Not only did he sleep with Mira, he didn’t even have the decency to be good at it. “He doesn’t feel it. Right?”

“Well, yeah,” Eugene admits. “At least I highly doubt he feels it. But it looks disrespectful.”

It’s almost too bad that Brad can’t feel the punch. I debate punching him once we phase out, but decide against it. I mean, what possessed me? Mira isn’t my girlfriend to be overprotective about. She might not even like me when we meet. One thing is clear, though. Without having said a word to her in real life, I like her.

It’s shallow, I know. I’d like to say it’s based on the fact that I liked talking to her as Brad at that dinner—which I did. But truthfully, I just want to see her body again. I have to kiss her again. It’s weird. I wish I had been in someone else’s mind for this, my second Reading. I wish it hadn’t been Brad. I really need to find a boring person whose mind I can do this Reading thing with.

“Let’s phase out,” I tell Eugene, and without waiting for his answer, I touch my forehead.

The world comes back to life, and Brad brings us the stupid salt. Eugene thanks him, and we walk back toward Eugene’s apartment.

“How was that?” Eugene asks on the way.

He has no idea this thing happened between his sister and his neighbor. I decide to respect whatever shred of privacy these two have, and at least not mention anything to Eugene.

“That was a good start,” I say. “I think we should go outside and do some more.”

“Eugene,” a pleasant female voice says. A voice I just heard in Brad’s memory. “Who the fuck is this?”

I look up and find myself staring down the barrel of a gun. Again.

Okay, I am officially sick of guns being pointed at me. Even guns pointed by a beautiful girl I just saw naked in someone’s mind.

“Mira, put the gun down,” Eugene says. “This is Darren. I just texted you his picture. You didn’t get it?”

She frowns, still holding the gun trained on me. “No, I haven’t checked my phone. Does your text explain how this creep stalked me all the way here from Atlantic City?”

“No, not exactly,” Eugene admits. “But you have to cut the guy some slack. He tracked you down, but he has a good reason to be persistent. You’re the first other Reader he’s ever met.”

I can tell that this knowledge surprises her. “How can I be the first Reader he’s met?” she asks skeptically. “What about his parents? What about the other Readers from wherever his home is?”

“Manhattan,” I supply helpfully. “And in regards to parents, I’ll be having a very serious conversation with my mom about this very subject. For some reason, she didn’t tell me anything about this. And I’ve never met my father, but Eugene convinced me that he couldn’t have been a Reader because my mother got his sperm from a bank.”

As I’m talking, Mira looks at me with more and more curiosity. “A sperm bank?” she repeats.

“Yes. My mom, she wanted a child, but couldn’t bring herself to be with a guy, I guess.” Thinking of my mom in this context is weird, at best.

“Why? Does she hate men?”

Did Mira just say that approvingly?

“She likes women,” I say. “I have two mothers.” I’m not sure why I added this last part. Usually you have to ask probing questions for a lot longer before I reveal such personal information.

To her credit, Mira hardly blinks at that. Instead she says with a frown, “If she got sperm from a bank, that would mean she voluntarily mated with a non-Reader. Why would she have done that? Surely she knew she’d get exiled, like our dad.”

“That’s a good point,” Eugene says. “I can’t believe I didn’t see that when Darren first mentioned it to me.”

“You say that like you’re surprised I could make a good point,” Mira says to her brother, but her tone is more teasing than sharp. “Don’t forget, you wouldn’t survive a day without me—the dumb, uneducated one.”

Eugene ignores her statement. “Can we get out of this hallway?” he says. “I want to get something to eat.”

Mira finally lowers the gun and puts it back in her purse. “Fine, I’ll be right back.” She goes into the apartment. I look at Eugene questioningly, but he just shrugs.

She’s back momentarily. She changed from her heels and dress into jeans and sneakers. I wonder where she’s been, so dressed up. She looks great in the simpler outfit, though, and I can’t help thinking back to my experience in Brad’s head.

As I’m sifting through the hot pictures in my mind, she tells Eugene, “Are you seriously going out like that?” She gestures toward his stained lab coat.

He mumbles something and disappears into the apartment as well. When he comes out, the lab coat is gone, and he’s wearing a long-sleeved T-shirt that looks two sizes too big. Mira shoots him an exasperated look, but doesn’t say anything else. Instead she walks over to the elevator and presses the button.

“I don’t think that works,” I say, remembering having to go up all those stairs.

“Trust me,” she says. “It’s just the first floor that doesn’t work.”

And she’s right. The elevator comes, and we’re able to exit on the second floor. From there, it’s only a single flight of stairs to get out of the building.

“What exactly does it mean to be exiled?” I ask as we walk in the direction of the bigger street, Kings Highway, in search of a place to eat.

“It’s complicated,” Eugene says, looking at me. “Our dad was exiled from the community of Readers in St. Petersburg, Russia, and that was pretty bad. He couldn’t visit his childhood friends and family. Readers in Russia, in general, are much more traditional, but it was especially bad almost thirty years ago, when I was born. It was terrible for him, he told us.”

“But he did it for Mom,” Mira adds.

“And for us. He left it all so he could have children with her.” Eugene sounds proud of his father. “Thankfully, it’s different here. In present-day America, especially the New York City area, the Readers’ community is more open-minded. They recognize us as Readers—unofficially, at least.”

“Yeah, just so they can make sure we don’t openly use our skills,” Mira says with a touch of bitterness.

“I think they have other ways to enforce that,” Eugene says, glancing at his sister. “Besides, we all know how stupid it would be to reveal our existence to the rest of the world, half-bloods or not. No, they’re genuinely less traditional here. At least now they are. But when you were born, Darren, things could’ve been worse.” He gives me a sympathetic look.

“None of this explains why my mom didn’t tell me about Readers, though,” I say, still bothered by the thought of Sara hiding such important information from me.

“Maybe she was ashamed of being shunned,” Mira suggests, shooting me a look that suggests she’s not entirely over my stalking her. “Or she didn’t want you to learn how to Split and Read. Maybe as you were growing up, she decided you wouldn’t be able to keep the Readers’ secret. No offense, but you don’t look like the kind of guy who can keep your mouth shut.”

“But she must’ve realized I’d discovered it. I as much as told her that as a kid,” I say, refusing to rise to the bait. I have more important things to worry about than Mira’s sharp tongue. I’m tempted to go to Staten Island right now, but I know it makes more sense to learn more from these two first, so I can ask my mom the right questions. Maybe then I’ll be able to get answers and understand what happened.

“I’m sorry,” Eugene says with a hint of pity.

“Oh, poor Darren, Mommy didn’t tell him,” Mira counters, her voice dripping with venom. “At least she’s alive. Maybe that’s why she is alive—because she knows how to keep a secret. She doesn’t run around asking troublesome questions like our idiot father.” As she says this, her hands ball into fists, and I see her blinking rapidly, as though to hide tears. She doesn’t cry, though. Instead, she glares at her brother and says caustically, “The father whose steps you seem determined to follow, I might add.”

“I thought you supported my research,” Eugene says, clearly hurt.

She sighs and falls silent as we pass through a small crowd gathered in front of some yogurt place. “I’m sorry,” she says in a more conciliatory tone when we’re through. “I do support what you’re doing. I support it to spite the fuckers who killed Dad—and because it could give us a way to make them pay for what they did. I just can’t help thinking that all of this could’ve been avoided if he’d just researched something else. Alzheimer’s, for example.”

“I understand,” Eugene says.

We walk in an uncomfortable silence for a few minutes. I feel like an intruder.

“No offense, Darren,” Mira says as we stop at a traffic light. “It’s a difficult subject.”

“No problem,” I say. “I can’t even imagine how you feel.”

We walk in a more companionable silence for another block or so.

“Are you leading us to that diner again?” Mira eventually asks, wrinkling her nose.

“Yes,” Eugene says, a faint smile appearing on his lips.

Mira rolls her eyes. “That place is a real dump. How many cases of food poisoning does it take for you to realize it? Let’s go to the sushi place on Coney Island. It’s closer.”

“Right, raw fish is the solution to health concerns,” Eugene says, unsuccessfully trying to mimic Mira’s very distinctive brand of sarcasm.

They fight about the place for the rest of the way. I’m not surprised at all when Mira gets her way. She seems like the kind of person who always does. I don’t mind in this case, though. If choosing the place had been up for a vote, Mira would’ve had mine as soon as she mentioned food poisoning.

Listening to their bickering, I wonder how interesting it must be to have a sibling. Or frustrating. I mean, what would it be like to have a younger sister? Especially one who’s as reckless as Mira? I shudder at the thought.

“Table for three,” Eugene tells the waiter when we enter the place.

“Ilona?” A deep voice says, and Mira winces. “Ya tebya ne uznal.” Or at least that’s what it sounds like. It’s coming from a tall, well-built guy with a tattoo in the shape of an anchor on his muscular forearm.

Mira walks over to him, hugs him, and kisses him on the cheek. They start talking out of earshot from us. Eugene crosses his arms and eyes the guy suspiciously.

“Can we get a table as far away as possible from that man?” he asks the waiter.

“I can put you in the privacy of one of our tatami rooms,” the waiter offers.

“Thank you,” I say, and slip a twenty into his hand. “Please make it the furthest one.”

Mira heads back to us. She puts a finger to her lips when her back is to the guy.

We are quiet until we get to the tatami room.

“I will not discuss it,” Mira says when we sit down.

Eugene glares at her. She doesn’t even blink, opening her menu and pointedly ignoring her brother.

“I thought I told you not to do that anymore,” Eugene says in a hushed tone. “I thought I told you not to deal with thugs. You won’t find him—but you will get yourself killed. Or worse.”

“Ot-yebis’ Eugene,” Mira says, her face getting flushed. Whatever she just said, Eugene takes a breath and stops talking.

The waiter comes, asking what we want to drink. Mira orders hot sake, showing the waiter what must be a fake ID. I stick with green tea, as does Eugene.

I’m dying of curiosity. Did I mention it’s one of my few weaknesses?

It feels risky, but I can’t help myself. I phase into the Quiet and watch the frozen faces of Mira and Eugene carefully.

They don’t seem to be in the Quiet with me. If what Eugene said is true, pulling them in requires explicitly touching them. That’s good. I don’t plan to do that.

I walk out of the little alcove room the waiter gave us and go through the restaurant, searching for the guy Mira spoke to when we first arrived. His table is empty, with only dirty plates and a check lying there. Apparently he was on his way out when we entered.

I walk through the frozen patrons to the door. Outside, I spot my target. He hasn’t gone far.

First, I look in his pockets. Anton Gorshkov, his New York driver’s license tells me. Along with his age, height, and address on Brighton Beach. That doesn’t tell me much. But I now have a new trick I’ve been itching to try again—the whole Reading thing.

I touch his forehead. I do the meditation. I realize as it starts that the process is a little quicker now.

* * *

We watch Ilona—whom I, Darren, know as Mira—walking toward us. We don’t know the men she’s with. We barely recognize her without the tight dress and heels she’s usually wearing.

“Anton, kakimi sud’bami?” she says to us. It should’ve sounded like gibberish to me, Darren, but I gleefully realize that I understand exactly what she said. The approximate meaning is: “I’m surprised to see you here, Anton.” And I’m aware of the full, subtle meaning of her words, which doesn’t translate to English. In general, I understand every thought that goes through Anton’s head. Apparently language doesn’t seem to matter when it comes to Reading, which makes a weird kind of sense.

“Decided to grab a bite to eat,” Ilona/Mira responds in Russian.

“Who are the wimps with you?” we say. Again, the translation is approximate. The word for ‘wimps’ has a more insulting connotation in the original Russian.

“Math geeks,” she answers. “I consult with them on how to improve my game.”

We have a flashback to playing cards with Ilona. She’s good. One of the best. We try to look at her companions, but she blocks our way.

“They work exclusively with me,” she says. Then, seeing our stubborn look, she adds, “Viktor introduced us.”

We now lose any inclination to look at the math geeks. Not when Viktor is involved. People who cross that guy lose their heads. Literally. There was a rumor that Viktor tapped Ilona, and perhaps it’s true. We really don’t want anything to do with him.

“It was good seeing you. Maybe I’ll see you at this weekend’s big game?” she says.

“I doubt it,” we say. “I first need to collect some money.”

I, Darren, try to go deeper.

Suddenly, it’s late evening, and we’re beating a guy in an alley. He’s refused to get protection. Who does he think he is? Every Russian-owned business in this neighborhood pays protection money to Anton. Our fist aches, but we keep on pounding. No pain, no gain, we joke to ourselves. I, Darren, am horrified, but go deeper still.

Now we’re sitting at a card game. We have a gambling ‘hard on,’ as we call it. I, Darren, can’t believe my eyes.

In this dark room, filled with cigarette smoke and sketchy-looking characters whom we—Anton and me—find scary, there is Ilona. Or Mira, as I, Darren, remind myself.

She’s wearing a tight dress, showing off her impressive cleavage.

We look at our cards. We have two pairs. We are golden. We bet to the limit.

She drops out.
Can she read our ‘tells’?
we wonder, impressed.

The game moves forward.

Ilona wins the next round, calling one guy’s bluff. We had no clue the fucker was bluffing. She deserves her reputation as a card prodigy.

As far as we know, she’s never been accused of cheating. But we wonder how such a young, pretty thing can be this good without something up her sleeve. Then we chuckle at the realization that, in fact, she has no sleeves. With that strappy little dress, there’s no fucking way she can be hiding cards.

Maybe someone at the table is cheating, and she’s the partner? If that’s the case, we’ll keep our mouth shut. These men are not the kind of people you can accuse of cheating and live.

After seeing the game through, I, Darren, have had enough.

* * *

I am out of Anton’s head. The experience of being someone else, even a lowlife like him, is beyond words. I’m going to do this over and over, until I get sick of it—which is probably never going to happen. It’s so cool.