Tunnel Vision (7 page)

Damn it.

“Jake? What do you think?”

Mom and Myk are both looking at me. Myk has tears running down her cheeks, which seems a bit over the top, but she is twelve. I meet her eyes. I wish I could back her up.

“I think it’s fine,” I say, dragging the words out of my mouth. “I think it’s a great idea.”

Mom’s face eases sharply, and I have a flash of irrational panic. Is she pushing this because she
knows
? Because she’s in on it all?

I shake myself. She doesn’t know a thing. She’s just being used, wants to please her boss, probably really does want the help. She worries about us. Even her boss probably doesn’t know anything, really.

“I thought you’d agree with me,” Myk says, low. “No one listens to what I say.” She shoves her chair back and runs down the hall to her room, crying.

Mom drains her glass, lets out a long, slow breath. “Thanks for the backup. I think the housekeeper will be ready to start on Monday. I’ll need you to help smooth it with Myk.” She stands. “But I’ll start now. By the way, I forgot to tell you. Grandpa Lukin called for you this morning.”

“Grandpa Lukin?” I frown. “Why?”

She shrugs. “Said to call him back as soon as you got in. Oh, and he reminded you to call him on the landline.”

I sigh. Not only is Grandpa Lukin—Dedushka—Russian and a little bit crazy, but he doesn’t believe in electronics. No computers, TVs, video games, or God forbid cell phones. Landlines only, and that not often. I wonder if he even approves of movies, or if those are too modern.

Whatever it is, it’s going to have to wait until tomorrow. I have a lot of catch-up texting and Internet stuff to do with Chris and everyone. And once Mom is done, I’ll go talk to Myka. And then I figure I deserve about fifteen hours of sleep after last night, after today. I’m wiped. Yeah, about noon tomorrow will be a good time to face the world again.

*   *   *

At 6:00 a.m. the phone rings, and I ignore it. Someone else answers.

At 8:00 a.m. it rings again. I ignore it.

At 9:00 a.m. again, over and over, shrill, like someone screaming. I slam the pillow over my head. A few minutes later there’s a bang on my door.

“Jacob!” Mom’s voice. “You need to get up. Grandpa Lukin is on the phone, and he says he needs to talk to you
now
.”

Oh, come on. I don’t even have a landline in my room, and we have an old-style one. I’d have to get up, get dressed, and go out to the kitchen to get it. I groan.

“Jacob. Get your butt out here.”

“Okay, okay. I’m coming.”

Three minutes later, I pick up the phone. “Hello?” Even my voice feels rumpled.

“Yakob. You are all right?”

I stifle a yawn. “Of course I’m all right, Grandpa.”

“Do not use that tedious word.” I can practically see him scowling over the phone. It’s a specialty of his.

“Sorry. Dedushka.”

Mom walks by in her pink robe, a cup of steaming coffee in her hands. I wave at her.
Coffee,
I mouth.
Please?
She throws me an I-am-not-your-servant look, but heads back to the kitchen.

“Why did you think something was wrong?”

“It is no reason. I was poking at your father’s things, and it made me to thinking … and I was suddenly worried for you, Yakob.”

Ah. After Dad died Dedushka had gone through a period of being really attentive to me and Myka. He’d called all the time, dropped by every other week—which wasn’t easy, from upstate New York. He’s also extremely paranoid, with all these Russian superstitions I’ve never heard of before. Spitting over your shoulder three times for luck. You shouldn’t hand a knife to someone, or it will bring conflict. But the attention had tapered off. We hadn’t heard from him at all since Christmas.

“I’m fine, Dedushka. I promise.” If you don’t count secret government agencies. But I can’t talk about that. I can’t even think about it before coffee. Mom hands me a cup, black with a touch of sugar, and I slurp gratefully. She sits on the stool next to me, listening. Curious.

“Your mother said you went on a ski yesterday?” he asks, gruff.

“Yeah—yes, with a friend of mine. To Bryce.”

Pause. “Very good. You must come here and visit me next weekend. We have the wonderful skiing here, and I wish to see you.”

I blink. I haven’t been to his house for years. “Okay.”

“Good. It is set—you come see me next weekend. We have a good visit.”

I guess I could do that. Even with a DARPA deal and babysitters, I can still go on a road trip. I still have a life. “Okay, Dedushka. I’ll check with Mom and Myk to make sure they can—”

Mom raises her eyebrows.

“No. Just you,
malchik
.”

I shrug at her. “Just me. Yeah, okay.”

“Oh, and Yakob. When I was going through your father’s things, I found a jacket I think you should have. Nice leather jacket. Yes? You can try it on when you are here.”

I’m still not sure why I had to get up right away for this, but if he’s worrying I guess it’s all right. I don’t want him to worry. “Sure, Dedushka. Thanks.”

“Also, I could not find a watch that I knew he had. I meant to give it to you, but I do not remember … did I, or did I not?”

I rub the watch. It’s stupid, maybe, but I sleep with it on—I have since I got it. It makes me feel close to Dad. “Yeah, you gave it to me. I’m wearing it right now.”

“Ah.” Pause. “Thank you, Yakob. I will see you soon, then.”

He clicks off, and I set the phone down, take a big swill of coffee.

“What did he want so badly?” Mom asks. “So … ridiculously early and often?” Her hair’s all wild, in dark swirls around her head—like mine, only a tiny bit longer—and she has makeup smudges under her eyes. She yawns. She must have been sleeping in too. Except for the phone calls.

“It’s weird. He wants me to go see him next weekend in Standish. To go skiing, he says. And visit. Just me.”

She purses her lips up. “Well, he’s always been an odd bird, but it sounds like fun. It looks like I might be in Chicago next weekend, but I suppose you can go, if you don’t have anything else on. If we like her okay, Mrs. Delgado will be here to stay with Myka.” She perks up, gives me a wide smile. “See? It’s working out already.”

Mrs. Delgado, huh? I’m reserving judgment on how well
that’s
going to work out until I see her for myself on Monday.

Crud. That’s tomorrow. Plus school. Plus whatever else DARPA may bring.

Maybe it isn’t too late to go back to bed.

8

“Eye on You” by Rocket from the Crypt and Holly Golightly

I’m late. Even after crashing most of Sunday, I still slept through my alarm. Almost twenty-four hours of sleep is apparently not enough after a marathon tunneling session plus headache plus experimental drug plus stress. The morning is a blur of shouting and throwing things: throwing clothes on, throwing my books in my backpack, throwing some food in my mouth. Nice and relaxing.

I manage to get Myk to her school on time, barely, but then I still have to make it back across town to VHS in Monday morning traffic. It’s ugly.

It’s fifteen minutes past the bell when I push into Mr. Vargas’s class and stumble to my seat, muttering an apology. Then I pull out my calculus books, notebook, and figure out what the hell we’re working on today.

So it’s a few minutes before I realize that Eric Proctor is sitting next to me, head down, writing the problem from the board.

There’s no doubt. It’s him, red hair and freckles and all, wearing a black sweatshirt and jeans instead of his DARPA white coat and badge. My first thought is that I’m right: he does look my age. He fits right in here.

All the next thoughts are four-letter words.

I lean over, pretending to dig in my backpack, and whisper to him. “What are you doing here?”

He glances at me. “I’m sorry?” His lips hardly move.

“What the hell are you doing here, Eric?”

He shrugs, shakes his head, and drops right back into working on the problems, paying attention to Mr. Vargas.

It
is
Eric, isn’t it?

I sit up, bang my knee on the desk, and swear under my breath. A few people laugh. Mr. Vargas shoots me a look, but I look straight back at him until he goes back to his talk.

It’s him. He’s pretending he doesn’t know me, but it has to be him. I can’t believe it. My house
and
my school. They’re invading every part of my life. What am I supposed to do? Play along? Pretend like I don’t know him either?

I did make the deal. But somehow I thought “we’ll post security for you” meant there’d be … oh, security guards following me around at a good distance. Cars tailing me. Not strangers intertwining themselves into my school and my home.

They really are going to follow me everywhere. I can’t hide from them, escape them. I am completely and utterly screwed.

When the bell rings Eric goes to talk to Mr. Vargas, not acknowledging me at all. I wait for a couple minutes, but it gets too stalkery and awkward and I have to leave for world history.

I’m sitting by Chris, trying to straighten my brain out enough for a halfway normal conversation about Operation Massive Lies part 3, the imaginary ski trip I had with my family on Saturday, when Eric comes in and heads straight for Mrs. Skinner, a slip of paper in his hand. He’s in this class too.

She nods, white curls bouncing, eyes crinkling. Mrs. Skinner is ancient—the joke is that she teaches history because she’s lived through it all. It’s not a very good joke. It’s still my favorite class, favorite subject.

My major when I get to Stanford.
Remember that too, Jake. This deal’s not all bad.

“Class,” she croaks. “Please welcome a new transfer student, Ed Hanson. Ed, I believe there’s a seat there at the back.”

Eric nods to the room and threads his way through legs to the back. I watch him all the way, eyes slitted. Ed Hanson, huh?

“Have you met him yet?” Chris asks. “He looks fairly normal, for a midyear.”

“No.” I’m still watching. Eric/Ed looks at me and jerks his chin. A stranger’s greeting. “I haven’t met him yet.”

But I have a thing or two to talk to him about.

*   *   *

After history I manage to hang back long enough to stop him on his way out. I lean in, so only he will hear. “Okay. Tell me. What the flying
fuck
are you doing at my school?”

He doesn’t take the bait. He steps back, sticks his hand out. “Ed Hanson. Good to meet you. Jake, was it?”

I take his hand and squeeze it, a little harder than I need to. “Really,
Ed
? This is overkill, don’t you think?”

He tugs his hand away, discreetly flexes it. “I hear you’re a big shot on the tennis team,” he says, loudly. “Maybe you can tell me when tryouts are?”

Tryouts? He’s going to take over tennis too?

“Oh God no. Not another tennis freak.” Chris is at my shoulder, though I don’t know where he came from. “I was hoping for a little variety. Theater, maybe? Music? A rock band?” He puts out his hand, and Eric shakes it. “Chris Sawyer. Nice to meet you, man.”

“Ed Hanson. Just transferred from DC.” He meets my eyes. He’s totally laughing.

He thinks this is
funny
? I’m freaking out. A government agent—is that even what he is? I don’t know. A government person is talking to
Chris
right now.

“Oh, yeah?” Chris says, oblivious. “DC to Herndon. You’re moving up in the world. That’s like Hell to Hell’s Kitchen.” Chris is one of those people who gets along with anyone instantly. He could insult you five minutes after he met you, and you’d still like him.

Eric laughs. “As long as the girls wear those short little devil costumes? I am
in
.”

They start walking down the hall together, and I trail behind, disbelieving. They really do look similar: same height, same basic build. Just one with red hair and one straw colored. My best friend, and my … bodyguard?

Twenty-four-hour bodyguards. Plus twenty-four-hour lying to everyone I know. Involving everyone I know. Shit.

“Hey, what lunch do you have, Ed?” Chris asks.

“C,” I mouth silently. He’ll have my lunch, for maximum bodyguard time.

Eric checks his paper. “C. What do you have?”

“We both have C too,” Chris says. “You want to hang with us today?”

I wonder if it’s always this easy. The deeper question is, does he do this often?

“Yeah, sure,” Eric says. “Let me see what I have next…”

“English,” I mouth.

He turns in time to see me, and bites his lip. “English, with Fowler.”

“Jake has that too,” Chris says. “You’re both tennis freaks and AP. You’re like twinsies.” He checks his phone, taps the screen. “Caitlyn’s saving my seat in Econ. See you at lunch.”

He takes off down the hall as we arrive at English. I stop Eric again outside the door. “I guess I don’t know what to do here. What I’m supposed to do.”

His face goes serious. “We’ll talk later. Just keep cool, pretend you just met me. It’s a piece of cake. Really.” He grins again and pushes open the door, and I follow him.

Rachel is there, three seats back, wearing perfectly fitted jeans and a pink shirt that makes her cheeks look pinker than ever. She’s writing something in her notebook, concentrating, her bottom lip in her teeth.

“Hey, Rachel.” I smile at her hesitantly, remember her sitting with me at the party. That whole nightlong conversation. That couldn’t have meant nothing, right? She gives me a tight half smile and looks back down. “Hey,” she says, low.

Yeah. It’s been just like that ever since the party. Ugh. But I haven’t given up. Every day I say hi, every day I smile. A thousand ways to mess up your life in one stupid night, and counting.

Lily’s in this class too, which adds to the torture. I steal a look at her, on the other side of the room, talking to Mike Weber. Her hair’s curled today, blond waves down her back. Of course she doesn’t even look at me.

But then I don’t want her to. That’s so over, and I’m glad. I’m way more interested in Rachel … if she’ll ever talk to me again.

I drop into a seat in front of Eric, so I won’t have to look at
him
and pretend more.