“Macaroni and cheese, or beans and rice with a choice of condiments,” said Minerva, wrinkling her nose. “That’s all that’s left. They’re laughing at us right now in the cafeteria.” She eyed Barbara’s backpack. “Wish I could see into the future. I would have known to bring my lunch.”
Carl rushed to hold the door, watching to make sure no one told Mr. C that the telepaths would know the answers to any test. They’d probe Mr. C’s brain like fruit-salad jello, pulling out plump little facts and formulas. The telepaths would, anyway. Barbara and Juan and a few of the others would have to study. She tried to predict her grade, but she just couldn’t see it. If he graded on a curve, Barbara knew she’d be in trouble.
“Ace it,” whispered Minerva, reading her thoughts. “Look ahead and predict what I’m gonna write on my paper. I bet I’ll get an A.”
Barbara nodded. “Yeah, you will, but I can’t see the test. I can’t control when I premote.” That’s why the government wouldn’t give her a scholarship: no military applications, they said. You couldn’t count on it, but it thrust itself on you at the worst times.
“So why don’t you just copy off my test when I do it? Sit close, and I’ll let you see it. It’s retro, but it works.”
Barbie sighed. She hated having to explain this. “I can’t cheat,” she said. “I can see the consequences, or something.”
“Well, nevermind then,” said Minerva, with a toss of her shiny bald head. She stomped away to join Carl and the other telepaths. They walked down the hallway in a group, heading toward the cafeteria.
Barbie walked slowly down the hall in the other direction, toward her locker.
Here’s a formula for creating a teenager: take a negative charge, constrain it in time and space, add a catalyst, and get away. Get away, Barbara thought, and she started running down the empty hallway. Faster, she thought. Why not? Even the monitors had gone to lunch.
Then she heard footsteps following her, light as raindrops on a window. Startled, she stopped and turned, twisting her stun ring. She was ready to fight if she had to. It was Juan behind her. He braked to a halt about seven feet away, grinned, and shrugged his shoulders apologetically.
She kept her finger on the stun ring’s safety, but she wasn’t really afraid of this guy. At least he didn’t have pointy ears.
A vision flashed before her — of the principal, Mr. Madonna, nibbling Mr. C’s ears. She blinked and it went away. They do that? she thought. Jeeze. The things she didn’t want to know about.
“I heard what you said to Maureen,” Juan said. He licked the corner of his mouth. “I want you to know I don’t cheat either. At least not in any conventional sense of the term.”
Barbie started walking down the hall towards him, and towards the cafeteria. She could tell he wasn’t going to jack her or anything. He fell in step beside her.
“I’m sorry if what I did last night, like, made it worse for you,” he said. “I heard she was a spesh. I wanted to be in her class. When I thought she killed herself, I was really mad at her.”
Barbara didn’t want to talk about it. “So, who’d you kill, to end up at Cobain?” she asked.
“That’s rude,” said T’Shawn with a slight smile. He shrugged. “The principal at Dick Silly thought I’d be better off with a bunch of other young people who were troubled like myself. For my social development, of course.”
Dixie Lee Ray was the academic magnet school sponsored by Microsoft — IBM. There were hardly any speshes there, and certainly no telepaths, who usually developed “behavior problems” by the age of fourteen.
They stopped by Barbara’s locker, and she fumbled with the lock and opened it. As she put her chem book inside, T’Shawn held the door and leaned in to give her a kiss. She thought for a second — but only a second. She kissed him back.
When school ended, Barbie walked as slow as she could, trying to look natural, like she wasn’t in a hurry. Minerva spotted her and waited.
“Are you okay?” Minerva said. “Don’t forget what I told you. About the test? My answers are yours.” She seemed hesitant to leave, and the niggling worry that she was about to be busted caught Barbie off guard. Before she could stop herself, she was thinking of Juan.
“Oh,” said Minerva. “That’s what your problem is.”
Barbie shrugged.
“Hey, entertain us,” said Minerva. “You’ve got it bad, don’cha?” She smoothed her bald head and closed her eyes, concentrating. Barbie expected to feel the icy probe, but didn’t. “Your pathetic secret is safe with me,” Minerva said.
Barbie was embarrassed to face her.
“I’m not gonna tell, don’t you get it?” She reached out as if to pat Barbie on the shoulder, but must have thought better of it. “Nevermind,” she said with a salute. “See you tomorrow.”
The next day, when Mr. C passed out the quiz sheets, Barbara felt ready. Nervous, but ready. “Don’t turn them over until I say it’s time,” he said.
Carl looked at the wall clock. He closed his eyes in mock sleep and murmured smugly, “Wake me five minutes before the bell rings.” Barbie wanted to kick him.
Mr. C stood behind the low counter, surrounded by buckets and burners and flasks of labeled chemicals. “Okay now, everyone turn over your sheets. Entertain us!”
Papers rustled like leaves. Minerva giggled. “Prank! A blank!”
“They’re all fucking blank,” said Carl. He sat up.
Mr. C’s face went slack and his eyes rolled back to show the whites. He swayed from side to side and a low rumbling noise came from the area near his mouth.
“Oh gross,” said Minerva. “Here it comes — his claim to fame. God, I hope he isn’t a contortionist.”
“I thought they killed them at birth,” said Carl.
“That’s abortionists,” said Minerva.
“He’s not a contortionist,” said Juan. “It’s something else.”
Mr. C opened his eyes, but the expression was glazed and unfocused. His lips moved as if he were chewing something. A low voice came out between them, but the words didn’t match the way his lips moved. It was like he was being used as a megaphone by someone inside his head.
“Ticonderogas sharpened and ready?” asked a gentle voice. “It’s so good to be back here in the Northwest. Born in Portland, you know. This is a test I always wanted to give my students at Caltech, but unfortunately not a one of them was expendable. Geniuses every one, the little bastards.” He cleared his throat. “The test takes the form of a real-life chemistry experiment. I hope you studied hard, because you’ll need to stop the reaction before it kills you.”
Mr. C seemed to be growing taller and thinner. His neck got longer, his skin grew looser, hanging in wrinkled wattles, like a turkey’s.
“Oh my God! He’s so incredibly old! Ooh! I can’t look,” said Minerva, covering her eyes.
“What’s happening to Mr. C?” Barbie asked. “Is he gonna die too?”
Carl got that look, like he was probing the teacher. His jaw dropped. All the telepaths listened in.
Minerva whispered to Barbie. “It’s not Mr. C,” she said. “It’s some scientist dude…. Huh! I know who it is! Mr. C is channeling Linus Pauling! Mr. C. can talk to the dead!”
“What,” said Barbie. “Who’s Linus Pauling?”
“I dunno, he’s sort of blank inside, because he’s not really here — he’s dead. I think he invented vitamin C or something.”
Pauling scooped a yellow lump from an unlabeled cannister and transferred it to a burette. “I love this!” he said, clapping his hands. He opened the valve on the bottom of the burette, just enough to let an anorexic stream of powder drip onto the counter. He fiddled with his keys and walked slowly to the door. “Locks from the inside,” he said, putting the key in the lock and turning it. “Just in case we want you whippersnappers to stay put.” From his pocket he brought out a small bottle and added an eyedropper full of clear liquid to the burette. “Whoa, baby,” said Pauling. His eyes glistened.