OCDaniel (8 page)

I sat back for a second, staring at my notebook. When I wrote, the story kind of just happened. I didn't outline the plot or think ahead or anything. It was like reading a book specially written for me. And now book Daniel had found himself in a situation I knew all too well. Should he flick the switch? He didn't have to, of course. He didn't have Zaps and he wasn't crazy and he could do what he wanted. But story Daniel was brave and smart and adventurous. He wasn't afraid of anything. And I think he would
want
to flick the switch.

His curiosity was overwhelming. He had to find out what the computer did.

He tentatively reached out, then flicked the switch. The computer screen turned on, and red and green lights lit up the servers. A message popped up on the screen:

INITIATE SPATIAL SHIFT? Y / N

Daniel stared at the screen, green letters against the black. His hand moved without him. His finger found the
Y
. He wanted to know what the computer would do now. How dangerous could a computer in his attic really be? He pressed the key.

INITIALIZING.

And that was it. He stood there for a few minutes, waiting for something to happen. But the computer remained silent, and Daniel finally just gave up. He snuck back out of the attic, disappointed. It was an old computer, and nothing more.

Or so he'd thought. As he stood there with his back pressed to the front door now, he realized he hadn't switched it back.

Daniel raced upstairs, pulled the trapdoor down, and scrambled up the ladder. He raced over to the computer. The screen said:

PROCESS COMPLETE.

Daniel sat down and pressed
N
. Nothing. He pressed escape. Another message popped up.

PROCESS CANNOT BE REVERSED FROM THIS STATION.

“What process?” he whispered. He scrambled through the papers on the desk. In desperation he flicked off the switch. The screen turned off. But it was too late.

A paper slipped out and fell onto the floor. It read:

Station #9

Please oversee SAT for 03/05/14–03/05/15. Contact HQ if you have any issues.

Regards,

Charles Oliver

214-054-2012

Daniel put down the paper. He needed to make a call.

I closed my notebook, hoping no one had noticed. I didn't write often at school, but sometimes when I was bored, I continued writing in a notebook that I kept hidden. It probably wouldn't have helped anyone to read it anyway—my handwriting looked like Egyptian hieroglyphics.

It was English class, so I felt like I was kind of participating. We were talking about
Lord of the Flies
, which I'd read before.

As soon as I stopped writing, I found myself thinking about Sara again. I still wasn't sure if I was going to meet her. I mean, I really did have football practice, and my dad always said it was bad to skip things, even if no one would notice.

But she had asked me to help find her dad. How could I just ignore that?

“You all right?” Max whispered.

“Yeah,” I said. “Just thinking.”

“About play-offs? Two weeks, man.”

I snorted. “Yeah. Exactly.”

He nodded. “Me too. Portsmith is good. The best we've played this season. It's going to be close.”

“We really need to work on your conception of sarcasm.”

He smiled and turned back to the front. “Raya feels bad, you know.”

I straightened. “What do you mean?”

“She didn't say it, but I can tell. She was looking at you when you went in this morning.”

I glanced at her, taking notes as Mr. Keats talked.

“Why would she feel bad?”

“Probably because she knows you like her.”

I looked at him, scandalized. “You didn't.”

“Didn't have to. You light up like a firework when she looks at you.”

“Great,” I muttered. “As if I wasn't embarrassed enough.”

“I have something that will make you feel better.”

“What?”

Max grinned. “Taj told me he tried to kiss her good night.”

“How does that make me feel better?”

He shrugged. “She said no and gave him a hug.”

The smile blossomed before I could stop it.

Max laughed. “Feel better?”

“A little.”

  •  •  •  

I found Sara waiting inside by the front doors, alone. After taking a quick look in either direction, I hurried over to meet her. She looked strangely solemn, staring out at the parking lot and twirling her dark hair around a finger.

“Hey,” I said.

She jumped. “Hey,” she replied. “I didn't think you'd come.”

“Then why did you wait?”

“It's called faith,” she said. “It doesn't matter what you think. Only what you do.”

I paused. “Where's your TA? And mom?”

“I told Miss Lecky my mom was picking me up as usual, and I told my mom that I was staying after school for some extra work with my TA,” she said. “Now, we need a headquarters.”

I wrung my hands together. “Don't you, like . . . not talk?”

She smiled. She had a warm smile, but it didn't reach her eyes.

“Not to normal people. Thankfully, you aren't normal.”

“Thanks . . . ,” I said. “Uh . . . headquarters. We could use my house, I guess.”

“Good. You can tell your mother I'm your girlfriend. I would prefer that this investigation remain a secret.”

“Why?”

“Because my mother and her boyfriend have asked that I not pursue the investigation. Because my father left a note saying not to follow him. And because I think he was murdered by my mother's boyfriend.”

My eyes widened. “Murdered?”

“But of course I hope I am wrong,” she said. “Shall we?”

“Okay,” I said. “Follow me.”

“I know where you live,” she said.

I rubbed my forehead again. “Naturally. I guess I'll follow you, then.”

She looked at me seriously. “Teamwork, Daniel. We will walk beside each other.”

With that, she turned and walked outside, and I hurried to catch up.

Sara walked with purpose. She was an entirely different girl all of a sudden: focused and sharp. I had to half-walk, half-jog to keep up as we marched down the windswept October streets toward my house.

“You must have questions,” she said.

“I don't even know where to start.”

She turned and smiled. “From the beginning.”

“Okay,” I said slowly. “Why do you think I'm a Star Child?”

She laughed, loudly enough that I jumped. It was like an explosion of pent-up energy.

“I suppose that is a good place to start,” she said. “Are you different, Daniel Leigh?”

I thought about that for a moment. Of course I was different; most kids weren't trying to keep themselves alive by flicking light switches and avoiding numbers. But I didn't want to get into that.

“I mean . . . I think I'm pretty normal.”

She smiled again, almost patronizing. “Right. You're very smart as well, correct?”

“I guess . . .”

“You were in the Gifted Program,” she said. “I would guess you have never had a grade below an A, have you?”

“In math.”

She nodded. “You're a wordsmith. A poet. A lost soul. You write when no one is looking, and you pretend to fit in with the other kids, but you don't. You're also a toucher. Your mind is different.”

I was trying to keep up, but it was nearly impossible. “What about you?”

She shrugged. “I have a photographic memory. Ask me a number on the periodic table.”

“Twenty-nine.”

“Cu. Copper. A transition metal and bordered by nickel and zinc. I can recite pi to a hundred numbers. I know that the first day I ever saw you, you were walking down the hallway when you were seven years old. You were wearing track pants and a shirt with the
Star Wars
logo on it. You had a bit of a mullet, and a lot of freckles. I remember your eyes. . . . They were very blue. I looked at you, but you didn't notice. I thought you seemed familiar, but I know now that it's because you're a Star Child like me.”

I just walked along beside her as she spoke, feeling the tingles running along my body like those soft fingertips. She had a way of speaking through me. I felt it in the nape of my neck and into my toes.

“Is there anything else that makes you a Star Child?”

She turned back to the street. “I won't get into the full details. Essentially there is a special strain of DNA passed down from ancient history. Every once in a while it results in a Star Child—a person of special intelligence and a pure heart. They can also be a bit . . . eccentric. Like me.”

I hesitated. “What is . . . I mean . . . is there something wrong with you? Medically?” I flushed. “I didn't mean it like that. Just, the TA and the not talking, and you seem normal now—”

“It's okay,” she said. “I have general anxiety disorder, bipolar disorder, mild schizophrenia, and depression.” She shrugged. “That's what they've diagnosed, anyway.”

Sara stopped and looked at me.

“So I am certifiably nuts, and I take five pills a night. But I seem normal now because I am. For what we are.”

We turned onto my street, and I led her to my house, thinking that I was going to have to introduce her to my mom. This was not going to be good.

“Why do they call them Star Children?” I asked.

“Because that DNA is alien,” she said. “You're not totally human, Daniel Leigh.”

I looked at her, frowning, and then opened my door. My mom came around the corner and stopped.

“Oh,” she said. “Hello.”

“Hey,” I replied. “Umm . . . this is my . . .”

Sara looked at me pointedly.

“Friend from school,” I said. “We are working on a project together.”

Sara narrowed her eyes, but then smiled at my mom and nodded. Obviously she wasn't speaking again. My mom looked dubious, but she gestured for us to come in.

“Nice to meet you,” she said. “Can I get you guys anything?”

“No,” I replied. “We'll just be upstairs.”

My mom raised her eyebrows, and I sighed. She always fought with Steve about keeping his bedroom door open when his girlfriend came over. “I'll keep the door open.”

We hurried upstairs, and Sara giggled quietly behind me. “Did she think we were going to make out or something?”

“I don't know,” I said. “I guess.”

“You wish.”

Frowning, I led her into my bedroom and gestured for her to sit down at the desk. She walked right by and plunked down on my bed. Then she patted the spot next to her.

“Chop, chop,” she ordered. “I have to be home by five.” I gingerly sat down next to her, and she opened her bag. “Now, let me catch you up on a few things.” She took out a photo of a heavyset man with short black hair. He had a warm smile. I recognized the eyes, though—green and strangely misty.

“This is my father,” she said. “Thomas Malvern. Municipal waste specialist.”

“He was a garbageman?” I asked.

She glared at me. “Municipal waste specialist. Now, he disappeared thirteen months ago.” Sara withdrew a letter written in black pen. “He left this in my bedroom.”

I took the note.

Dear Sara,

I am so sorry to leave without saying good-bye. It was too painful to tell you in person. . . . I hope you'll forgive me. I simply had to leave; things are not great with your mother, and it's time to go. I don't know where I am going, and I don't know if you'll be able to contact me there. I will try to write. I was never the best father, but I tried. You were the most important thing in the world to me, and I love you very much. Don't look for me, darling Sara. Take care of your mother.

Love,

Dad

I looked at Sara. “I'm sorry.”

She took the letter and laid it out on the bed. “No time for tears.”

“This seems kind of . . . obvious,” I said. “He left.”

She wagged a finger. “But here's the problem. My dad didn't write much. No letters or journals or even notes. But he did write a check once that was never mailed.” She held up the check. It was written to the electric company.

“So?” I asked.

“The writing, Daniel.”

I looked it over. It was similar to the note, but there were definitely differences. The letters didn't loop the same, and the writing was smaller in the note. “Maybe he was in a rush?”

“No,” she said quietly. “I don't think he wrote it. I think my mother's boyfriend did.”

I frowned. “Do you have a sample of his writing?”

Sara shook her head, and then patted my leg. “No,” she said. “And that's where you come in.”

“What's that?”

She smiled. “You're going to go to his house tomorrow and tell him the local paper is having a contest. He just has to write his name and address on a piece of paper, and we'll have our proof.”

“But—”

She took out a sheet of paper that clearly she'd printed at school. It said:

Erie Hills Express Contest

Win two tickets to Florida! All-inclusive five-night stay at the fantastic Coco Beach Tropicana. Please write your name and address below, and you will be notified of the results next week!

There was even the newspaper logo on there. It was pretty official-looking.

“Right,” I muttered.

Sara took my hand and looked at me. “Will you help me, Daniel?”

Her skin was sending jolts up my arm. No girl had ever held my hand before.

“Sure,” I said. “Why not?”

“Thank you. Are you going trick-or-treating or anything?”

“No.”

“Good. Now, I was thinking we could analyze some news stories of disappearances—”