The Octopus Effect (7 page)

This time, there was a long pause. Finally, the Book responded.
Given your age and the attitude of the Board, it is unlikely you'd be allowed to remain. You'd probably have your minds cleared of all your experiences with the Union, too.

Simon shuddered at the thought of losing it all—not just his powers and the Order, but his memories, too. Worst of all, he became friends with Owen and Alysha around the time he found the Book. That meant they might lose the memories of their friendship, too!

“Enough time-wasting,” Standrus said, jarring Simon from his thoughts.

Janathus gestured to the BOA building. “Council, Simon Bloom, follow me.”

Ralfagon's face was tight with concentration, but at Janathus's words, his expression smoothed out, as if he'd found an answer to a pressing question. He cleared his throat. “Actually, Janathus and . . . er . . . others, that won't be necessary.”

One of Janathus's eyebrows arched ever so slightly; it was a tiny movement, but for him it was a monumental expression change. “Oh? Why not?”

“Because I've decided to resign my post as Keeper in favor of Simon Bloom.”

“What?” everyone shouted at once.

Ralfagon turned to Simon. “I'm old, I'm tired, and I have a lot of television to catch up on. Besides, the Book has been eager to return to Simon's side.”

The Book floated out from within Ralfagon's jacket and, after sending a quick flash of blue at Ralfagon, zipped over to Simon. It hovered over him until he put his hand out, and then it descended gently into his grasp.

Simon was too stunned to react. Finally, he found the ability to speak. “But . . . I'm not ready for this!”

Ralfagon smiled warmly. “I believe you are.”

“The Board will discuss this,” Janathus said. “Everyone go into the building.”

Standrus frowned. “That is not possible. We must reschedule everything.”

“Surely we can judge the boy's merit now?” Madda said.

Standrus shook his head. “
We
are the Board of Administration.
We
make agendas and
we
follow them. Changing our procedures for simple convenience would make us no better than”—he wrinkled his nose at the kids—“than everyone else.”

Standrus turned to Ralfagon. “You've already yielded your Book to Bloom, so he shall be acting Keeper.” He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out what looked like a black plastic postage stamp. He tapped it, and a multicolored, three-dimensional display of a calendar appeared in front of his face.

After a moment's examination, Standrus grunted. “I suppose I can move some things around for the good of the Union. We shall reconvene here the same time next Sunday to discuss Simon Bloom's place as Keeper and to decide what knowledge, if any, Ralfagon Wintrofline will be allowed to retain for his retirement. Until then, he will remain in Lawnville and not engage in any excessive formula use.”

Janathus's mouth came as close to a frown as it ever had. “But, Standrus, surely—”

“We exist to maintain order, Janathus, not disrupt it any further.” Standrus nodded to the assemblage. “I expect you all to be prompt next Sunday.”

Standrus turned and walked swiftly to the BOA headquarters.

The Keepers rushed to Ralfagon's side while Simon, Owen, and Alysha stared at one another. That's why none of them noticed what I did: Madda and Janathus turned to face each other and exchanged an unreadable look.

Madda made a subtle gesture and mouthed, “
What now
?” Janathus, stone-faced, nodded once and mouthed the words, “
Not to worry
.” Then they hurried after Standrus.

As friends and fellow Keepers raised their voices in confusion and anger, Simon looked down at the Book and sent it a mental message.
I didn't want to give everything up, but I didn't want this to happen! What will Ralfagon do? Will they wipe his memories?
He paused and looked at Owen, Alysha, and the assembled Keepers.
And me?
Simon thought to the Book.
A leader? How can I possibly be ready for this kind of responsibility?

If the Book had an answer, it chose not to share it.

After a long, grim night thinking about all that had happened, I was happy for morning.

It was Monday: a new day for Simon and his friends. (Obviously it was a new day—otherwise it would be called Sunday Part II.) Instead of showing me how Simon was dealing with the turn of events, my Viewing Screen focused elsewhere.

I briefly stared in confusion at a large building of ivy-covered brick. Part of the advantage of being a Narrator, though, is often being able to understand what's happening on-screen. I realized this was Enrico Fermi Middle School, located in Stoneridge, the next town over from Lawnville.

I almost dropped my breakfast scone. Was my Screen malfunctioning? Was it still covered by warranty?

Then I saw who was coming down the cobblestone path toward the front entrance. A blond girl, barely thirteen years old, shuffled toward the school. She was pretty, with silky blond hair and big blue eyes, but her face and hair were almost completely covered by the hood of her black sweatshirt. She didn't know why, but it felt right to wear it like that; she only took off the hood when her teachers made her.

Her name was Sara Beth, but she didn't know much more about herself—not even her real last name. Her foster parents and the school faculty called her Sara Beth Doe, but she hated that last name. No, she hated the attention it brought her. She walked hunched over, hoping to avoid notice. To shrink into herself; to become invisible.

The closer Sara Beth got to the school entrance, the more aware she became of the students gathered around the front lawn and steps. As she started up the walkway to the building, she noticed the girls wearing short-sleeved shirts and skirts that let them enjoy the lingering warmth of the early fall weather. It was torture for Sara Beth to see them like that. Doing what she could not.

Don't look at them,
she said to herself.
Maybe they'll leave me alone this time.

“Doe a deer!” That was it: the first yell. Next came the avalanche. She sped up.

“A female deer?” There it was; the inevitable follow-up.

“Doesn't look female to me! How can you tell with that hood?”

“C'mon, Doe, let's see that scary face!”

“No, let's see those freaky arms!”

“Yeah, and those creepy legs!”

Sara Beth kept walking, making sure her arms were completely covered by her sweatshirt. Sometimes the sleeves rode up when she walked this fast. Her jeans, at least, would definitely keep her legs covered. Everyone knew about her arms and legs, of course, but if she kept them hidden she had a chance of getting out of this.

The yells drew louder, closer; at least ten kids, maybe a dozen, were ahead of her. They were standing along the edge of the grass and the stone walkway leading to the school. One of them stepped onto the cobblestones and faked an accidental bump. It was all Sara Beth could do to keep moving; her every instinct said to either run off or turn and fight. But she couldn't do either. She had to keep going. She was almost at the entrance and the relative safety of the halls when a hand reached out and grabbed her left sleeve.

“No!” Sara Beth cried as someone yanked the sweatshirt up to reveal her left arm.

There it was, her shame revealed once again for all to see: bizarre tattoos of blue, green, and yellow up and down her arm. They were mostly shapeless, like the work of some crazy artist who'd gotten at her with a permanent paintbrush. But to Sara Beth, they
almost
made sense. They
almost
meant something.

“That's enough, all of you! Leave her alone this instant!” The voice was cultured yet loud and unyielding. It pierced through the crowd's taunts and scattered the mocking kids. “Are you all right, Miss Doe?” the voice asked gently in a polished British accent.

Sara Beth looked up; this was the one person in the school she was willing to meet eyes with. “It's nothing new, Miss Fanstrom; just another day.”

A woman gazed down at Sara Beth, her natural height (almost six feet tall) extended by a nearly two-foot-high tower of black hair that stood motionless atop her head. “Miss Doe, I wish that wasn't the case. I know children can be cruel, especially when you are so vulnerable. No memory of your childhood, no known family, and those markings . . .” She trailed off. “It is vitally important that you keep your chin up and not let their petty taunts get to you. You are more than they say, more than you know. Miss Doe, you have the seeds of greatness in you!”

Sara Beth fought back the urge to shout or sneer; she didn't want to offend her one ally in the school. “You always say that, Miss Fanstrom, but I don't feel it. I don't believe it. I mean, sometimes . . .”

“What, child?” Miss Fanstrom gazed through her thick-lensed, black-framed glasses. One hand, as always, held a slim leather briefcase, but the other rested comfortingly on Sara Beth's shoulder. “Tell me.”

Sara Beth sighed and looked around. The other kids were all gone, having rushed into school through the other entrances to avoid their new principal's wrath. This was as private a conversation as Sara Beth could hope for.

“I feel like there's so much inside me. More than the things I can't remember. I feel like I shouldn't have to worry about such jerks. Like I shouldn't have to be scared of them.”

As often happened during their talks, the top of Miss Fanstrom's hair bent forward, pointing at Sara Beth. “Please, Miss Doe, continue. You can tell me anything.”

Sara Beth rubbed at her left arm, silently cursing the tattoos. Did she dare say what she felt? She had to—she had to say it aloud before it consumed her!

“I feel like I'm better than them. And if I could only remember who I was, if I could only be my true self, they would not dare mock me. They would fear me!” Her voice trembled with building rage. “And I would laugh at them, because they would be right to be afraid!”

Sara Beth winced suddenly, and put a hand to her forehead. “But every time I feel that way, my head starts to hurt, and I stop thinking about fighting. I just take whatever they say and do to me. And I dream of the day I don't have to.”

The top of Miss Fanstrom's hair swiveled away. It seemed, to Sara Beth, almost like a sad gesture. Or a disappointed one.

“I know it's hard,” Miss Fanstrom said. “But that anger, that thirst for revenge, it won't help you. It will only bring more hurt. Can you not see past it? Rise above it?”

For a moment, Sara Beth ignored that she was talking to her one friend as well as the school principal. For that moment, she let loose all she was feeling. “Rise above? You don't know what it's like! I don't remember anything—
anything
—before five months ago. If the social workers didn't tell me my name was Sara Beth, I wouldn't even have that. No parents, no home, no life. And if that's not bad enough, I have
these
!” She stuck out her arms and then pointed to her legs.

Sara Beth scowled deeply. “I have to take it from them,” she said as she gestured to where her schoolmates had been. “Every day. It's all I can do to hold it together in front of them. I hide in a stall in the girls' room and cry between classes so they don't get the satisfaction of seeing it.” She sniffed back what was dangerously close to becoming a new round of tears. “I don't know who I was or what I did before, but part of me
knows
I don't deserve this. And that part . . . yeah,
that
part can't wait to get even.”

Miss Fanstrom shook her head sadly, her hair not budging from the movement. “My dear, I've only been at this school for as long as you have, but I've had my share of experience. I've seen much cruelty among children and among adults as well. Those who think they're strong pick on those who think they're weak. But the truly strong are those who find a way to break free without being cruel right back. Perhaps one day you'll understand that.”

Sara Beth sniffed hard to fight back her running nose and rubbed her eyes with the ends of her sleeves. “I guess. But I doubt it. Anyway, I'd better get to homeroom.”

Miss Fanstrom gave Sara Beth one last pat on her shoulder and nodded.

 

I looked on as Miss Fanstrom watched Sara Beth Doe walk up the stone stairs to the school. Once the girl disappeared into the entrance, Miss Fanstrom turned and gazed up into the sky. Despite being many miles away, she locked eyes with me through my Viewing Screen and exhaled sadly. “I try, Mr. Geryson, truly I do. But I don't know if I can reach that child before it's too late.”