“Wow. Midwest. This must be pretty different for you.”
“Yep.”
“So, are you doing schoolwork or more of a personal project?” He nodded at the computer. I started to say, What’s with the questions? but then I thought, Maybe he’s not interrogating me. Maybe this is how people interact, get to know each other. They exchange information.
“Um, more of a personal project,” I said.
He smiled again. “Me too. I was checking out this kayak I want to buy. I’m hoping my Christmas money will give me enough.”
I smiled, trying to act as if I knew what Christmas money was. Voice? A little help here? The Voice was silent. After mentally reviewing possible responses, I went with: “Cool.”
“Well, I’ll let you get to it, then,” he said, looking like he wanted to say something else. I waited, but he didn’t—just picked up his stuff and split. I felt like a Vulcan, studying these odd, quaint humans.
Sighing, I sat down at the computer. I would never fit in. Never. Not anywhere.
51
Fang and I had checked out what we thought were the coordinates of addresses in the coded pages from the Institute. But there had been a few words too, in addition to our names. Today’s mission: Google them. I typed in the first phrase, even though it looked like a typo, a pair of nonsense words: ter Borcht.
Something moving outdoors caught my eye, and I glanced out the window just in time to see Angel practically floating across the main playing field. She and a bunch of other girls were twirling around like ballerinas, but Angel was the only one who could leap eight feet in the air and hang there as if suspended by wires.
I gritted my teeth, watching them. What part of “blend in” did these kids not understand? For crying out loud.
A list of results popped up on my computer screen. How weird. Apparently ter Borcht wasn’t gibberish. I clicked on the first result.
Ter Borcht, Roland. Geneticist. Medical license revoked, 2001. Imprisoned for unauthorized criminal genetic experiments on humans, 2002. A controversial figure in the field of genetic research, ter Borcht was for many years considered a genius, and the leading researcher in human genetics. However, in 2002, after being found guilty of criminal human experiments, ter Borcht was declared insane. He is currently incarcerated in the “Dangerous-Incurable” wing of a rehabilitation facility in the Netherlands.
Well, holy moly. Food for thought. I tried to remember what other words had shown up in the coded pages.
“Sit up!” a voice snapped, and I turned to see the headhunter, Mr. Pruitt, leaning over some terrified kid at a study table. The kid quickly sat up straight. In the background, Mr. Lazzara was rolling his eyes. Even he didn’t seem to like Pruitt. Mr. Pruitt banged his walking stick against the table leg, making everyone jump. “This isn’t your bedroom,” he said snidely. “You may not lounge about like the do-nothing slug you no doubt are at home. In this school, you will sit up straight, as if you actually had a spine.”
He was going on and on, but I very quietly picked up my books, slithered out of my chair, and slunk out the library’s side door.
I could do without a dose of hateful today, thanks.
52
I walked down the hall as quickly as I could without making any noise.
Ter Borcht: evil genetic scientist. Gee, one of the family. Had I ever heard that name before? Clearly he must have been involved with Jeb, the
School, the whitecoats, at some point. I mean, how many independent evil genetic researchers could there be? Surely they all kept in touch, exchanged notes, built mutants together. . . .
This was a huge breakthrough—or another horribly disappointing dead end. Whichever it was, I couldn’t wait to talk to the flock about it. Just as I hurried past an empty classroom, I caught sight of Fang. Excellent—I had five minutes till my next class. I started to head in, then realized he wasn’t alone. A girl was with him, talking to him, looking earnest. Fang was standing there impassively as she went on, brushing her long dark red hair over her shoulder.
I grinned. Poor Fang. Was she selling something? Asking him to join the Chess Club?
In the next moment, the girl had put both her hands on Fang’s chest and pushed him against the wall. I strode forward, reaching out to yank open the door. Even if she was an Eraser, Fang and I could make mincemeat out of her.
Then I froze. It wasn’t an attack. The girl had pressed herself against Fang like static cling, and she went on her tiptoes and kissed him, right on the mouth.
Fang stood there for a moment, then his hands came up, holding her around the waist. I waited for him to push her away, hoping he would be sensitive about it, not hurt her feelings.
But I watched, dumbfounded, as Fang’s hands slid slowly up her back, holding the girl closer. He angled his head so they could kiss better.
I stepped back, not breathing, feeling like I was going to hurl.
Oh, God.