Pivot Point (Pivot Point #1)(12)

“You didn’t want to watch the movie I rented?” He points to the TV and this huge, boxy player he set up the night before.

“I couldn’t figure out how to work that stupid thing. There’s just a bunch of buttons with triangles and squares.”

He laughs. “No voice activation here. I’ll teach you how to use it later. It’s not that hard. But right now I have a peace offering.” Out of his back pocket he pulls two strips of paper.

I sit up. “What are those?”

“Tickets. Your new high school has a football game tonight.”

At this point even football sounds decent. “What time?”

“Kickoff’s at seven.” He sits on the couch.

I plop down next to him, sideways, one of my feet nudging my dad’s leg as it settles on the cushion.

He pulls on the toe of my sock, causing it to form a loose pucker above my big toe. Then he stares at me, waiting to see how long I’ll leave it like that. I count to twenty to prove that it doesn’t bother me at all.

“You’re a nuisance,” I say, fixing my sock.

He laughs, then pats my ankle. “So, how is your cover story going? Are you going to be okay for school on Monday?”

“I think I’m good.”

“Need me to quiz you?”

“Sure.”

He squares his shoulders and raises his chin, assuming what I guess he thinks is a teacher’s pose. “Welcome to class, Addie Coleman. Where did you move from?”

“Jackson, Texas. It’s about five hours southeast of here. Half an hour from San Antonio. If you went there you’d find a tiny town surrounded by a mountain range. That mountain range is actually just an illusion though. It’s really a sprawling city full of people with mind powers.” I laugh. “How’s that?”

He doesn’t crack a smile.

“Oh, come on. It was a joke.”

“Addie. That’s not something to joke about. You can’t tell anyone about the Compound or your powers. Not anyone. The Compound Containment Committee works very hard to keep the psychologically advanced a secret. And if they ever found out you told someone …”

“Yeah. I know.” Of course I did. We had a major debriefing in the Tower before we were allowed to leave. But in a way I thought it was more talk than action. I didn’t think my dad would be so strict. Of course I’m not going to announce my ability at school, but realizing I can never tell anyone … ever … is hard. I’ve never had to lie about who I am before.

My dad still has his stern look on. I nudge his leg with my foot. “Loosen up. I’m not going to tell anyone. Finish the quiz. Ask me another question.”

“Okay. Why did you move here?”

“My dad’s work.” I start to say as a human lie detector but stop myself. He is obviously not in the mood to joke about it. The jokes were helping me feel better and without them the seriousness of the situation settles onto my shoulders.

“What do you like to do for fun?” he asks, still in teacher mode.

“Read … mostly.”

“Good. You’ll do just fine.”

“You think that’s all they’ll ask?”

“I’m sure you’ll get more questions, but it sounds like you have your story down.” His lips pucker into his concerned face. “Are you okay?”

No. “Yes, I’m fine. This is just so new to me. That’s all.”

I know he doesn’t believe me. He is the lie detector after all, but still he says, “You’ll feel better once you start school and realize the cover story isn’t a big deal.”

“Yeah, probably. I’ll go get ready for the football game.”

I shut myself in the bathroom and lean against the counter. My ability had been my entire life. It Presented earlier than most—at the beginning of the sixth grade. But even before that, from the time I was little, my mom was constantly assessing my strengths, testing my mind patterns, seeing what I was drawn toward. Without my ability, I’m not sure who I am.

I dig out my phone from my pocket and dial Laila. On the second ring she picks up.

“Hey, what’s up?” she says.

“I have to pretend like I’m average.”

“The horror!” she says in faux offense.

“It is horrible. You know what this means, right? Everybody is going to think I’m … Normal. My ability is what makes me halfway cool. I’m nobody without it.”

“Oh, please. You aren’t average—with or without your ability.”

I lower the toilet lid and sit down. “What am I supposed to talk to people about? The weather? I already tried that and it went horribly. I’m doomed.”

“Did you hear what I just said?”

“Yes, but I don’t believe you because you only know the me with my ability. You haven’t seen the me without my ability in a long time. The me without my ability is boring, whiny, and plain.”

“The you with your ability is pretty whiny as well.”

“Not helping.” I pull on the string hanging from the blinds beside me and they raise with a clatter, making me jump. After tugging on the bottom a few times, I give up, not remembering how to put them back down again.

“So let me get this straight. If I didn’t have an ability, you wouldn’t like me?”