Pivot Point (Pivot Point #1)(7)
I open the door to the morning meditation room. “What would I do without you?”
“Probably curl up and die of boredom.” She pauses. “No, actually, you most likely already have your death penciled in sixty years from now, somewhere after homework and yoga.”
“I’d better not have homework in sixty years.” I step into my cubicle. The small, wall-mounted screen lights up at my entry and the acronym DAA—Department of Ability Advancement—pops up in bold letters. And if that isn’t enough to wipe the smile off my face, the talking head that appears next finishes the job.
My mother.
She’s a program developer for the DAA. It’s rare to see her in my cubicle in the morning, but according to her smiling, obviously prerecorded face, a new mind pattern has been introduced, specialized for each of our “claimed” abilities. She doesn’t actually use air quotes, but I can hear them in her voice. Adults like to make a point of adding the word claimed before abilities until we graduate and are able to officially prove ourselves by passing all the tests. It’s like they want to remind us that we’re not fully capable yet and still have to rely on them to help us reach our potential.
“So sit back, relax, and let your mind expand,” my mom’s face says.
Tones sound in my ears as images flash rapidly on the screen. I sit back. The relaxing part is out of the question.
CHAPTER 4
NOR?Mal: n. conforming to the standard I lie on the couch in our new house staring at the slowly circling ceiling fan. I decide it must be the least efficient way, ever, to cool a room. I long for the crosscurrents of my Compound house. My dad moved us into an already furnished rental in Dallas, Texas. Considering the state and style of the decor, I assume it was furnished forty years ago. Other than the ancient furniture, the house is bare—its walls white and empty.
On the floor around me I have spread out the required reading I received upon leaving the Compound. Considering I spent half the day in the Tower before I left—where I had to take a mandatory Norm-training class, be briefed on my new backstory, and receive Norm credentials like a driver’s license and birth certificate—I didn’t think there was anything else to cram into my head. I was wrong. They sent me off with reading materials—a very thick packet refreshing my Norm history knowledge.
I had done a lot to avoid this novel-size assignment written by someone who didn’t care about making it entertaining in the least. I had unpacked and meticulously organized my room, down to color-coordinating my clothes. I had even searched through the unpacked boxes but couldn’t find the one titled “Addie’s books,” which I clearly wrote in black Sharpie so as to avoid this very situation. I have no idea where that box is now. Probably somewhere in the garage, buried beneath the hundreds of boxes that should say: “Dad’s crap.”
I pick up one of the sections of the packet, World War I, and read. Norms believe Archduke Franz Ferdinand was not Paranormal. He was assassinated due to a power play, not because people feared he could control them with his mind. I say that to myself several times. “World War One was not started because of a Paranormal.” I flip through a few more pages of Norm war history. I toss the packet aside, then grab the Space section, remembering some sort of weird beliefs they have about the moon landing.
“Bored,” I moan. My hand starts to sweat from the tight hold I have on my cell. I know Laila won’t call for at least another hour, since she’s still in school, but I hold out hope that she decided to ditch. We haven’t talked since yesterday.
The doorbell rings, and I practically trip over the study papers in my excitement to answer it. The sun assaults my eyes, and a burst of sticky, hot air hits me across the face when I open the door.
It’s the mailman, holding out a clipboard. “Can you sign for a package?”
I pocket my cell and grab the clipboard. “Yeah.” I scribble my name in the box he points to. He hands me a large, padded envelope and starts to walk away.
“How is your day going?” I blurt out. “Staying cool?”
He stops. “It’s October. This is the start of our cool season.” He winks.
“Really?”
“You’ll get used to it. Welcome to Dallas,” he says, and walks away.
“Thanks.” The phone in my pocket vibrates. “Hello?”
“You miss me yet?” Laila asks.
I shut the door. “Let’s just say I’m so desperate for conversation that I was just chatting it up with the mailman.”
“Was he cute?”
“He was probably fifty.”
“Ew.”
I glance at the padded envelope in my hand. It’s addressed to my dad with no return information. I walk into the kitchen, and when the lights don’t immediately turn on wave my hands in impatience. It takes me a second to realize they aren’t going to. I toss the envelope onto the counter and leave without searching for the switch. “Not that I’m complaining, but shouldn’t you be in class?”
“Yeah, probably, but I’d rather be talking to you. It’s just Thought Placement. I have that down.”
“You do?” I ask.
“Don’t you?”
“Just short distances.”
Laila hums and then says, “You know who’s having a hard time with Thought Placement?”