The Intuitives(22)
The terminal was inspiring “Billionaire” by Travie McCoy on replay, and it was all he could do not to strut to the beat. His favorite six-string and bass guitars were slung across his back in a double bag, and he carried a small, portable amp in his hand. The song in his head only turned up the volume when he was greeted by a woman carrying a pre-printed sign that said “Daniel Walker.”
“Daniel!” she exclaimed as soon as she saw him. “You look just like your photograph. I’m Christina Williams, but you may call me Christina, and this here is Romario Jackson—”
“Roman,” the boy said quickly.
“Oh, yes. Yes, of course. I’m sorry, Roman. This is Roman Jackson, who will be one of your fellow students at the ICIC.”
“Hey,” Daniel said, feeling a little awkward.
“’Sup,” Roman replied.
“I apologize, boys, but we need to hurry. Another student will be arriving soon at the other end of the concourse. If you’ll follow me?”
“Sure,” Daniel replied. Roman said nothing, just falling into step behind her.
In truth, Roman was trying not to stare at the new kid, who had a rainbow of light cascading over him like some kind of perpetual cosmic waterfall. Roman found himself even more grateful for the new colored pencils, but he wasn’t sure he would ever be able to capture on paper what he was seeing around this blond-haired California surfer. He kept his head down, staring at the floor, but flashes of light sparkled in the corner of his eye whenever Daniel’s feet came into view.
Daniel, for his part, was equally intrigued by this small boy who refused to look at him. It wasn’t just that the kid was so young; it was the subtle way he would dart his eyes in tiny little glances when he thought no one was looking. The lyrics to OneRepublic’s “Secrets” played in Daniel’s head—a mellow song, its rhythm fitting the late afternoon sunshine—and Daniel let its melody carry his mind away, content to let the evening unfold in its own time.
The airport wasn’t especially large, and it wasn’t long before they were standing at another gate, a new pre-printed sign having been produced from Miss Williams’ briefcase, this one with letters that spelled out “Samantha Prescott.” They waited for a few minutes, Daniel nodding his head along with “Secrets” and Roman stealing glances from time to time at Daniel’s living, shifting raiment of color, until the door finally opened and people started filing in off the tarmac.
After several business people came and went, along with a mother carrying an infant in a travel seat and then a small group of twenty-somethings who looked to be on vacation together, Miss Williams called out, “Samantha,” and waved at a teenage girl who appeared to be about Daniel’s age.
She was wearing faded jeans over what looked like a very heavy pair of motorcycle boots, a black T-shirt emblazoned across the chest with a Batman logo, and a silver ear cuff in each ear. Her backpack was slung over one shoulder—a black leather bag with studs that looked like rivets. The girl didn’t walk as much as she sauntered, and suddenly the dystopian lyrics of “Radioactive” by Imagine Dragons were blaring in Daniel’s head.
Daniel raised one eyebrow and tried not to smile as she approached them, imagining slow motion strides and smoke effects, the blue streaks in her hair being lifted from below by a high-speed fan, as though she were a model in a music video—assuming the model looked like she was ready to beat someone up.
Note to self, he thought, this is not the girl to cross.
“Welcome, Samantha,” Miss Williams was saying. “I’m Christina Williams. We’re so pleased you could come spend the summer with us.”
“Thanks,” was all the girl said, dropping her bag at her feet and shaking the woman’s hand.
Roman eyed her cautiously, but all he saw around her were a scattering of small, white flames, whizzing around her so fast that they left light trails in their wake. In the first instant, he had been reminded of Marquon’s bees, and he had taken an involuntary step away from her, but he saw almost immediately that these were not angry, red bees. They were just lights, flying in regular patterns, several of them crossing each other, but never colliding.
“You OK?” Sam asked him, having seen his reaction. “Don’t worry. I don’t bite.” She said this with a hint of a grin, and Roman decided that he liked her.
“I like your hair,” Roman said. “The blue, I mean. It’s cool.”
“Thank you,” she replied, smiling even more warmly.
“I’m Roman.”
“Roman,” she said. “Like the Coliseum. That’s easy enough. I’m Sam.” She reached out and shook his hand without seeming to think about it, as though she came from a world in which teenagers shook hands on a regular basis.
“And you are…?” she asked, turning to Daniel, who finally allowed himself to smile a little at her “Radioactive” theme song, trusting that the grin would be taken as nothing more than an attempt to be friendly.
“Daniel,” he replied.
“OK then,” she said, cocking her head a bit to one side and staring at him thoughtfully. “Daniel. Like Daniel in the lion’s den. Got it.” But she didn’t offer to shake hands, both of hers remaining firmly planted on her hips, and Daniel wondered vaguely whether or not he should be insulted.