Chapter Three

Elena

I’d give my left foot to be turning wrenches, hard, polished chrome slick beneath my fingertips while my earbuds blast music, but I don’t have easy access to a garage. My car stopped shifting into second gear yesterday, and I’m itching to get under the hood of my gorgeous 2034 Ford Mustang. Sure, I could take it somewhere and have someone else fix it, but learning how to do it myself is half the reason I spent all my savings on it last summer. Thankfully, my sister’s boyfriend works at his small, family-owned garage, and since he’s let me use it before, I’m hoping he’ll be okay with it this weekend.

I bury my anxiety while I wait for Jamie to call me with an answer, and search the kitchen cabinets for something to make for dinner. Moments later, Dad walks in through the garage door, talking to someone on the phone. He’s wearing a small Bluetooth. No one uses those things anymore, but he just won’t give it up—the same way he won’t give up those tacky glasses.

He hurries into the kitchen, shaking his head. “No, no,” he says to whoever he’s talking to. Annoyance bleeds through his tone, so it’s probably a business call. “This can’t wait. The project is being terminated.” A pause. “Yes, I’ll send the files to you.” He sets his bag on the island counter and pulls out his ComPad. A few taps on the screen later, he sighs and loosens his shiny yellow tie with one hand. “I’m bringing them up now.”

His work at AIR always sounds so boring—all that paperwork and managerial mumbo jumbo. I mean, how interesting can autopilot snowplows and home security robots get? In a failed heart-to-heart moment, I asked him about work once, and he mumbled stuff about patents, government contracts, and something top secret. Occasionally, I picture Dad as the guy from one of those old Mission: Impossible movies. It gives me a good chuckle, but there’s no way he’s a secret spy who cascades down ropes and jumps across buildings.

“Look, Vince,” he says, paying me no attention. “There’s no other way to explain it to you.”

He rounds a corner and disappears, his voice fading, and I put a pot of water on the stove. I grab a box of pasta, but I set it on the counter when I see Dad’s ComPad sitting on the table, with the screen lit up. Curiosity strikes. Dad treats that tiny machine like it’s the most precious thing in the entire world. He’s never left his ComPad open and on display like this before. Chewing on my lip, I consider taking a look.

Yes, it’s classified information, and yes, it’s illegal to look through classified documents on many different levels, but I can’t tear my gaze from the device merely a few feet away. The light is calling to me like a beacon or like a moth to a flame. An incredibly stupid moth. I tell myself I’ll only glance at what’s on the screen for a minute—just to satisfy my curiosity. I probably won’t understand it anyway, so what’s the harm?

I inch toward the ComPad slowly, as if it’s a butterfly and if I make any sudden movement, it’ll get scared and fly away. Holding my breath, I look down at the screen.

At the top reads: Project A.I.D.E.N. Artificial Intelligence Development and Engineering Neuroscience. Under the heading, there are notes, and I skim through them quickly.

Subject exhibits signs of non-compliance. It is unclear to me whether corrections can be made. Due to the nature of the project and the undeniable failures, it is my decision to deem Project A.I.D.E.N. a waste of further efforts and resources. The project shall be put on hold until further notice. It is in the best interest of AIR’s finances to start over, recycling as many parts of the project as possible. My hope is that the second attempt will yield more acceptable results.

My eyes jump back to the first line. How do artificial intelligence and non-compliance fit together?

Heavy footsteps echo down the hallway, so I quickly shuffle away from the ComPad. Flustered, I hurriedly attend to the spaghetti. “Hi, Dad,” I say when he rounds the corner into the kitchen. “How was work?”

“Rough,” he says, still sounding annoyed like he did on the phone.

I nod, at a loss for words, then crack a handful of noodles in half to fit inside the pot. Honestly, why did I even bring up work after being nosy and reading his private, classified files? Then there’s the question as to why he left the ComPad on the table. Dad takes his job seriously. It’s not like him to do something so…careless. I wonder what’s got him so distracted.

“I’m cooking spaghetti. It’ll be ready in thirty minutes.”

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he says before scooping up his ComPad and disappearing around the same corner he came from.

When we finally sit down at the dining room table, Dad seems unfazed, all his earlier frustrations forgotten.

“Have you registered for the ACT yet?” He spins his fork, collecting noodles.

I eyeball my own plate. “Yeah, I did last week.”

He nods, chewing, saying nothing. He clearly doesn’t remember asking me the same question a few days ago, but I don’t bother reminding him of that. I’d blame it on forgetfulness, except my father is anything but. Work must be stressing him out.

“So, which school did you decide on?” he asks.

“My answer hasn’t changed since you asked me two nights ago.” Setting my fork down, I stare at the marbled tabletop, licking my lips. It’s summer break, months away from senior year, and still Dad insists on deciding my entire future right now. He plays it off like a joke, but beneath the playfulness, he’s serious. I’m just not ready to make those commitments. Not yet. Can’t he see that?

“Have you at least narrowed down your options?”

I swallow thickly. “Uh. No. I don’t know…I like Ohio State.”

He frowns, and I quickly backpedal.

“But I’m still considering Harvard and Yale. It’s just…Ohio State is a good school.” Just not an Ivy League school. “Jamie really likes it there. I think—”

“Sweetheart, your sister didn’t have the grades to get into a top-choice school. You do. You shouldn’t let all your hard work go to waste.”

I nod and wrap my hand around my glass of water, cold and slick from condensation. “I don’t know where I’ll get accepted, so I guess I’m trying not to get my hopes up or whatever.”

This is a lie, of course. I have no doubt Harvard or Yale will accept me, as long as I don’t bomb my ACTs. I’m actually trying not to get his hopes up for when an Ivy League accepts me and I choose not to go there. The truth is I know exactly which school I want to attend, but it’s not a four-year university, Ivy League or otherwise. It’s a ten-month mechanics program in Columbus.

Sipping the water, I wonder if this conversation would be different if Mom were here. I was only ten when she left, and I don’t remember much, so sometimes I like to fantasize, filling in the blanks myself. Being a mechanic isn’t on Dad’s list of approved careers, but would it be on my mom’s? Would she understand my car obsession and my desire to learn how everything works? Would she rally behind me, telling him it’s my life and I should be the one deciding?

I’d like to say yes, but in the end, it doesn’t matter because it’s only me and Dad here, and talks of mechanics always end with him getting all red-faced and repeating the same pleading speech: Elena, please think about this. You should put your intelligence to good use. Not everyone’s lucky enough to be so smart. Think of your future. I mean really, are you trying to send me to an early grave? If you want to live a comfortable life, you shouldn’t take a year after graduation to get a technical degree. And blah blah blah blah freaking blah.

Dad wants what’s best for me, I get that. But ever since his big promotion a few years ago, he’s stopped asking me about friends, stopped talking to me about soccer as if I knew the game, and eventually, all our conversations were about school. Sometimes I wish he’d ask me what I think is best for me.

Thankfully, Dad drops the subject, and we finish eating. After dinner, I go to my room and sit at my desk. I spin the chair around once, then twice, thinking I should be outside enjoying the perfect weather. I should find a book and sit under the Buckeye tree and—

My phone rings, breaking my thoughts. I lean toward it, lying on the bed, and spot Jamie’s name before accepting the video call. Seconds later, my sister’s long, angular face fills the display.

“Oh,” she says. “I’m surprised you answered. Figured you’d be out doing something.”

I roll my eyes with a laugh. “I am doing something. I’ve been sitting on pins and needles waiting for your call.”

“Yeah, uh, that sounds kinda boring. Didn’t school let out last week?”

“Two weeks ago,” I say. “And no, the anticipation is not boring, it’s frustrating. I’m not doing anything tonight because my friends are busy.” Not true, but I don’t feel like explaining it to her. Unlike Jamie, who has a boatload of friends, I only have one, and Maggie’s parents are even stricter than Dad.

Jamie leans away from the phone, and when her face returns, she’s sipping a Diet Coke through a straw. Staring at her almond-shaped eyes is like staring at my own. That’s about the only thing we have in common, though. She looks more like Dad, and I look more like Mom—at least I used to. With her beauty, Jamie had no problems getting guys throughout high school. I, on the other hand, apparently give off a too-good-for-you vibe with my perfect grades, and it takes away from any good looks I might possess. At least that’s my theory.

Jamie makes a disapproving noise as she moves the can out of sight. “Still sounds boring.”

I shrug, pretending I don’t care. “It’s not my fault they’re busy.”

She shakes her head, sending dark waves swaying elegantly around her shoulders. “Well anyway, Todd said you can bring the car up to Columbus tomorrow night.”

“Awesome. He doesn’t mind helping me?” There are some aspects of the car mechanics I can do myself, but transmission work isn’t one of them.

“He can meet you at the garage by six. You can stay the night up here if you want, since it might be late by the time you’re done.”

“Music to my ears.” Todd’s family owns a private garage ten minutes from her apartment, so with his help, I’ll have full access to everything I need. “Thanks. I owe you one.”

“Actually, now that you mention it…”

I snort and flop onto my back, holding the phone above me. Jamie has a penchant for needing favors: statistics homework, English essays, alibis so she could attend parties. If I can provide it, she asks for it. I figure I’ve collected enough karma points to cash in on something fantastic.

Jamie bites her nails and mumbles, “I need you to intercept a letter for me. Before Dad sees it. Please?”

Oh, hell. “What letter?”

She hesitates, drops her hand, and glowers. “It’s a letter for my upcoming court date.”

I wait for her to continue, and when she doesn’t, I ask, “What did you do?”

Jamie flinches for only a second, then tosses hair over her shoulder. “I got busted for underage drinking.” She shrugs like it’s no big deal, like she hasn’t been busted for that two times already.

“Are you serious? How’d you manage that?”

“I got caught using a fake ID at the bar last weekend. It was stupid, all right, I get that.”

“Dad will kill you.”

“My point exactly. So…will you help me out?” She chews on her nails again, darting her gaze at anything but me. Fidgety and anxious is not a good look on Jamie. I almost feel bad for her, though I would never tell her that.

“Uhh, yeah, okay. Guess I can check the mail for you.” Besides, if Dad finds out, he’ll freak, and I’m the one who has to live with him.

Her grin showcases the dimples I’ve always been jealous of. “You’re the best. See you tomorrow.”

We end our call, and briefly, I reconsider my plan to sit under the tree and read, but I have a serious itch to do something that doesn’t involve books. Reaching under my desk, I pull out my Haynes DIY auto service manual. Even though he doesn’t approve of a career in mechanics, Dad gifted it to me last Christmas, a few months after I bought the vintage car. The bright red cover gives me a renewed hope that he’ll change his feelings about my desired vocation. I flip it open to the section about the transmission, and before I realize it, it’s super late. I don’t even notice the sun has disappeared until I pull the curtains back and peer out the window, seeing nothing but stark blackness.

After brushing up on the transmission removal procedures and attempting to memorize torque specs, I sprawl across the bed with my ComPad. Fluffing my pillow, I think about Dad’s secret notes. I should feel guilty, but I don’t. Mostly, I’m creeped out. Subject exhibits signs of non-compliance? That makes it sound like he’s doing crazy lab experiments on animals. Or people…

I should’ve never looked at his ComPad. Now all I can picture is Dad as some kind of mad scientist, cackling as he does horrible things to his subjects.