Lake

 

 

If I fail, who will take my place as the Nobel of Chemistry?

I was selected by the Darwinians to be one of the first six who shatter the fundamental belief that we only have one life. Each of us represents a Nobel Prize discipline: Chemistry, Physics, Physiology, Literature, Economics, and Peace. I’ve been so curious about the others in my inaugural class. Why did they choose to undergo the procedure? Which brilliant person was implanted into their brains? How are they going to change the world? They all must be impressive, but it’s the Nobel for Peace who has me most intrigued. I’ve been picturing someone Gandhi-like. I’d planned to ask if they would teach me how to approach the world with more compassion.

My chest constricts and it becomes hard to breathe. If I get kicked out, the lost opportunities are unimaginable. Except, during my sleepless nights, that’s all I’ve been imagining. And the losses aren’t only mine. If we don’t merge, Sophie loses her ability to experience aspects of a second life.

Deborah finally returns. “I want you to meet someone from the Program.”

A Nobel? Then I recall the briefings. They said I wouldn’t be fraternizing with Nobels until after Sophie and I merge. I suppose they don’t want the washouts knowing the names of certain teenagers who suddenly display wisdom beyond their years.

A boy my age strides in with such an air of confidence, he must have already merged. He can tell me how he did it! Does this mean the Darwinians aren’t giving up on me today? Hope tentatively emerges from its hiding place.

He nods a greeting when his near-black eyes land on me. I smile for the first time in a week.

He could be a movie star, or a model. Wavy, black hair; high cheekbones; and a dimpled, chiseled chin. He’s basketball-player tall and wearing perfectly pressed, tan khakis and a perfectly pressed, blue Oxford shirt. I wouldn’t be surprised if he went to one of those prep schools where the tuition costs more than Grandma Bee’s house.

“Stryker, this is Lake,” Deborah says. “We thought it would be helpful if our Candidates got to know each other.”

Candidate? Then he can’t tell me what I’m doing wrong. My renewed dream shatters like cold titanium.

Stryker’s demeanor transforms from magnetic to haughty, and he looks at me as if I’m a foul-smelling beggar blocking the path to his Audi. “I came here to meet a Nobel.”

“I’m sure you two have a lot to talk about,” Deborah says with a tight smile.

“This is a waste of time,” Stryker says, turning his back on me.

“I’ll return in an hour,” Deborah announces.

An hour? With him? He’s treating me like we’re two protons, forever repelled by each other. And I haven’t even uttered a word.

Stryker says, “Don’t forget to lock the door.” He heads to the bookcase and proceeds to ignore me.

Deborah’s smile wavers, but she has no qualms about leaving us alone.

Two can play this game. I amble over to the other end of the bookcase, pull out the thickest book within reach, sit cross-legged on the couch, and draw the throw over my lap, as if settling in for a tranquil rainy afternoon. The only thing missing is a steaming mug of mint tea.

I see that I’ve chosen Ulysses, a book I’ve been meaning to read. I turn to the first page, and under hooded eyes watch Stryker circling the room while examining the ceiling. Apparently, he finds plaster more intriguing than me. Why do I care? I push down my irritation, lick the tip of my finger, and turn the unread page.

“So, it’s Kate?” asks the most acrimonious guy I’ve ever met.

If he’s a Nobel Candidate, his IQ is well into genius level. Yet he can’t remember my name? “Lake. What’s yours again?”

I think I see a flicker of admiration in his eyes. “Stryker.”

He strolls the room, like he’s perusing beach chairs, before choosing an uncomfortable, wooden chair over the option of sitting next to me. I have showered today. I even brushed my teeth.

“Have you completed the procedure?” He asks in a bored tone, as if our futures didn’t hang on this monumental accomplishment.

I’d rather smell butyric acid than admit to him that I’m about to get kicked out of the Nobels Program. But this might be my only chance to compare experiences with another Candidate. Why else would Deborah bring us together?

Grandma Bee taught me the best way to deal with someone unpleasant is to kill them with kindness. “My final phase was a week ago,” I answer, pleasantly.

“Aaah, hence the meeting.”

Hence? Who talks like that? I force a smile. “Have you finished the final phase yet?”

Stryker examines his large, well-groomed hands as if he’d never noticed them before. “That’s what they tell me.”

It was a simple polar question. His apathetic response doesn’t ring true. Could there be two of us who can’t merge? “How long have you been trying to connect with your Mentor?” I test.

“A few weeks, maybe longer.” His gaze flits around the room. “Who can keep track when you’re in lockdown?”

So I’m not the only one.

This news should make me feel better about my own failed attempts, except another significant mind might be lost. I take in the dark bags hanging from Stryker’s eyes. If he wants this half as much as I do, then he has to be demoralized, too.

“I haven’t been able to merge, either,” I admit. “What if we work together to find the solution?” When he doesn’t respond, I add, “Studies have confirmed that combined knowledge maximizes performance, but only when the participants are equally competent, and can discuss their disagreements.”

He looks like he’s contemplating it, until he shakes his head. Is the problem that he’s not good with criticism, or that he doesn’t consider me his equal?

“What’s the alternative?” I snap. “Leave because you’re too proud to admit you need help?”

Stryker looks into my eyes and I expect to see anger, but it’s something else entirely. Fear?

He strides over to the door and starts pounding.

The last vestiges of hope vanish. And, he’s not even willing to discuss it.

A guard opens the door. Deborah has asked me to stop calling the men dressed in black guards—despite the fact they resemble henchmen from a James Bond movie. She explained the Not-Guards are here for my protection.

“We want to take a walk outside,” Stryker informs the man whose neck is thicker than my thigh.

News to me.