Orfyn

 

 

The Nobels’ rec room is totally rigged out: ginormous TV, ping pong and pool tables, foosball, and all the latest video games. The kids at St. Catherine’s would love a place like this. The only thing missing is the fun vibe. I don’t get why whoever remodeled this old school made everything so white. This room should make them feel like they can kick back. I might have to do something about it.

Of the six of them, my eyes are drawn to the girl with long, red hair that reminds me of a New York sunset. But I’m not as ready to jump into their circle of brilliance as I first thought. They’re all geniuses, and they’ve merged with someone equally as smart, if not more. I thought I’d end up with the same advantage, but I’m starting to have some serious doubts about the guy who’s now living in my brain.

The girl I’d been eyeing notices me standing in the doorway. “Who are you?”

Everyone’s heads turn, and their expressions make it obvious I wasn’t expected.

“I’m new,” is all I can muster.

“New?” a Hispanic-looking guy echoes.

The tall guy I saw shooting baskets when I first arrived rises from the couch and comes over with his hand extended. “I’m Stryker. What’s your discipline?”

It takes me a second to figure out what he means. “Art,” I answer, shaking his hand. “I’m a painter.”

“That’s not a Nobel field,” says an Asian girl with heavily lined eyes, three piercings in her right eyebrow and dyed silver hair. Not silver-gray. Not silver-white. Silver. It gleams like newly polished metal.

I can’t start off letting them think I’m cool with being the designated punching bag. “That’s only because da Vinci isn’t around to make it one. It’s up to me.”

A pimply-faced guy snorts in what sounds like appreciation, then jots something in his notebook.

“The Darwinians must have a good reason for adding a new field,” says a tiny girl with glasses that make her look even smarter than she probably is.

“If Art is now included as part of this Program, then Art is welcome to join us,” Stryker declares, making it clear his decision is final.

I can’t tell if he’s being friendly or dissing me, but I pull up a chair and maneuver it next to the girl with the sunset-red hair.

“Sorry, no one told us that another Nobel would be joining our class,” the Hispanic guy explains.

“They needed a lucky number seven. My name is … Orfyn.” It’s the first time I’ve ever introduced myself using it. It feels right.

“Is that your real name?” The Asian girl makes it sound like a dare.

“It is now,” I say with more defensiveness than I wanted to portray.

“Interesting.” She looks at me in a way that makes me wonder if she knows who I am. “I’m Anna.”

“Where are you from?” I ask her.

“The unshaven armpit of California. L.A.”

She couldn’t have heard of me. I’m not that famous.

“Anna is our Nobel for Physiology,” Stryker explains.

“I’m Alex. Physics,” says the Hispanic guy whose skin is darker than mine. His smile is wide and welcoming, and I know right away we’ll be friends. When Alex stands to fist-bump me, I read his shirt. Entropy isn’t what it used to be. That’s supposed to be a joke—I think.

“Don’t let Alex demonstrate what he calls his Wile E. Coyote Theory of Gravity on you,” Stryker says to me.

I fake chuckle along with the rest of them. I am so out of my league.

Stryker points to the girl with the glasses who’s been so nice. “This is Jules. She’s Economics.” Then he jerks his head at the guy whose nose is buried in his notebook. “And that’s Marty, our very own Word Man.”

“Hey,” Marty says without looking up. He has a major case of bedhead that I’m pretty sure wasn’t styled to look that way, and he looks younger than the others. Maybe fourteen.

Stryker finally gets to the person I’ve been eyeing this whole time. “And last, but not least, is Lake, our Nobel for Chemistry.”

Her eyes remind me of a clear mountain lake, but there’s a sadness in them. I hold out my hand. After a long moment, Lake takes it. I swear a rush of energy surges between us. Did she feel it, too? I may not know how to perform brain surgery—like they all probably do—but I know one thing: this is a girl I’m going to paint.

“Who are you merged with?” Anna asks me.

“Bat …” I realize too late that I never learned his last name. “Just Bat. You know, like Rihanna or Bono.” I think I pulled it off.

“Never heard of him, but I’m sure he’s somebody amazing if they merged him with you,” she says, then turns to say something to Lake.

Now that I think about it, Bat’s house is filled with masterpieces, but I’ve never seen his work.

“Where did you study?” Jules asks me.

“Under a bridge.” It’s the truth. Long story.

Stryker asks, “The Ponte Vecchio?”

“Uhm, no.” So what if I didn’t go to some fancy art school? I don’t have anything to be ashamed of. People get into my work. “I’m a street artist.”

“Good one,” Alex says. “Like they’d ever select a vandal for this Program.”

“Some of that stuff is pretty cool,” Anna says.

“I hate how those people destroy the beauty of our cities,” Lake says.

“I know!” Jules seconds. “It’s so disrespectful.”

My shaky confidence plunges even further. I’d always kept what I did a secret to protect St. Catherine’s, and, yeah, to keep me out of jail, but I never thought I’d need to keep it a secret here. I’m not disrespecting. I’m turning ugly places into something beautiful.

“When did you get here, Orfyn?” Alex asks.

By now, I’m almost afraid to answer. “A week ago.”

“And you’ve already merged?” Lake asks.

“Yeah,” I answer, trying not to make it sound like a question. Maybe merged means something different to them.

Stryker looks at me oddly. “Art would certainly use different parts of the brain than our disciplines.”

Another strike. I’ve been trying to tell them the truth, and they laughed. Even worse, they looked down on me. If I’m going to live with these people for the next five years, I will not be that guy—the freak, the outcast, the loner. A Bible verse Sister Mo loves to repeat pops into my head: Even a foofool, when he keeps silent, is considered wise. I don’t even care about the wise part, but to survive here, I need to keep my past a secret.

“I called this meeting because it’s important that the seven—” Stryker winks at me, making me wonder if he knew all along I’d show up today “—of us help each other navigate through this unique experience.”

“I think that’s a wonderful idea, Stryker,” Jules says, looking like she’s already planning their wedding.

“Thanks, Jules. Actually, Lake is the one who showed me how important it is to work together.” He smiles at her a bit too long.

“I propose we meet in the dining hall at noon on Mondays,” Alex says. “That way, we can eat lunch at lunchtime.”

Is that a joke?

Anna’s expression makes it obvious she thinks his suggestion is the stupidest ever. “It’ll never happen. I slept through my alarm and barely got here on time.”

“Good work, Anna. You’ve identified our first group assignment,” Stryker says, and I have to hold in my grin. “We each need to work with our Guardian to figure out how to wake up when we choose.”

Do I have a Guardian? No one said anything about that.

“I vote for no hand over the mouth,” Lake says to Stryker, and they share a look.

My stomach lurches. Do they have something going on?

Stryker turns his eyes away from Lake, though I can’t seem to. “The first item we need to discuss,” he says, “is whether everyone is having abnormally long sleep cycles.”

That hasn’t been happening to me. Do I dare admit it?

Everyone else nods, except for Marty, who’s absorbed in his notebook. Stryker looks at me questioningly.

“I’ve only dreamed twice, so I’m not sure yet,” I hedge.

Jules says, “We’re here to change the world. Who cares if we’re sleeping a little more?”

“I agree,” Anna says. “The longer we work, the sooner my Mentor and I will figure out how to deactivate the trigger for autoimmune diseases.”

And I thought I was intimidated before.

I look at Lake under hooded eyes. What amazing thing is she working on? Suddenly, keeping the humanity in Art doesn’t sound all that earth-shattering. And when are Bat and I going to get started?

“I’m all for a good snooze,” Alex says. “But I haven’t played my guitar in weeks.”

“For real?” Anna asks. “Why would you want to waste time on music instead of discovering a renewable energy source?”

Alex must understand, but do the others feel the same way about the arts? Why did they add Art if it isn’t a Nobel field?

“Everyone should sleep for as long as their Mentor deems is necessary,” Jules says.

“Within reason,” Lake adds.

“Let’s not forget that our Mentors are only conscious when we’re interacting with them in our dreams,” Stryker adds.

Jules looks at Stryker like he’s surprised her with an engagement ring. “Exactly. It’s not like they can watch TV or work out while they’re waiting for us to fall asleep. We need to respect their needs, too.”

Until now, I’ve never thought about what Bat did when I’m awake. Nothing, which isn’t all that different from what he does when we’re together.

The others start debating about the optimum sleep versus awake time. I zone out and spend my time stealing glances at Lake, who is spending more time observing than participating.

When Alex holds up a finger in the air, I’m expecting to hear something brilliant. “Let’s throw a party!”

“We shouldn’t waste time on trivial things like that,” Anna says.

“We all defied the risks to become the first Nobels,” Alex says. “In my culture, we celebrate our triumphs.”

“And now we’ve got the new guy to pull it together,” Stryker says. “All in favor?” He holds up his right hand, and everyone else does the same.

“Uhm … ” I want to protest, but I can’t think of a good reason why I can’t do it. Now that I’ve merged, I’ve actually got a lot of time on my hands. But I have the feeling Stryker’s reason for picking me isn’t to raise my status.

I’m about to tell them how I’m too busy when Lake looks at me. “I know this sounds implausible, but I’ve never been to a party. I mean, with people our age.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Anna says snarkily.

“I’ve always had more important things to do,” Lake says, looking hurt.

“Then it’s about time, Lake,” I say. “I’ll throw you a killer party.”

Game on, Stryker.

When everyone is heading out, Lake comes over to me. “Thanks for volunteering,” she says with a smirk, since we both know I was sabotaged. “And don’t let them get to you. We’re all out of our element.”