NORM•vid: n. captured footage with no special effects added to enhance quality “I think guys on Lincoln High’s football team use their abilities even when they’re playing Norm schools.” I hold the phone to my ear while I use my other hand to scrub the grout on the kitchen counter with the rough side of a sponge.
Laila laughs. “You think?”
“But that’s wrong.”
“Why? Are you telling me your dad doesn’t use his abilities in his new job?”
“That’s different.”
“How? He’s using his abilities to get ahead at work. He lives in the Norm world. You don’t think his ability gives him an edge on a coworker up for the same promotion? It happens all the time. Sports are no different. Our football players want college scholarships. They’re going to use their abilities to be the best they can and edge out Norm players.”
“It just seems wrong.” I rewet my sponge and move on to a new section.
“You’ve never had a problem with it before.”
“I guess I’ve never met anyone on the wrong end of an ability.”
“Addie, are you cleaning?”
I pause in my scrubbing efforts. “Yeah, why?”
“Because you’re out of breath. Stop getting so worked up unless my bedroom is the benefactor. Speaking of, it’s a mess since you’ve been gone.”
Is that what I’m doing? Getting worked up? I do feel agitated and annoyed that someone or, more likely, several someones are abusing their abilities like this.
“Who do you think was responsible for Trevor’s injury then?” Laila asks.
I throw the sponge in the sink and walk into the living room. “I don’t know. I guess a Mass Manipulator, for one. They’re the only ones I think who could tear muscle like that.” I pause suddenly as I remember something else Trevor said.
I must’ve gasped as well, because Laila says, “What?”
“A Mood Controller.”
“What? The ones who work the football games? I’m pretty sure they only influence the crowd.”
“No. Not someone on the staff. Someone on the football team.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Because Trevor said right before the injury, he was off guard, relaxed. Someone soothed him on purpose, got his defenses down.”
“You think?”
“I don’t know. I’m just trying to make sense of it all. Are there any Mood Controllers on the football team?”
“I don’t know. I just assumed all the guys on the team were Telekinetics.”
“So did I, but they must not all be. How can we find out?”
“I guess I can ask.”
I’m touched that she’d do that for me when I know how much she hates asking people what their abilities are. There has to be a way we can find out without her having to ask every member of the football team his ability (although that might be the only perk for her). I think about it for a moment. “The school has to have a record of it. I mean, when we registered they recorded our claimed abilities. There’s got to be a master list or something.”
“School office, then?”
“Kalan,” we both say together. She works in the front office. She could probably get her hands on a list like that.
“I’m on it,” Laila says.
“I just feel terrible for Trevor.”
“He could’ve gotten that kind of injury whether someone was using an ability or not. Football is a contact sport, Addie.”
“Yeah, I know.” And for now I need to cling to the idea that it was all just an accident blown out of proportion by Rowan’s overactive imagination.
I’m now standing by the TV, holding my dad’s DVD. It must be calling to me. It’s the third time inside a week that I’ve picked it up just to stare at it.
“Hey, I gotta go. I’m on my way to the football game,” she says.
“I swear that’s the only thing you ever say anymore. Are you crushing on some football player? The quarterback? What’s his name?”
“You’re kidding, right? You honestly forgot his name?”
“It just slipped my mind.” I search my memory. “Oh, Duke! Jeez, I thought I was going crazy for a minute there.” I haven’t been gone that long, and yet it already feels like I’ve let a portion of my old life go. This new life fits comfortably.
“Forgetting Duke is the equivalent of losing your mind.”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, whatever. Well, have fun staring at boys smashing into each other.”
“Believe me, I will.”
I hang up the phone and look at the DVD in my hand. Before I talk myself out of it again, I open the case and put it in the player. “Sorry, Dad,” I whisper as I sit on the couch to listen to the interview.
The screen starts off blue, and then a shot of a Bureau employee and his name card—too small to read, clipped to his dress-shirt pocket—comes into view.
He clears his throat. “The following is an interview of Steve Paxton, brought in as a suspect in the Freburg murder—first murder in the Compound in”—he consults his tablet—“seven years, four months. Recommended course of action upon positive Discernment results: brain scan, incarceration with rehabilitation program.”
My heart is pumping fast. A murder in the Compound was rare and always solved. The video cuts out for a moment, and when it comes back the same wiry guy my dad had been watching the other night sits at a metal table.
“Mr. Paxton, state your full name for the record.”
He runs a hand through his greasy hair. “Poison.”
“Your real name,” the voice behind the camera says.
“Steve Paxton, but you can call me Poison.”
“Mr. Paxton, where were you on the night of September sixth between the hours of eight and twelve p.m.?”
“I’m not sure. I’d have to consult my calendar.” His voice is sarcastic, like this is all a big joke.
“It was a Friday night, three weeks ago,” the voice says.
“Fridays I normally hang out at the club.”
“Alone?”
“No. I’m rarely alone.”
“Who can verify your whereabouts?”
“Anyone who saw me at the club.”
“Mr. Paxton. Were you with anyone that night?” The voice indicates its owner is losing his patience.
“I was with a club full of people.”
“Give me a name.”
“Whose name would you like?”
“Do you recognize this girl, Mr. Paxton? She’s sixteen.” The table in front of Poison lights up, and he looks down. As if I’m watching a movie I expect the camera angle to change so that I can see the image too, but it doesn’t. I’m stuck staring at the top of Poison’s greasy head as he looks at the picture on the table screen. I wonder if I know the girl he’s looking at. Freburg, he had said. Did I know any Freburgs? There are only three high schools in Jackson.
“No, never seen her before.”
“That’s funny.” A paper slides into view. “Her phone records indicate she called you at least twice a day for the last month.”
He leans forward, obviously pretending to inspect the picture further. “Oh, yeah, I guess I do know her.”
“She’s dead, Mr. Paxton.”
Even though I already know, I flinch with the announcement, but he hardly reacts at all. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“It was made to look like she killed herself.” The table screen flickers, probably changing the image, but Poison doesn’t even glance at it. He looks straight at the camera and says, “Maybe she did.”
I fall back a little. His eyes scare me. They’re hard and unafraid. He’s sitting at the Bureau being interrogated for a murder, and he’s not scared. Is it because he’s innocent? But if he was, wouldn’t he ask for a scan to prove himself? They’d need more proof to force a scan on him. It’s obvious why they sent this tape to my dad—he’ll know if Poison is lying.
“We think you did it, Mr. Paxton,” the voice says.
“You can’t pin her murder on me just because we were together. It was consensual. She was using me for the dr—”
The sound of the garage door opening rumbles in my feet. I jump up, turn off the television, and shove the DVD into its case and back on top of the TV just in time for my dad to walk in.
“Hi, Daddy,” I say too enthusiastically. He’ll know I’m up to something just by the tone of my voice. It’s his ability. I pull out my phone and pretend I’m reading a text. I’ve tried lying to him before with no success.
“What’re you doing, kid?” he asks.
I want to ask him about the interview, about Poison and what his conclusions are. But I know he can’t tell me. I remind myself to ask Laila tomorrow about any missing girls on the news. “Oh, just texting with a friend.” Really? I had to actually admit to something? I could’ve just shrugged my shoulders and said, “Nothing,” which would have been the truth in that moment.
My dad stops midstride and lowers his brow. Unfair. I quickly type, Lie detectors suck sometimes, and hit Send. Laila will get a kick out of that. I hold up my phone for him to see. “Just texting,” I repeat. This time it’s the truth.
“Sounds exciting.” He resumes his walk toward the hall. “I’m going to go change.”
“Okay.”
My phone chimes, and I look at it. The text is three question marks, and it’s from Trevor. How did that happen? Then I realize that I just assumed Laila was the last person to send me a text. But she wasn’t; Trevor was. He had texted me last night to ask what the homework assignment in Government was and we ended up texting the rest of the night.
Sorry, that was supposed to go to Laila.
What did you mean by it?
It’s what we call my dad.
Oh. Your dad giving you problems?
Yeah.
I’m inviting the gang over to my house tonight. You up for it?
Am I one of “the gang” now?
You did successfully complete the bobblehead retrieval mission. I think you’re in.
Let me ask. I walk down the hall to my dad’s room. His door is not quite shut, and just as I’m about to knock I hear his voice through the crack. He must be on the phone.
“How did you get this number?” A pause. “I don’t take kindly to threats, Mr. Paxton.”
My breath catches in my throat.
“Just tell the truth, and you won’t have to worry about my input.” Another pause. “No, actually it’s not a subjective ability; my findings are conclusive and binding. Good-bye, Mr. Paxton, and this will go in the report.”
I count to ten, trying to return my breathing to normal, and then knock.
“Come in.”
I start to pretend like I didn’t overhear what I just did, but my heart is pounding and I’m sure he can read fear all over my face. “Are you okay, Dad? Who’s threatening you?”
“Eavesdropping?” His voice is perfectly calm, but for a moment I see tension tighten his eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
He lightly brushes my hair with his hand. “It’s okay. And I’m fine. Nothing I can’t handle.” Sometimes I wish I were a lie detector too, so that I could determine if he were telling the truth. But, I remind myself, my dad doesn’t lie to me. His eyes drift down to my cell phone clutched in my hand. “Did you need something?”
“Oh, yeah. Trevor invited me to his house for a movie. There’ll be a bunch of us.”
He loosens his tie. “Like a party?”
I plop onto his bed and lie back. “No, like ten of us.”
“Are his parents going to be there?”
“I don’t know.”
“If they are, you can go.”
I feel lame asking, but I know my dad will know if I don’t. I hold the phone above me and type, My dad wants to know if your parents are going to be home.
My dad’s tie lands on my face. I wad it up and throw it after him as he retreats to his closet. It doesn’t make it very far, uncoiling and snaking to the ground. He laughs at my attempt.
My phone chimes with Trevor’s answer. Yep. And my little brother too.
He’ll love that. Text me directions and I’ll see you in a while.
“His parents and little brother will be home,” I tell my dad.
“Okay, have fun.”
As I leave I give my dad one last look. He’s already unbuttoning his shirt and pulling out a replacement. I hope, like he claimed, that Poison really is someone he can handle.