Pivot Point

Page 21

“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.
CHAPTER 19
dis-PA-RAte: adj. distinct, different, dissimilar
My heart races, and my head pounds. The screams of cheering fans surround me. The band’s music pulses in my ears, and I feel lost in a cloud of haze. “This is so crazy!” Puffs of white breath accompany my words. The whistle blows, and Duke runs onto the field again.
“I know, right?” Laila rubs her arms, which are covered by a too-thin jacket. She was obviously more worried about fashion than warmth. “Why can’t the Perceptives make us think it’s warm too?” She nods at the lightning that has been streaking across the sky since the game started. “I’m freezing.”
“Because an illusion is an illusion. Reality always exists despite the facade.” An exceptionally bright flash, unaccompanied by thunder, bursts in time with the snap of the ball.
Duke drops back for a pass. When he releases the ball, it zigzags across the sky, tugged first one way and then the other by all the Telekinetic players trying to direct its motion. Number seventy-six on our team catches the ball, and I start jumping up and down squealing.
Laila gives me a sideways glance. “Okay, the Mood Controllers are laying it on thick tonight.”
“That’s my problem, right? Because I feel super-weird.”
“Go get us some sodas. When you’re out of the stands, the excitement wears off.”
“Good idea.” I climb over cheering teens and down the cement steps to the back of the stadium, where the food vendors are. Once in the open air, I immediately feel better. My heart rate slows and my brain stops buzzing. I take a sigh of relief. I had no idea I was that susceptible to influence. It makes me feel better when I think about how many Mood Controllers work the football game.
“Well, hello.”
I turn and see Poison leaning up against a cement support pillar. My heart rate immediately picks up again, but I try to pretend nothing is wrong. “Oh, hi. Um, soda guy, right? Sorry about that again.”
He blows air between his lips, and a puff of white smoke blurs his sharp features for a moment. “Don’t pull that on me. You know who I am.” He takes a step closer. “I know who you are. And next time you and your friends want to play a prank on someone, you might want to stick with your little high school buddies.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m talking about the fact, Addison Coleman, that you do not want to be on my bad side.”
He knows my name. “You don’t scare me,” I say. He terrifies me.
“I may not be a Discerner, but I’m going to say that’s not true. I wonder if my findings would be conclusive and binding.”
Conclusive and binding? “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He takes another step closer, and I fall a step back. We walk this way for several steps and just as I’m about to turn and run, he says, “Do you know what it feels like, Addie, to have zero control over your own actions? To have someone make you do something?”
“What do you mean?” I ask. If he’s a Mood Controller, he’s not making me feel at ease. I feel only tense and terrified. Maybe he wants me to feel that way.
My leg lifts and takes me a step toward him. I panic and try to back up, but I’m frozen there. Literally. No matter how hard I tell my leg to move, it won’t.
“Give a message to your little friend’s daddy,” he says in a scratchy voice that makes my blood curdle. “Tell him that if he doesn’t pay me back, I have other ways of collecting. One way or another, I will get that money.”
I nod slowly, and he turns and walks away.
CHAPTER 20
NOR-Ma-po-late: v. when normal people try to solve a mystery without extra help I knock on Trevor’s door, and a little boy answers. He looks like a mini version of Trevor, with big brown eyes and longer-than-life lashes. I can’t resist the urge to reach out and ruffle his hair.
“Hey,” he objects, smoothing it back into place. “Who are you?”
“I’m Addie. Is Trevor here?”
“Addison,” Trevor says, coming around the corner, “is the bodyguard refusing you admittance?” Trevor pats him on the back, and he straightens up.