Ellison?”
The Buzz question Mimi had asked earlier. No, no, no, no, no. No red flags.
“I need to speak to you two in my office.”
Blark.
Dr. Quigley sat down at her desk as we walked into the small room attached to the classroom. It was more like a closet than anything. The only things that suggested otherwise were a tiny window overlooking the street and a floor-to-ceiling wall of photographs behind her desk. Quigley sifted through the Specialization forms and didn’t look at us but began talking.
“That was an odd thing to ask today, Miss Ellison. Your Buzz question.” The Quig continued to look down, but a half grin hijacked her face. I felt like I’d seen that look before, but I couldn’t remember one instance of her smiling in class. She finally glanced up. “Wouldn’t you agree, Miss Bennis?”
I nodded.
“I’m curious as to why you would ask such a question, Miss Ellison.” Quigley may have asked the question of Mimi, but she kept her eyes trained on me.
“Just a hypothetical,” said Mimi.
“I see.” Quigley started to wave her off, but I couldn’t leave it at that. Not if there was a chance, however slight, that it could help my mother.
“If something like that did happen, hypothetically of course,” I said, “do you think studying the anomaly could help advance medical research for, umm, for—”
Quigley’s eyes narrowed to slits of fake pity. “For comatose patients?”
Once the words were out there—out loud—I realized how ridiculous it sounded. And how much I’d been harboring a secret hope there could be some truth to it. It wasn’t true, of course. No progress, no leads, no hope.
Quigley pushed back in her seat. “No. As I explained during class, the ‘anomaly’ would be easily explained by the distractability of human nature.
“So.” The Quig looked back down at her work. “Do you feel I’ve answered your question in such a way that it will never come up again in my classroom?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Mimi.
“Then dismissed.”
Mimi and I slinked toward the door, but Quigley added, “Not you, Miss Bennis.”
Mimi mouthed, Sorry, on her way out the door. As soon as Mimi left, Quigley tapped the console on her desk. My midterm materialized midair, inches from my nose. A bright red “D” glowed in the middle.
What? No. Any assignment but this one. Please. Anything below a C and Dr. Quigley could opt to go back to the site and review the entire mission. She’d see the Haven Signal. And someone in the family probably had found the black market flexiphone gizmo I left behind.
“I’m disappointed in you,” she said.
Not as disappointed as she’d be if she found out what I’d really been doing on that mission.
“I suppose I should send a review committee straight back to this little Chincotuck place to investigate.” She picked at the edge of her square-sharp thumbnail. Squirms of dread wiggled through my torso until Quigley spoke again. “But given your unique circumstances, I’m not sure that’s warranted.”
Unique circumstances. That was one way of putting it. Six months ago, my mom had landed on the steps of the Institute after an otherwise routine job assignment. Her microchip wasn’t working, and she was shouting incoherent gibberish. By the time help arrived, she’d slipped into a coma. So, yeah. Some people might go with “unique.” I preferred “sucktastic.” Still, thank goodness my teacher could see reason.
“This is your final warning, though. No more mistakes, Bree. You can’t afford them.”
Oh, she had no idea.
Quigley turned back to the forms she was sorting. “Dismissed.”
* * *
My rush of relief lasted precisely seven minutes.
I went straight to the computer lab. I knew I should let it go, but it still bugged me that my search results on Muffy van Sloot and the Mastersons had yielded zilch. As if they’d never existed. And if my assignment did come back up with Quigley, the more info I could give
The Buzz question Mimi had asked earlier. No, no, no, no, no. No red flags.
“I need to speak to you two in my office.”
Blark.
Dr. Quigley sat down at her desk as we walked into the small room attached to the classroom. It was more like a closet than anything. The only things that suggested otherwise were a tiny window overlooking the street and a floor-to-ceiling wall of photographs behind her desk. Quigley sifted through the Specialization forms and didn’t look at us but began talking.
“That was an odd thing to ask today, Miss Ellison. Your Buzz question.” The Quig continued to look down, but a half grin hijacked her face. I felt like I’d seen that look before, but I couldn’t remember one instance of her smiling in class. She finally glanced up. “Wouldn’t you agree, Miss Bennis?”
I nodded.
“I’m curious as to why you would ask such a question, Miss Ellison.” Quigley may have asked the question of Mimi, but she kept her eyes trained on me.
“Just a hypothetical,” said Mimi.
“I see.” Quigley started to wave her off, but I couldn’t leave it at that. Not if there was a chance, however slight, that it could help my mother.
“If something like that did happen, hypothetically of course,” I said, “do you think studying the anomaly could help advance medical research for, umm, for—”
Quigley’s eyes narrowed to slits of fake pity. “For comatose patients?”
Once the words were out there—out loud—I realized how ridiculous it sounded. And how much I’d been harboring a secret hope there could be some truth to it. It wasn’t true, of course. No progress, no leads, no hope.
Quigley pushed back in her seat. “No. As I explained during class, the ‘anomaly’ would be easily explained by the distractability of human nature.
“So.” The Quig looked back down at her work. “Do you feel I’ve answered your question in such a way that it will never come up again in my classroom?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Mimi.
“Then dismissed.”
Mimi and I slinked toward the door, but Quigley added, “Not you, Miss Bennis.”
Mimi mouthed, Sorry, on her way out the door. As soon as Mimi left, Quigley tapped the console on her desk. My midterm materialized midair, inches from my nose. A bright red “D” glowed in the middle.
What? No. Any assignment but this one. Please. Anything below a C and Dr. Quigley could opt to go back to the site and review the entire mission. She’d see the Haven Signal. And someone in the family probably had found the black market flexiphone gizmo I left behind.
“I’m disappointed in you,” she said.
Not as disappointed as she’d be if she found out what I’d really been doing on that mission.
“I suppose I should send a review committee straight back to this little Chincotuck place to investigate.” She picked at the edge of her square-sharp thumbnail. Squirms of dread wiggled through my torso until Quigley spoke again. “But given your unique circumstances, I’m not sure that’s warranted.”
Unique circumstances. That was one way of putting it. Six months ago, my mom had landed on the steps of the Institute after an otherwise routine job assignment. Her microchip wasn’t working, and she was shouting incoherent gibberish. By the time help arrived, she’d slipped into a coma. So, yeah. Some people might go with “unique.” I preferred “sucktastic.” Still, thank goodness my teacher could see reason.
“This is your final warning, though. No more mistakes, Bree. You can’t afford them.”
Oh, she had no idea.
Quigley turned back to the forms she was sorting. “Dismissed.”
* * *
My rush of relief lasted precisely seven minutes.
I went straight to the computer lab. I knew I should let it go, but it still bugged me that my search results on Muffy van Sloot and the Mastersons had yielded zilch. As if they’d never existed. And if my assignment did come back up with Quigley, the more info I could give
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