Overpowered Read online

  Oliver leaped into the backseat. I took shotgun and slammed the door. Jackson shot me a look, equally amazed by Oliver’s unexpected athletic prowess, then threw the car into gear. In seconds we were speeding down the road before the guards had even made it over the wall.

  • • •

  “Have you been holding out on me?” I shouted, spinning around in the front seat of the Mustang and glaring back at Oliver as Jackson sped through the back roads.

  “No. I don’t know . . . ,” Oliver sputtered, doing his best to not completely lose it. “I mean, one second I’m barely keeping up with you and the next my legs become these turbo-charged booster rockets.”

  “How long, Oliver?” Jackson demanded to know, glancing at him in the rearview mirror. “How long have you had this?”

  “Honestly, Jackson, I don’t know. I swear I don’t know what the hell’s going on with me,” Oliver babbled, obviously confused and overwhelmed. “Other than I’ve felt really different for a while now.”

  “Different how?” I couldn’t stop myself from pushing Oliver hard.

  “Weird sensations in my legs,” Oliver confessed. “Like intense heat mixed with nonstop tingling. I just assumed they were intense growing pains. How was I supposed to know?”

  “And you never once ran like that?” Jackson asked, suspicious.

  “Uh. Hello?” Oliver snapped back sarcastically. “You forget who you’re talking to? Oliver Monsalves, boy most likely to flunk phys ed when he’s not cutting it. My idea of a good workout is playing video games for six hours straight.”

  My mind raced as I tried to comprehend the implications. This pulse seemed to affect everyone in town, causing all those cranky moods today. But what that didn’t explain is why a select few—Oliver and Jackson, of all people—were suddenly endowed with superhuman abilities.

  I looked over at Jackson and demanded answers: “Are there any others? Like you and Oliver?”

  “Possibly. I don’t know. I didn’t know about him. I thought I was the only one!” Jackson admitted, trying to keep cool despite fraying slightly around the edges. He wouldn’t look at me. He kept staring straight ahead as he turned back onto one of the main roads, which cut right through town. But I could tell by Jackson’s clenched jaw that he was unnerved by the fact that the pulse had affected Oliver too.

  Just as we were passing the main library, I heard Oliver nervously clear his throat.

  “Heads up. We’ve got company.” A visibly anxious Oliver pointed out two BTS cars that were suddenly following us from a few blocks behind.

  “What should we do?” I turned around and saw the cars gaining on us. My nerves were already pretty rattled, and this wasn’t helping.

  “Nothing,” ordered Jackson.

  I looked at him in disbelief. He didn’t panic or lose his cool. He just continued driving at the posted speed limit as if he’d done nothing wrong. While Oliver and I sat quietly, holding our breath.

  Jackson watched the security cars from his rearview mirror. They were picking up speed, pulling up closer to the Mustang. I glanced at Jackson and could see that prominent vein in his neck pulsing away like crazy. He may have been acting all cool with Oliver and me, but I could tell he was worried too. The body doesn’t lie.

  Just as we approached the last major intersection in town, Jackson flipped on his turn signal and made a hard right into a church parking lot. I was prepared for the security guys to pull in and surround us, guns drawn like in some bad action movie. Instead both security cars just drove right past the church. Never even slowing down to look at us.

  Surprised and more than a little relieved, we sat there in the parking lot until they’d disappeared from view. Once they were gone, Jackson silently shifted back into gear and headed off in the opposite direction.

  We were safe for now. Though none of us were celebrating.

  • • •

  Ten minutes later Jackson, Oliver, and I stood in my kitchen, chugging back Vitaminwaters, not quite knowing what to do next. Luckily, my dad wasn’t home yet. Jackson finally broke the uneasy silence: “The effects should be wearing off pretty soon. I’ve never seen them last longer than a day.”

  I know he was trying to be reassuring, but it didn’t comfort me one bit. Something unnatural had transformed both Jackson and Oliver from relatively normal teenagers into superboys. Oliver, on the other hand, cracked a smile, apparently pleased by Jackson’s news that he had a few more hours left to indulge his newfound abilities.

  “Well, in that case . . .” He set his water bottle down on the counter, opened the French doors, and exited to my backyard. I looked at Jackson and shrugged, before following Oliver outside.

  Jackson joined me on the deck and we watched Oliver walk to the edge of the property. He saluted us like a good soldier and then broke into an all-out run. Within seconds Oliver was soaring high into the air again, sailing nearly fifty feet across the yard with a loud, Tarzan-like yell. He landed on the ground with a tumble and roll, laughing loudly. A moment later he was racing back in the opposite direction, again flying through the air, this time landing squarely on his feet, his arms raised in victory like a triumphant Olympic gold medalist. Oliver was reveling in his new strength.

  Jackson called after him with a cautionary warning: “Hey, O-man: Use, don’t abuse.”

  Oliver made a hand motion indicating he thought Jackson was overreacting. Then he launched into a series of running leaps, crossing back and forth with amazing speed and ease. Each time, he jumped just a little bit farther and higher than the previous time.

  “Can’t blame the boy, can you?” I remarked, understanding Oliver’s impulse to play with his newest toy—his amazing ability.

  “Guess not.” Jackson nodded, amused. Then he leaned closer to me and confided, “I did a bit of my own . . . playing.”

  I was quite intrigued. “Mind giving me a little demonstration? I mean, as long as no other dogs are involved.”

  Jackson smirked. He walked over to an outdoor light and grabbed hold of the base. Tightly. All of a sudden the bulb lit up. Bright as a Christmas tree. He grabbed hold of another light fixture and it lit up too.

  “Wow,” I muttered, impressed by his awesome display.

  “Yeah, well, don’t try this at home, folks,” Jackson joked in a rare moment of levity as he let go of the lights. Off they went.

  “What do you do for an encore?” I asked while Oliver continued having the time of his life sprinting across my backyard.

  “I can power up your computer,” Jackson replied as he came back over and sat beside me at the picnic table.

  “My own personal energy source,” I said teasingly with a smile.

  He looked right at me. “You should smile more often.”

  I laughed nervously. “Oh . . . okay. Thanks. I’ll remember that,” I blathered back, as my face must’ve turned ten shades of red from self-consciousness. I had to change the topic fast before I really embarrassed myself. “So . . . what’s your theory?”

  “About what?” Jackson shot me a quizzical look.

  “About who or what’s behind the pulse and your giant conspiracy. You said you had a theory. So . . . theorize.” I gestured for him to enlighten me.

  “I’m formulating it,” Jackson responded, ever so cryptically. His right hand rested on the table, nearly touching my left shoulder.

  “Formulating?” I challenged him with a dubious look. “So then the truth is you really don’t know what the hell’s causing it—whether alien or otherwise.”

  He turned and looked at me. I gave him the slightest hint of a grin. He didn’t smile back, just shook his head and exhaled. I smelled a trace of spearmint on his hot breath. It was sweet and almost intoxicating.

  “Anyone ever tell you you’re trouble?” Jackson remarked, glancing at me, then at Oliver running loop-de-loops around my yard like a hyperactive Jack Russell puppy dog.

  “You mean other than my mother and you last night?” I shrugged coyly. “I have bee
n known to ruffle a few feathers.”

  “Guess we have that in common,” Jackson replied thoughtfully before adding, “You need to think long and hard before you get involved.”

  Was he talking about the pulse or something else? Either way I wasn’t going to run for the hills. “I think that ship has already sailed.” I leaned in close to him, not letting him off the hook. “So are you going to share your theory with me, or not?”

  We locked eyes. Jackson didn’t reply.

  “What? You really think aliens have landed? That they’re causing the pulse?” Exasperated, I started to get up, when he grabbed my hand. I looked at him. He leaned in close to me. My heart nearly skipped a beat.

  “Can I trust you, Nica?” He stared at me. “Really trust you?”

  “Of course you can.” I nodded, feeling the tiny hairs on my arm stand up from his touch. I so desperately wanted to be taken into his confidence.

  “This probably sounds crazy, but I think Bar Tech Industries may be involved.” He delivered this explosive allegation without fanfare or elaboration. Just stated it softly, barely above a whisper.

  Before my brain could process what he had just said and before I could press Jackson for specifics as to why he believed it, I heard a car pull into the driveway. I was immediately yanked back to the here and now.

  Oliver was about to launch into another run when I called out to him. “My dad’s home,” I announced loudly, clearly anxious that he not find out what had occurred that afternoon.

  Oliver stopped himself, not the least bit exhausted. In fact he seemed incredibly exhilarated. “I could’ve done that for hours.”

  “C’mon, O., I’ll drop you,” Jackson said. He then turned to me and reminded me of our oath: “Promise you won’t say a word about this. To anyone.”

  “I promise.” I stared into Jackson’s eyes, hoping he knew that he could trust me. Then he turned and slipped out through the side gate with Oliver, heading back down the street to where the Mustang was parked.

  • • •

  Once they were safely gone, I hurried back inside the house and greeted my dad, who was at the kitchen table sorting through the mail.

  “How was school today?” he asked probingly. “Other than being surprised by your dad and all.”

  “The same. Boring,” I replied with a casual shrug, pretending that I’d just suffered through another dull day at school.

  He looked at me and nodded, though I wasn’t quite sure whether he believed me or not. I couldn’t tell him the truth—that picture-perfect Barrington was driving people crazy—even though part of me was dying to tell him everything. Maybe he could explain how a scrawny geek like Oliver had suddenly soared through the air or how Jackson could fire electrical bolts out of his hands? Because it was really scaring the hell out of me. I instead opted for a less explosive topic.

  “By the way, I met Mrs. Winters at the sporting goods store on my way home.”

  “What were you doing there?” my father asked inquisitively.

  “Browsing,” I lied. “Anyway, it turns out she knew Mom from a long time ago. Said they even worked together.”

  “Yeah, I think they did. Writing press releases or something,” my father replied somewhat vaguely. Then, suddenly seeming a bit guarded, he turned his attention away from the mail to searching through the pantry.

  “Turns out a lot of people still remember Mom,” I added nonchalantly, but pointedly.

  “By the way, how do you feel about pasta for dinner?” He held out a package of spinach pasta, deftly changing the subject.

  “Whatever. Pasta’s cool,” I responded, grabbing my things to head upstairs. “Just no heavy sauce or anything.”

  I was nearly through the kitchen door into the hallway when my father asked, “So did Mrs. Winters say anything else about your mom?”

  “Nope. Not a thing,” I answered as I left the kitchen and went up to my room. But I wondered why my dad had been so squirrelly about talking about my mom.

  • • •

  That night I power-ate my way through pasta primavera in eight minutes flat. We dined in silence. I wasn’t sure if it was because my dad suspected something . . . or was he just happy not to have to talk either? My dad watched me the whole time, sensing something was up. “What’s your hurry?”

  “Sorry. I just have a ton of homework.” I stood up from the table, grabbing my plate and silverware.

  “Guess they’re keeping you pretty busy.” He got up too, picking up the salad bowl and the rest of the dishes. I was relieved he accepted my explanation, which wasn’t entirely false.

  “They won’t be happy until everyone gets into Harvard,” I joked as I loaded the dishwasher. Dad laughed but didn’t say anything else. I wasn’t about to break my vow to Jackson, especially when I thought that he might be right. Jackson’s secrecy made sense to me until we knew more, even if it meant keeping things from my dad.

  I started to leave the kitchen but then stopped in the doorway, a million questions buzzing around my brain. “Dad?”

  “Yes, honey?” He turned around and looked at me.

  “So what did you think about all those dead birds today? They were everywhere.” I couldn’t ask him about the pulse, so this seemed like a safe alternative.

  My dad barely reacted to my question, as if people asked him about dead animals every day, but he did offer up an explanation. “A severe weather system moved in from the Rockies last night. It caused the birds to be disoriented.”

  Sounded plausible to me at first. But then when I thought about it for a minute, I realized it was really ludicrous. “They died because they were confused?” I couldn’t help but mock what he’d said. I imagined all these mixed-up birds flapping around in circles as if they were drunk.

  Hearing the disbelief in my voice, he quickly added, “Blackbirds and starlings don’t have particularly good night vision. They probably flew into some power lines, causing a traumatic stress event.”

  “A traumatic what?” He was talking in supergeek-speak that I didn’t quite understand and avoiding all eye contact with me. Was he deliberately trying to be vague? Was he hiding something? Or was he just so wrapped up in the science of it all that he was having a hard time explaining it to me?

  He looked at me impatiently. “Like a panic chain reaction. One bird freaks out, causing the others to go crazy . . .”

  “Sounds like they could’ve benefited from some strong antidepressants,” I joked.

  My dad barely reacted at my rather lame attempt at humor. It wasn’t that I thought the image of the birds flying into things was funny—it was just that his “scientific theory” that the birds had died from a massive panic attack sounded ridiculous to me. By the way he suddenly shut down, I knew I wouldn’t get much more out of him, so I nodded thoughtfully, then said, “Well, I better hit the books.”

  And then we both trotted upstairs to our respective rooms—me to my bedroom and him to his study. I heard my dad lurking around in there, pacing back and forth. Was he practicing some sort of exercise regimen? I snuck out of my room and crept down the dark hallway to see what was going on there. Through the half-open door I caught him locking his desk drawers, then walking back and forth between the two windows in his study, just staring out into the darkness. It was a little eerie.

  Not wanting to get caught spying on my own dad, I quickly retreated back to my bedroom and shut the door. I opened my algebra book but couldn’t concentrate. It all got me thinking. Was my dad telling the truth about what had happened to the birds or was he just putting me off for some reason? I searched every bit of relevant weather data I could find online—from temperature readings to humidity tables—hoping for answers. But I didn’t find a single website that corroborated my dad’s theory. In fact not one weather bureau reported any severe weather events anywhere in Colorado last night at all. Just higher than normal winds.

  I was about to end my search when I found several graphs from the University of Colorado (Report
on Solar and Geophysical Activity) that I hadn’t noticed earlier. Each graph had a multitude of wavy lines with irregular peaks and valleys, measuring the electromagnetic radiation index. They were accompanied by lots of scientific formulas and mathematical calculations, none of which I understood. The one thing I did understand, however, was the big spike on the graph at the time of the pulse. I had no idea if it might be a coincidence, but I thought it might be something. So I downloaded the charts as PDFs to show Oliver and Jackson the next day at school.

  Feeling very much alone, I tried calling and texting my mother, without success. She was “out of area,” as the cell network kept telling me. It would probably be days before she got back to me, if not longer. Not that I really expected her to know anything or even be able to help. I mean, how could she, being nine thousand miles away at the bottom of the world? And what would I even tell her that didn’t sound crazy? Hey, Mom. There was this bright green spark in the sky and now my friends have these awesome superpowers. Truth was, Lydia hated messy situations. She’d probably think I was just making it all up so I could come stay with her. It was all so confusing and unsettling.

  Oliver and I texted each other back and forth before the Internet and cell phone service went radio silent for the night, thanks to Barrington’s mysteriously “erratic” service. We were trying to make sense of our surreal situation. He said his mother reacted strangely when he questioned her about the reason for the town curfew. She’d gotten defensive and insisted it was for his own good. Not accepting her explanation he’d pressed her a little harder, and she’d shut him down, ordering him to focus on his schoolwork rather than try to stir up trouble. Something about the way his mother flew off the handle made him realize he had to keep his promise not to say anything about the pulse or his extraordinary ability to leap through the air.

  There must be some way to find out the truth about the pulse. Then again, Jackson had devoted the last six months to trying to figure things out and had come up totally cold. Other than a vague, unsubstantiated theory that implicated Bar Tech Industries. About the only thing that did seem crystal clear was that Jackson, Oliver, and I were completely on our own.