Overtaken Read online

  “Where’s your mom?” I asked, searching Oliver’s eyes for an answer. If the papers were falling, that meant they were propelled from the car, which means—

  “In her seat,” Oliver confirmed with a hint of fear in his voice. “She hit her head. She’s breathing, but we need to get her to the hospital. There’s a lot of blood.”

  Despite the grotesque image, I let out a small sigh of relief. At least she hadn’t been tossed into the woods with her work.

  “Is there a phone? Where’s my phone?” I rifled around my pockets in a panic. I couldn’t find it anywhere.

  Oliver held out a shattered piece of plastic and circuitry.

  “Shit.” I recognized my case, reached for it, and turned it invisible as soon as my fingers touched it. As soon as it vanished, Oliver let go, surprised. The case reappeared moments later as it clattered onto the pavement—useless. “What about yours?” I desperately hoped that his phone was in better condition than mine.

  “No idea.”

  “You check the woods?” I asked, trying to rein in my escalating worry.

  Oliver shook his head, blinked away for a second, and reappeared moments later not six inches from where he had been.

  “Oliver?” It was my turn to be shocked.

  “Can’t find it,” he confessed. Then, suddenly having another thought, Oliver gestured and held up his hand. “Hold on. Maybe on the other side of the roa—” Before he even finished his sentence, he pinballed around the edges of the road and then right back to me, this time reappearing almost on top of me. Unnerving to say the least.

  “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that,” I said, still shaky and unsure of my balance, as I tried to stand on my feet.

  “Oliver . . . ? Where are you?” Mrs. Monsalves muttered, dazed and confused as she regained consciousness.

  “Right here,” he replied, clasping his mother’s hand to reassure her. “You’re okay. I’m going to get help.”

  “NO,” she exclaimed, frightened and disoriented as the full extent of the crash gradually became apparent to her. “Don’t leave me.” She clung to Oliver’s arm tightly and whimpered.

  As Oliver did his best to soothe his mother’s fear, I looked down to where my body should’ve been but most definitely wasn’t and realized I had to fight back my distress and focus, pain be damned. I couldn’t very well barge into Dana’s house in my invisible state. I took slow, deliberate steps away from the car and closed my eyes to try to calm my electric nerves. I put a hand to my chest and—ow, ow, ow—applied pressure, just to try to center myself. I am here. I exist. I gulped air instead of sipping it. The accident had left me so shaken I could barely count breaths, never mind individual seconds. Each desperate infusion of oxygen that didn’t result in my reappearance prompted the next to come shallower, faster. Panic wasn’t sinking in—I was beginning to sink in it.

  Focus, dammit.

  I pictured my dad standing in front of me, a gentle hand on my arm. I tried to read his thoughts and imagine what he would say as I took one breath after the other, catching myself and beginning to emerge from my spiral. There ya go. You got it. Then I allowed my mom into the picture as well. Lydia and Marcus, together again, rooting for me to find steady footing in each breath. I closed my eyes and drilled down even deeper, letting my parents guide me to check in with my lungs, my core, my heart, and my soul. Panic gave way to peace, and when I opened my eyes, I was back. Whole. Standing in the middle of a cold, dark stretch of road.

  “Stay here. I’ll go,” I told Oliver. It was more of a command than a suggestion. No way would his mom calm down if he split and left me in charge. “I’ll go back to Dana’s and call an ambulance.”

  “Stay safe,” he replied with an urgent tone, knowing it was the best plan despite his post-pulse speed and agility.

  “Caution’s my middle name,” I quipped, doing everything in my power to keep focused.

  As I took off down the road to get help, I heard Oliver gently assure his mother: “Everything will be okay, Mom. Nica’s going to get help.”

  • • •

  I ran all the way back to Dana’s, almost forgetting my cuts and bruises and aching body. It took me about eight minutes—maybe less—to get there. I’d never run so fast in my life. When I arrived, breathless, legs aching and freezing cold, the front door was hanging open. Dana’s house was as eerily silent as the road that I had just crashed on. No one was on the front lawn, no one was on the steps, and no one was on the porch. Kids had been streaming to their cars as we left just minutes earlier, but when I returned, it was as if everyone had mysteriously vanished.

  I crept toward the quiet house and sensed something was very wrong. First there was that smell—a familiar post-pulse ozoney burnt aroma, which hung in the air. The closer I got to the open front door, the sharper and more unpleasant the smell became.

  I hesitated at the door and called out, “Hello?”

  No response. Only stillness and an unnerving silence.

  Nevertheless, I needed to get to a phone. I took a step inside. As soon as my feet hit the hall floor—ZZZZAP—a surge of energy shot up through my legs with such force that it ricocheted around my head like tiny explosions. My hair came alive and stood on end. Every strand pulsated with electricity. Holy shit. I was afraid to move. Or touch anything. I didn’t know what the hell was happening. It felt as if I’d suddenly grabbed on to one of those Van de Graaff generators that shoot electricity through your body at a children’s science museum.

  “Dana?” I could barely get her name out

  No one answered. Just silence and . . . sparks. Everywhere. Some spat from the alarm system near the front door; others sizzled orange and white from a lamp in the corner of the dining room. As I focused and listened, I could hear the electricity echoing the whole way into the far end of the house.

  What the hell happened here?

  Even if some weird electric pulse had short-circuited most of the house, what was causing those sounds? But first things first: I had to find a phone and call an ambulance. I knew landlines weren’t supposed to be connected to a house’s main power. They supposedly worked no matter what was thrown their way. I clung to that hope as I booked it straight for the kitchen and pulled Dana’s family’s landline off the hook. A dial tone. Thank God. I quickly called 911, giving them the most precise location for the accident. Before I had even finished the call, I noticed something moving that stopped me dead in my tracks.

  My eye caught a curious blue light pulsing on the wall. The size of a fingernail, maybe smaller, it looked like a strange firefly trapped between the paint and the wall itself. When I stooped to inspect it, I noticed it wasn’t pulsing on the wall—it was pulsing in the wall. What’s more, it wasn’t alone. In my panic, I hadn’t spotted the dozens of small pulses crawling through the wall—like ants at a picnic—all drawn toward something I couldn’t see.

  I tiptoed behind them as they pulsed, jittered, and flickered to their ultimate destination: Dana’s living room.

  There I discovered Jackson lying on his back, inert and unconscious. I was terrified. Had the pulse knocked him off his feet? Surrounding him were the only people who might have the answers—Dana’s spellbound parents along with a few straggling partygoers, including the queen bee herself—all stunned into a frightened silence. Some clutched half-empty beer cans. Others just stared vacant and senseless, watching slack-jawed as the parade of bolts and sparks shot out from the floor and walls and rippled straight through Jackson’s skin.

  Horrified by what was happening before my eyes, I realized that Jackson’s body seemed to be sucking electricity directly from the house itself. Streams of power flowed to him from every angle, filling him with a horrifyingly beautiful blue glow until his heart beat bright white in his chest . . .

  . . . and then he began to float. Levitating up in the air like a weightless feather.
r />   My heart pounded in my chest from dread that soon everyone would discover the truth about the pulse and Jackson and Oliver and me. My body immediately swung into self-preservation mode. Before I could even think about what to do next, I had vanished. Completely. It was instinctive—defensive.

  Barely a second after I disappeared, I heard a gasp followed by a stifled sob. Someone in the room was crying. I was surprised to see that tears flowed from the wide eyes of none other than Kyle Meldrum, one of Jackson’s more macho football teammates.

  “Jesus Christ,” was all Kyle muttered as he rose to his feet. He was mesmerized by the unbelievable sight of Jackson pulsating like a human generator.

  I should’ve known better than to let Kyle take more than a step closer to Jackson, but my own alarm and awe had momentarily turned me into a rigid statue. A tortoise could’ve run interference quicker between Kyle and his target. By the time I snapped back and realized what was about to happen, Kyle was already reaching for Jackson.

  “Somebody do something,” he begged. And then he made contact, his fingers touching Jackson.

  The air crackled and split as electricity blasted from Jackson’s body into Kyle. I hung back, terrified that Kyle’s body and brain were about to be fried. And there was nothing I could do to stop what was happening. Invisibility could hide me but not protect me from Jackson’s power. I had to stay out of the way or risk getting zapped, too.

  Just when I feared that Kyle might ignite into flames—WHAM! A final discharge of power fired from Jackson’s body. The explosion dropped Jackson to the floor and shot Kyle off his feet, slamming him spine-first into a wall a good twenty feet away with a loud WHOOMP. Kyle collapsed into a crumpled heap. The unearthly silence was suddenly pierced by Kyle’s scream.

  I stood there transfixed, not knowing what to do. That’s when I noticed Dana was standing there too. She wasn’t moving. There were tears in her eyes and she had a hand clutched over her mouth. What she’d witnessed was the cherry and whipped-cream topper on a wild homecoming party to end all parties.

  I must’ve gasped because Dana heard it and spun around. I freaked. I could feel my body starting to return to its physical state. I had to get the hell out of that house before my secret was exposed.

  I bolted out of there, leaving the front door open as I fled the house.

  • • •

  A solemn-looking female EMT was wheeling Oliver’s mother over to the ambulance by the time I made it back to the accident site.

  I beelined over to where Oliver was being grilled by the other EMT, a suspicious, bearded medic, who had just examined him. How had the accident happened? Had we moved Mrs. Monsalves? Had we been drinking? I immediately recognized the familiar irritability of Barrington citizens in the aftermath of a pulse. In this case, extra powerful meant extra aggressive.

  “How is she?” I asked Oliver after the medic moved back to the ambulance to assist his partner with Mrs. Monsalves’s gurney.

  “Woozy and upset, but hanging in there,” Oliver reported optimistically. His eyes narrowed a bit as he sized me up and realized something was very wrong. “Are you okay? You’re shaking.”

  “We’re in trouble,” I whispered, making sure the EMTs couldn’t hear what I was saying. My fingernails dug into my palms as I gave Oliver a concise Cliffs Notes version of what happened to Jackson back at Dana’s house.

  “They all saw?” he asked queasily, clutching my arm and staring at me in disbelief. He was looking pale and pretty shaky himself.

  “Everyone.” I nodded grimly.

  But our conversation was cut short when the surly EMT waved us over to the ambulance. We were whisked into the back of the ambulance with Oliver’s mother for the brief ride over to the hospital.

  Oliver and I rode in silence. Words weren’t necessary. We knew we were screwed. What a handful of our classmates just witnessed in Dana Fox’s living room was totally inexplicable, and word would undoubtedly spread—fast—about Jackson, Barrington’s newest power generator. I was afraid that we were going to wake up the next morning and find out that every last person in Barrington had heard the truth.

  There were freaks living among them.

  Once Oliver’s mom had been stabilized and moved to an examination room, I tried to slip away to find my dad, who was on call. Immediately, the suspicious EMT stepped out in front of me, hands raised, and stopped me from leaving the ER.

  “I’m fine,” I insisted, anxious to get away from him and the unforgiving glare of the hospital’s fluorescent lighting.

  “You may feel fine,” he snarked with a harsh gaze, cornering me, “but until a doctor signs off, you’re not going anywhere.”

  The more I insisted I was okay and didn’t need a doctor, the more the EMT acted like he didn’t hear me. Was he deliberately trying to unnerve me? Did he suspect something? My nails sliced into my palms, trying to fight off my jangled nerves, but I could feel my control starting to slip.

  Shit. I was trapped. I couldn’t outrun the guy or even try to disappear. He knew my name and who I was. To make matters worse, up until that moment I’d been able to keep my invisibility under wraps while they focused on Mrs. Monsalves. Now his eyes were riveted solely on me. It was unnerving the way he kept staring at me.

  The roller coaster events of the day had already left me feeling extremely vulnerable. And now the added pressure of having my body scrutinized by some random doctor was making me feel even more exposed. The clock was ticking. It would be just a matter of time before my secret was exposed and my cover blown.

  I tried some old breathing exercises to steady my nerves. It was too late. That all-too-familiar hot, tingling sensation was already rising from the soles of my feet up through my legs, along with a fresh wave of panic and terror. I looked up and down the corridor, trying to come up with an emergency-escape plan. I had moments before I literally vanished before the EMT’s eyes. I had to get out of there. But when I looked down again, the black-and-white-checkered tile floor had started to become visible through my disappearing feet. . . .

  “Nica!” A familiar voice called out my name.

  In a flash, I was enveloped in my father’s strong, tall frame. He was my life raft. A tall white knight in hospital scrubs, rescuing me from impending doom. In those few seconds, I managed to catch my breath and steady my already frazzled nerves. Slowly in, slowly out. I quickly glanced back at my feet as my father and I separated from our embrace. A wave of incredible relief washed over me. My feet had successfully rematerialized before the nosy EMT even noticed they were almost gone.

  “Everything all right?” Dad instinctively knew to get me out of there. He pulled me away from the EMT and a couple of passing nurses before saying another word.

  “Yes,” I lied. “At least I think I am.”

  My father’s commanding gaze was enough to send the still-lingering EMT packing. I was the chief of cardiology’s daughter. My father was in charge, and the EMT knew better than to mess with him.

  Just to be sure that I was still in one piece, Dad gave me a quick once-over there in the hospital corridor. All my limbs and extremities were still in place. Momentarily satisfied, he led me farther down the hallway to an empty examination room. When we were inside and alone, a second hug told me it was safe to start talking.

  “There was a pulse right after we left the party,” I blurted out as he shut the door. “That’s what caused the accident. We spun out of control and hit a tree. Oliver’s mom was knocked unconscious. I don’t think she saw anything.”

  My dad was listening and nodding, but it was like he was on a five-second time delay. He was still examining me, checking my vision and pressure points and whatever else a worried physician did to triple-check the well-being of his only child.

  “But the kids at the party . . . ,” I continued. “They did see.”

  My father stopped what he was doing and sta
red at me, alarmed. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

  I took a breath before I launched into a blow-by-blow replay of Jackson’s code blue and the ensuing serious sparkage, witnessed by a rapt audience including Dana Fox.

  My father listened attentively before speaking. “Did you tell anyone?”

  “Just Oliver,” I meekly confessed. “I wanted to call Jackson afterward to make sure he was okay, but my cell phone was trashed in the accident.”

  Dad instantly dug his cell out of his scrubs and handed it over without me even having to ask. “Give Jackson a try,” he suggested. Something in my dad’s poker-faced expression looked less than optimistic that I might get an answer.

  I dialed anyway. Jackson’s was one of the only numbers I’d gone out of my way to learn by heart. It didn’t even ring. I shook my head sullenly and promptly handed the phone back to my dad.

  “Sweetie . . .” His voice, though sympathetic and paternal, was spiked with a hint of pity. He could read me like no one else, and JACKSON was printed in big, sad neon letters across my face. “I hadn’t realized you two were so . . . tight.”

  I looked back up at my dad as a swell of emotion rose inside me. Dad’s attempt at subtlety was heavy-handed at best. If he hadn’t known before, my moon-eyed worry had all but given it away. I wasn’t aware of the tears pooling in the corners of my eyes, but suddenly they were threatening to go fully torrential. If only going invisible were a cure for embarrassment.

  “We need a plan,” I declared, shifting into action mode, hoping to postpone my emotional meltdown until I was alone. “To figure out what we’re going to do.”

  “There’s no ‘we’ here, Nica,” proclaimed Dad, who seemed to be wrestling with a crisis of conscience. “I can’t keep letting you get in the middle of this. It’s too dangerous.”

  “I am in the middle of it,” I replied firmly. “No matter what you do or how much you try to protect me.”

  Dad exhaled and shook his head in resignation that I was right. Nevertheless, his overprotective tendencies were charging full-speed ahead. “My shift’s almost over. I’m taking you home.”