One (One Universe)

It should freak me out — I don’t like being pressed up against anything, not even tight clothes — but it doesn’t. I know how I always expected flying to make me feel — freaking over the moon. But now that it’s happening, now that the feeling is mine to taste, prickling across my skin, I don’t know how I feel, really — confused and euphoric and terrified all at once.
    All I know is that my smile is so wide I can feel the wind against my teeth.
    The flashes of light fade, slowly, but for a long time, the wind keeps whipping around me, and I speed through the blackest night, pressed into the mysterious solid heat. Eventually, the combination of speed and warmth lull me back into a deep sleep.

EIGHT
    T he alarm on my cuff screeches, ripping me out of the most vivid flying dream I’ve ever had. I realize I’m lying on my stomach and think — in my fuzzy half-awake haze — that that makes sense. That’s why I was dreaming about being pressed up against something. I never sleep like that. My body normally takes up the whole bed, limbs flailed every which way.
    I roll over and turn my face toward my window, soaking up the early morning sun. This is my morning’s guilty pleasure and why late spring into summer into early autumn is my favorite season. First thing in the morning, I bask in the gorgeous, glowing rays that invite themselves into my room. I’m obsessed with it.
    There’s something new to the ritual this morning. A foreign scent, unfamiliar and enticing, a little woodsy, a little musky. I open my eyes, reluctant to give up the sensation of the orange glow of sunlight filtered through my eyelids.
    Oh, God. I fell into bed last night still wearing Elias’s sweatshirt. I can’t wipe the smile off my face.
    I stumble out of bed, finding my flip flops — the bathroom I share with the boys is always gross — and wash my face and run a comb through my hair, still wearing the stupid sweatshirt. I look up in the mirror, and sure enough, I’m still smiling. Still.
    It’s the drums, I tell myself, the drums that were so beautiful and sounded so amazing and felt so solid and responsive. But every time I say the word “drums” to myself, all I can think of is how Elias looked, how he felt, in that damn concert hall of his. How his voice sounded when he told me to come back any time, cautious but inviting. The look in those stupid, gorgeous, multicolored eyes of his as I drove off.
    I take a deep breath, unzip the sweatshirt, fold it up, and stick it in my bag.
    I flip through my closet and pull on a stretchy jersey skirt that swings around my knees, red flats, and a t-shirt that clings instead of hangs. I own a ton of skirts because I always liked the way they swung around and let the air move around my body, but after the incident last year, all I wanted to wear was old jeans.
    Today, I feel a little safer.
    I run downstairs, and Mom raises an eyebrow at me. “You look nice, sweetie.”
    I’m not feeling that generous, so I kind of raise an eyebrow at her and make a lot of noise unwrapping my brownies so I don’t have to talk to her. I shift my weight from leg to leg, fidgeting while eating, impatient with the slowness of my own chewing.
    To avoid eye contact with Mom, I pull my reader out and pretend to be reading something. Really, I’m watching the news feed on the countertop. An image of Julian Fisk, President of the Hub, with his arm around a woman in a white coat and holding a beaker, stares at me from the screen. The headline screams, “A STEP TOWARD ADVANCEMENT FOR THE SINGULARLY GIFTED?”
    Holy shit. Are they working on Ones now? Finally?
    Maybe it’s a sign. I should ask Mom and Dad for their signatures today. That application for the Hub internship is due before winter break, but I want to get it in as soon as possible. My heart jumps. I swing my bag around to my front to reach for my tablet.
    Suddenly, Mom clicks the feed closed.
    “Don’t worry about that, Merrin. It’s nothing but marketing. Feel-good stories. I work there. I know.”
    I look up at her, narrowing my eyes, and her face is tight, her stance tense.
    “I’d be one of the first to know,” she says again.
    “I made some eggs, honey,” Dad calls from the stove, breaking the tension.
    I swallow hard and call, “Thanks. Gotta go though.” I would rather die than eat the jiggly yellow-and-white grossness that is scrambled eggs, and Dad knows that. He doesn’t want to feed me. He wants to hear about me