One (One Universe)

“E! Coming?”
    The guy at my locker — “E” — gives his head half a shake, smiles a little, then turns to walk away.
    And now everyone’s staring at me. Great.
    As soon as I find my way to the bathroom, I place both hands on the rim of one of the sinks, steadying myself there. After a few seconds, I splash my face with water and reach over to the soap dispenser. Everything about this place feels dirty.
    As I’m lathering my hands, I notice the logo on the soap dispenser. Hub Technology — it appears on every product they make. It’s four arcs, one for each Hub, intersecting in the shape of a circle. Someone has crossed out the “Hub” in “Hub Technology” and written “Freak” next to it.
    Suddenly I can’t get enough air into my lungs. I duck into a stall, sit on the toilet, bury my face in my hands, and take one, two deep breaths.
    I hope with everything in me that all the other kids actually eat in the cafeteria.

TWO
    I loathe the idea of art class. Something about the idea of ripping out part of my soul, translating it into colors and materials, and putting it on paper or canvas for everyone to gawk at and misinterpret is completely horrific to me. For self-expression, I’ve always loved my drums. Drumbeats dissolve on the air — they’re out in the world for a moment before they go away. No one knows whether there was anger or frustration or passion or excitement behind them. They don’t give anyone else the time to mess with them. Drumbeats are all mine — the only things I’ve ever had that are.
    There are ten of us in the class: three jocks, a couple of girls in tight jeans and new shoes who reek of hairspray, a handful of others. There’s no orange-shirted adult coming in, though. When the bell rings, everyone scoots their seats to a place at one of the wide, black tables.
    The sound of metal legs scraping against the floor makes me cringe. I whip my head around, and that blond boy from the hallway scoots his stool a little closer to my desk.
    Well, “boy” isn’t an accurate term. It’s even clearer now — with him sitting right next to me outside of the hustle and confusion of the hallway — that he’s a giant. He’s easily six foot two, with a shadow of stubble running across his jaw. My feet barely reach the bottom rung of the art stool, while his slide comfortably on the floor.
    “You’re a freshman?” he asks, and looks right into my eyes. For a second, I can’t look away.
    He is 100 percent generic looking. He could be anyone. Except for those eyes. I see his irises right through the thick lenses of his glasses — light brown sparked with streaks of green and flecks of blue. I have never seen so many colors in someone’s eyes before.
    Then I feel like an idiot because I have spent exactly two seconds too long thinking about the color of some guy’s eyes. I cast my gaze downward, trying to focus on anything but his face.
    His jeans don’t have a single rip or fray, but they’re not pristine, either. His gray t-shirt hugs his waist, letting me see how thin he is. Even though he’s two heads taller than me at least, he probably doesn’t break 160 pounds.
    “No. Sophomore. I transferred from Superior.” The words come out of my mouth almost before I can think them. “My parents — uh…I thought I’d try something new. They bought a house on the border when I was nine,” I explain, like he should care. Like he needs to know.
    For an instant, he looks surprised, and then his eyes sparkle at me when he gives a little smile. “Well. For the electives — music, art, architecture, film, whatever — we just scan our cuffs into the tabletop and pick an assignment. Then it records whatever we do.” I raise an eyebrow. “It probably doesn’t teach us much, I know, but at least no one hassles us.”
    “Yeah, okay.” I press my cuff into the input section of the tabletop and choose Option 1: Draw a picture of what you did this summer. Lame, but at least it’ll be over with soon. The blond guy chooses the same option on his half of the table.
    “I didn’t get to introduce myself. I’m Elias — I’m a junior.” He sticks out his hand, and I stare at it. It’s so huge — strong but thin, tendons showing in the back of it. If I put my hand against his, palm to palm, my fingertips probably wouldn’t reach his first knuckle.
    “I started out at Superior Public,” he says. “Parents took me out after first grade.”
    My heart jumps. Is he another