One (One Universe)

ass, though they would have loved the chance. I never told them about it. Never told Mom and Dad either. They only thought I was having some pretty serious popularity problems, which, if they noticed how I started dressing after that day, made perfect sense.
    Ever since then, I’ve hated to look right into a guy’s eyes. No matter how beautiful they are.
     
    When I hop back in the car with Dad after last bell, I finally feel like I can take a deep breath. Even though I’ve always hated having to remember to plug in the damn electric car, I do love that it lets us ride home in silence. I park myself at the kitchen counter while Dad starts dinner.
    My eyes flash to the vintage Public Super Service poster on the kitchen wall. A little girl flies up to a tree branch to rescue a kitten. Below the pigtailed heroine and the unbearably cute kitten, the poster reads, “Supers: Making the World a Better Place.” I know that Mom and Dad bought that poster 10 years ago, when I first went light, and had it framed for our kitchen. Probably hung it with tears in their eyes. That girl was supposed to be me.
    “Do you want to talk about it? Your first day?” Mom calls as she enters the house, carefully setting her briefcase on the big bench in the hall. The boys’ shouts fill the back of the house. Mom sighs and walks over the kitchen counter, looking as exhausted as I feel.
    “There’s nothing to talk about,” I say, shoving a piece of licorice in my mouth and a pack of snack cakes in my bag for tomorrow. I don’t mention history class. As awful as that holo-lecture was, it wouldn’t be as bad as going back to Superior. And besides, I know how to think for myself. My grandparents met in one of those camps. I already know they were less than comfortable, less than humane. I don’t need to sit in a school where I really don’t belong so a teacher can tell me the same thing.
    The boys tromp in, dropping their gear all over the floor, which Mom hates. But instead of yelling at them, she just watches them jostling through the front hallway, punching each other on the shoulders.
    “Mom, you okay?”
    My words break her gaze. She shakes her head and looks at me for a second before answering. “Oh, yeah. Yes. Just thinking about…just some things at work.” She reaches out to pat my hand, and my shoulders stiffen.
    Max tumbles into the kitchen dribbling a basketball and punches me on the shoulder. “D’you have to redo freshman year, Merrin?”
    I snort and cuff him on the head. “Yeah, just like you need to go back to kindergarten.” He laughs, grabs a bag of chips from the cabinet, and heads toward the stairs. Michael strolls in after him and leans in to smack a kiss on my cheek.
    “Glad to see you made it through in one piece,” he says.
    “Thanks,” I mutter, squeezing his shoulder and swallowing hard. Michael darts his hands out in front of him to catch the basketball, which Max has hurled at him so quickly I barely had time to notice.
    “What have I said about no sports in the house?” Mom growls.
    The boys stifle laughs and head up to their room.
    Mom sighs and opens the newsfeed on the touchscreen countertop. Julian Fisk, the head of the Biotech Hub, wearing his trademark impeccable suit, waves from the picture, flashing a grin back at me. The headline reads: FISK ANNOUNCES RENEWAL OF YOUTH OUTREACH INTERNSHIP PROGRAM.
    The subtitle should say, “For Super-Extra-Gifted Super Kids Only.” They’re the ones who have been enrolling in mainstream Normal colleges like Harvard and Stanford in increasing numbers over the past few decades. Because, Normal or Super, smart kids are smart kids, and they want prestigious degrees in addition to working for the greater good at one of the Hubs.
    It’s not enough anymore for the United States government to pay us for using our Supers, Mom and Dad keep commenting over dinner — now people want to be more integrated into mainstream Normal society than they have been since before the Wars. So the Hub has to do “outreach” — wants to keep our most talented kids close.
    The curve of Fisk’s smile challenges me. It’s like he’s daring me to try for that internship. But if I’m getting that internship, it’s not to impress anyone or meet anyone’s challenge. It’s to save myself.
    I stare at the countertop feed. I think I catch the phrase, “uncovering decade-old research,” but it’s hard to read most of it upside down. I let my eyes glaze over until the