One (One Universe)

“Yeah, well. That’s what it was. Nothing.”
    He still watches me, but now he’s got this weird smile.
    “What are you grinning at?” I say, and my cheeks feel hot.
    I look down at my tablet where I’ve been doodling during our whole conversation. The whole stupid screen is covered with letter Es.
    I glare down at it and swipe it blank. “One good thing, though. I think I saw Mr. Hoffman there. I think maybe he took a job at Nelson.” I clear my throat. “Um. Or something.”
    “No. I know for a fact that he won’t be at Nelson High this year.” Dad’s voice is gentle but firm. Final.
    I look up at him, raising my eyebrows. “I saw him. He was talking to the principal. At least, that’s who I think it was, and…”
    “Merrin,” he says firmly. Dad never interrupts, not anyone. I narrow my eyes. “Merry Berry,” he corrects, immediately back to his old self. “I just know he won’t be there.”
    “Well…okay.” That reaction from Dad was so weird, but it’s hard to keep the impatience out of my voice. “Do you think you could get him to tutor me or something? He was helping me with Orgo.”
    Mom and Dad glance at each other, and my chest squeezes again.
    “They don’t even have real teachers at Normal, Dad. They’re all remote, holograms, and their lectures were ridiculous. I did all that stuff in class last year.”
    Dad squeezes Mom’s hand. “We’ll work something out.”
    He sounds reluctant, and something seems off about the way he looks at Mom. My chest falls.
    Science phenoms like me are usually headed for a career at the Biotech Center — if they’re Supers. That’s really all I want to do — experiment with chemicals and formulas I’ve never even dreamed of, help make the Supers’ lives better. Develop stuff to make the whole world better and maybe help myself while I’m at it. But Ones, and certainly not Normals, don’t work at any of the Hubs — security and all.
    The horrible Nelson history class was really just the last straw. I’m applying for the internship because I can’t help but think that maybe I’ll be the One who changes things. A One who can actually change herself. But I can’t apply without Mr. Hoffman. He’s the only high school science teacher I’ve ever had.
    I cast my eyes down at my hands, which I shift around on the counter, trying to find a position to fold them into that’ll keep me from punching something, or at least a comfortable place for them to rest. That place doesn’t exist.
     
    I bang the rickety screened garage door open and take a deep breath when I see it. My dinky little drum kit. My promise of relief.
    Playing the drums works when I’m angry, or when I’m desolate, which are pretty much my only two emotions, so that’s pretty much all the time. Which means — damn, I’m good.
    I trip down the three concrete steps into the half of the garage reserved for me and my drums. Dad always parks his car out in the driveway, no questions asked.
    I have an old twirly office chair to play on because that’s the only one we could find to adjust high enough for me to play. I check the feet — all the way down. I grin because it means my veiled threat to Michael and Max not to mess with my freaking drums didn’t go in one ear and out the other like it normally does.
    I actually never mind when the twins mess with my drums since the set is so haphazard and cheap — $500 used and four years into my abuse to boot. Besides, at 10, the boys are still young enough to be cute when they know they’re in trouble.
    Doesn’t excuse the fact that, at five foot three and growing like weeds, when they try to play my drums, they adjust them up. Then I usually stomp in the house, mess up their hair, and yell at them a little bit. Then I buy them cones from the Jet-Freeze down the road when they apologize.
    I love those water-walking monsters.
    I shake my shoulders, trying to loosen them, surprised at how creaky they feel. I’m sure it’s because I’ve got a ton going on inside me, and I honestly don’t know what to make of it. New school. New Merrin, maybe. One who’s not scared of everyone and hiding it by being pissed off and banging on the drums so loud that no one dares come near her.
    When I feel that rumble down the back of my neck, skittering across my shoulders, my hands itch to play. I crank up the speaker, and it screams out something heavy metal, fast and angry. I let my right foot warm up to the rhythm of the bass for two