Variant Lost (The Evelyn Maynard Trilogy Book 1) Page 4

  The administration building was in the middle of it all. As we pulled up, it was plain to see this structure was not old and historic like the others, but the contrast to its elderly companions wasn’t jarring.

  I was too busy staring at the perfectly manicured grounds to notice my driver had exited the car, and I was a little startled when he opened my door for me. He stood back and waited for me to exit.

  I timidly crawled out of the spacious back seat and just stood there, unsure what to do.

  He saved me from having to figure out what to say. “Shall I have your bag delivered to your residence hall, miss?”

  “Oh, no, thank you.” Bag. Singular. Overhead compartment compliant. “I’ll just hold on to it. Thank you.” I spoke too fast as I dragged the item in question from its spot on the back seat. I was out of my element. There is no scientific journal dedicated to the social nuances of interaction with posh, rich people—and their drivers.

  There was a pause. Neither one of us quite knew how to proceed. “Thank you for picking me up from the airport . . . and driving me here. Um . . . am I supposed to check in with someone, or . . . ?”

  “You are most welcome, miss.” Was that a hint of a smile on his serious face? “Please make your way to the main reception area, and they will take care of you from there.”

  “Great! Thank you.” That was the third time I’d thanked the man in less than five minutes, and I internally rolled my eyes at my own awkwardness.

  He inclined his head in that subtle way posh people have, walked around to the driver’s side, and left me there.

  I took a deep breath and walked up the stairs and through the front door.

  The cavernous reception area was so spacious I was confident Marty and Baz’s three-bedroom house could fit into it three times over. Warm natural light flooded in through the floor-to-ceiling windows that made up three of the walls, and a long reception desk with several people behind it was situated straight ahead. My sneakers squeaked obnoxiously on the polished gray concrete floor as I made my way up to it.

  I counted five receptionists, three women and two men, all in matching navy-blue collared shirts, all perched on high office chairs, and all on the phone. They spoke in quiet, efficient voices, their posture as impeccable as their clean-cut appearance.

  I stopped in front of the desk and stood awkwardly, trying to tuck back some of the loose strands of hair that had fallen out of my messy bun. When was the last time I’d washed it? Two days ago? Three?

  “You’re welcome, ma’am. Have a nice day.” The receptionist closest to me, a young woman with blonde hair pulled into a tight bun, ended a call. As I opened my mouth to say who I was, she pressed a series of buttons on the phone in front of her and continued speaking into her headset, not even acknowledging my presence.

  “Bradford Hills Institute. Please hold the line,” she said politely to three callers in a row before finally looking up at me expectantly, a perfectly pleasant smile on her face. I guess it was my turn to speak.

  “Hi. I’m Eve Blackburn.” I gave myself a silent pat on the back for not accidentally saying Evelyn Maynard. Even after living as Eve for a whole year, I still tripped up on the last name. “Um, I was told to come in here. To report to someone, or . . .” Stacey from admissions hadn’t actually told me what to do when I got here, despite the pages and pages of information she had sent in her email.

  “OK.” The receptionist kept the smile plastered on her face as she ticked away at her computer for a few seconds. “Ah, here we are.” She turned back to me. “New student. Welcome to Bradford Hills. You’re scheduled to meet with someone from admissions at ten, but you’re a little early. Please take a seat and I’ll let him know you’re here.” She gestured to one of two seating areas I had walked past on my trek from the front doors. The seating areas were mirror images of each other, settled on either side of the reception desk and consisting of low leather couches around low glass tables.

  I smiled politely and squeaked over to the nearest couch, dropping my duffel bag on the floor and sitting in a spot with a clear view of the elevators. There were two on either side of the reception desk. Everything in this building was very symmetrical.

  Once again, Bradford Hills had planned everything perfectly. Had I needed to collect checked luggage, I would have arrived at the exact scheduled time. They couldn’t have known I owned next to nothing and would be out of the airport so fast—and therefore early for the appointment I hadn’t known had been made for me.

  After a few minutes of trying to breathe quietly so I wouldn’t disturb the receptionists, I looked around for a distraction from how awkward I felt in this world of full scholarships, personal drivers, and neat buns. From the pile of magazines in front of me, I grabbed the latest edition of Modern Variant—a glossy monthly publication that printed human interest stories about high-profile Variants and goings-on in Variant society. It wasn’t exactly the kind of thing I usually picked up. I loved learning about Variant abilities and the scientific explanations behind them, but I had little interest in the social and political drama of a world I had never dreamed I would get near. Still, since I was about to be thrust into a school where most of the staff and students were Variant, it couldn’t hurt to read up on current affairs.

  On the front cover was a photo of a smiling brunette, her hair pulled back into a tasteful style, her perfect teeth gleaming. She looked to be in her late forties or early fifties, the laugh lines around her eyes prominent. The headline read “Senator Christine Anderson on her Crusade to Bring Variant Issues to the Forefront of Political Debate.”

  I had seen this woman pop up in the news lately, giving passionate speeches about equality between humans and Variants and legislating for equal rights. I got a sense she was making a roundabout argument that Variants were hard-done-by or disadvantaged. I guess you could argue that, to a point—humans made up the majority of the population, and majority usually rules. If you asked me, Variants had all kinds of advantages when you considered the supernatural abilities and stronger resistance to injury or illness. But what did I know?

  I skimmed the main article about the senator, but I soon lost interest and closed the magazine, returning it to the pile.

  Just as I dropped it down on the massive coffee table with a flap, the elevators pinged and opened. A man wearing dress pants and a dark blue shirt stepped out slowly. His clothing was immaculate—pleats in correct places, and tailored perfectly—but he wore no tie, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up to the elbow. He was tapping very fast at his phone, and his messy brown hair, cut short at the sides, had fallen over his face, in defiance of the neat and ironed look of his clothing.

  When he finished typing his message, he slid the phone into his left pocket and reached up to swipe his hair back, his rolled-up shirtsleeve tightening around his defined forearm as he did so. He turned and looked straight at me with a polite smile.

  His eyes were gray. For a second I thought they were blue, but that was just the color of his shirt and the reflection of the bright blue sky through the window he was facing.

  “Eve.” He didn’t say it like a question: Are you Eve? He said it like a statement. He knew who I was.

  Despite his defiant hair, his effortlessly polished look left me feeling self-conscious. I was in jeans, ripped at the right knee, and a plain white T-shirt with an oversized black cardigan over the top. I should have made more of an effort. For the third time that day, I felt as if I had no business being there.

  I rose from my seat slowly, pulling the cardigan sleeves over my hands. “Yes. Hi.” Eloquent. It was the best I could manage at the time.

  “I’m Tyler Gabriel. I work in administration. Stacey, who you spoke with yesterday, has updated me on your file. You’ve been assigned to me for orientation. Let’s go to my office and have a chat. Get you settled in.” He had put his hands in his pockets and almost imperceptibly relaxed his stance. Was he trying to make me more comfortable with his body language? I liked
him already.

  “OK. Great. I actually have a lot of questions. This happened so fast.” I reached down for my duffel bag while slipping my satchel over my shoulder.

  He swiped my duffel off the floor before I could and straightened, chuckling. “Of course. You wouldn’t have been admitted here if you didn’t have a curious mind. I hope I can answer them all.”

  I followed him to the elevators, my eyes level with the collar of his shirt. As he reached over to press the button, the muscles in his back tightened beneath the dark blue fabric, and I realized I’d been staring. Crap! Don’t get a crush on the fancy school’s fancy admissions guy.

  I stepped to the side so I wouldn’t be standing behind him like a creep and averted my eyes, letting them roll over to the reception desk again. All three of the perfectly coiffed women were looking at Tyler Gabriel with secretive smiles and shy looks.

  The elevator pinged, and we stepped inside.

  “How was your flight, Eve? You’ve come from Idaho somewhere, yes?”

  “Yes, Idaho. The flight was fine. Uneventful.” Which was a nice change from the last one I’d taken. I pushed that thought to the back of my mind, swallowing the lump in my throat, and tried to focus on the present moment.

  In the reflection of the mirrored doors, Mr. Gabriel was staring at me intently, concern written all over his face. He took a breath as though to say something, but then the elevator lurched to a stop and the doors opened. He cleared his throat and stepped out, turning left.

  We were on the fifth floor, the top of the building. Voices and the occasional phone ringing hummed through the air as we walked past rows of offices. We stopped at a door halfway down the corridor, “Mr. T. Gabriel” written in neat gold print on the panel next to it. He stepped in and held the door open for me.

  Inside, directly opposite the door, a large desk housed a computer monitor and various other items, including several newspapers stacked haphazardly on top of one another. Two tub chairs were positioned invitingly in front of the desk. To my right, a large window spanning the width of the wall looked out onto the avenue I’d been driven up earlier and, in the distance, the front gates. On the left, a shelf stacked with books, folders, and a few knickknacks was making its best attempt—but failing—to be as neat and proper as the institution it was in.

  I could relate to that shelf.

  “Please have a seat.” He gestured to the tub chairs as he lowered my duffel to the floor.

  As I walked farther into the room, four wall-mounted TVs across from the desk—all on different channels, all muted—blinked off. I recognized CNN and CSpan before the screens went black.

  I turned back to the desk to see Mr. Gabriel pointing a remote.

  “Sorry. Forgot to turn them off.” He shrugged and dropped the remote on top of the newspapers. As if it was normal to have four televisions in your office.

  “Why do you have four televisions in your office?” I sat down in the chair closest to the window. Shit! That was inappropriate and nosy! I was too relaxed with this man, his casual shirtsleeves and carefully relaxed posture had put me at ease better than I’d thought. He was that coveted thing that all school administrators, counselors, and teachers strove for—approachable.

  Before I could cringe and apologize, he answered, “I like to keep an eye on what’s happening in the world.”

  “Oh . . . OK.” Why though? I really wanted to prod further, but I kept my mouth shut.

  He sat in the chair next to me instead of behind his big desk, crossed his legs, and angled his body toward mine. We’re on the same side, you can talk to me, his posture was saying.

  “Welcome to Bradford Hills.” He looked me right in the eyes with a relaxed kind of intensity, as if he was studying me. That I could understand—the need to study something, to know it in order to understand it.

  “Thank you, Mr. Gabriel.”

  “Please, call me Tyler, or if you prefer, Gabe—that’s what some of the other students and staff like to call me. We are not strict with titles and labels here. We like to create a more relaxed, fluid learning environment. For example, my role sits somewhere between admissions counselor and academic advisor—among other things.”

  So the relaxed vibe was intentional. I nodded, not sure what to say to that. I wasn’t expecting a place as exclusive and old as Bradford Hills to have such a relaxed approach.

  “Before we go any further, I am obliged to tell you something about myself.” His tone didn’t suggest that he resented this rule; it was the same as it had been thus far—relaxed and easy.

  “OK.” I sat up a little straighter.

  “As you probably know, many of the staff and students here are Variants, myself included. I have an uncommon ability, and I find that most people are more at ease if they know what it is and how it works.”

  I leaned toward him a little, intrigued. The few Variants I’d met before mostly had common abilities—a woman with enhanced strength carrying four bulky suitcases through the airport, a kid with enhanced speed flying past me in the corridor on his way to class. Enhanced strength, speed, hearing, and sight were the most common.

  “I have the ability to tell when someone is lying to me. Don’t worry, I can’t read your mind or anything so invasive as that. It’s more like a mental alarm system that alerts me when someone is being untruthful.”

  “Really?” I could feel the smile spreading over my face, my eyes widening, while he carefully monitored my expression. My mind raced with a million questions about whether his DNA differed from that of Variants with more physical manifestations of power. “That is so cool!”

  His eyebrows raised in surprise, but he reined it in quickly, arranging his features into a neutral expression. He did smile though, a pleasant, easy smile. “I have to say, I was not expecting that response. Most people are uneasy when I first tell them. They immediately start worrying about what they might’ve lied about recently, paranoid that I’m about to expose their deepest secrets.”

  “Yes, I suppose that would be worrying . . . now that I think about it. Should I be worried?” I still wasn’t really freaked out by his ability—I had nothing to hide. I’m fairly certain my mother did, but I had no idea what it was, so there was no way for me to be evasive about it. I was more concerned that my response was abnormal.

  His smile spread wider, the gray in his eyes becoming lighter. “Not at all. And don’t stress that you didn’t react how most others do. It’s a good thing. It tells me you’re more concerned with matters that are of far greater importance than my ability.”

  He had leaned toward me too at some point, and his compliment made me suddenly aware of how close we were sitting, our elbows on the arms of our chairs, heads bent toward each other. Like two friends having an intimate conversation, rather than a student and administrator who had just met. He must have realized the same thing, because we looked away and straightened up in our chairs at the same time.

  He cleared his throat. “Right. Now, you’ll need to fill out these forms and return them to reception.” He grabbed an envelope off his desk and handed it to me. “And it’s standard protocol for all our students to have a blood test to screen for the Variant genetic markers.”

  “Oh, that won’t be necessary.” A particular protein was present in the blood of Variants—it was the most accurate indicator there was Variant DNA present. I had been put through all kinds of tests in the hospital after the crash, and nothing had come up then. “I had a battery of tests about a year ago, and they didn’t find anything.”

  “I’m afraid we insist on running our own tests.” He smiled politely, a little apologetic. “It’s a requirement for all students. Do you understand why?”

  “Yeah.” I nodded. A big part of the work Bradford Hills did was helping young Variants learn how to manage their abilities; knowing which students may present with an ability at any moment would be incredibly useful.

  Tyler (I had, without thinking about it, decided to call him Tyler—Gabe was t
oo casual somehow) gave me a satisfied nod, and I remembered his ability. He knew I was telling the truth when I said I understood.

  “The information is all in the envelope. Just go down to the clinic on campus, and I’ll call you in for a meeting when the results come through.”

  He spent the next half hour patiently explaining how Bradford Hills Institute operates and answering all my questions. He helped me choose my subjects, steering me toward some specialized Variant studies units.

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think you have a keen interest in Variant abilities.” He had worked me out pretty quickly, but I guess that was his job. “Some of these introductory Variant units, combined with your other science studies, will give you a good foundation for delving further into that area of research if you decide you like it. Plus, it gives you an excuse to be as curious and nosy about people’s abilities as you want.”

  He had really worked me out. I laughed out loud, and he grinned, a mischievous look in his eyes.

  He sent me on my way with the fat envelope, my class schedule, my residence hall assignment, and a giant map of the campus. The thing was seriously like one of those folding maps you get at truck stops—the ones that are bigger than a newspaper when spread out completely.

  I stuffed all the papers except the map into my handbag, jostling my duffel on my other shoulder as I rode the elevator back down.

  In the lobby, the reception lady I had spoken to was on the phone and didn’t notice my polite smile—which lingered as I thought about the last hour. It was clear why all the reception girls had googly eyes for Tyler. He was smart, easy to talk to, made you feel comfortable in his presence—and he was gorgeous. Those searching gray eyes and the messy hair that kept falling over his forehead . . .

  Crap! I’d told myself not to get a crush on him, and there I was, not even an hour later, having failed miserably.