Future Shock

3

My throat tightens. They’ve been watching me? Testing me? How much do they know?

“It’s truly amazing what you can do. Perfect recall is a rare gift.” She leans close, like we’re two friends sharing a secret. “Don’t worry, we haven’t told anyone else about your unique talent, including your foster parents.”

I’m tempted to bolt out of the room like I did at the job interview today. I’ve worked so hard to hide my freaky memory over the years, but they know. Yet Lynne doesn’t look at me like I’m a freak. Instead, she eyes me like I’m a piñata and she’s waiting to see what kind of candy falls out of me. I’m not sure I like that any better.

She waits for me to say something, but when I don’t respond she sits back and continues. “I’m told you tutor some of the younger girls here. Why is that?”

Her question catches me off guard, but I’m glad for the change in topic. “No one else will.”

“I see.” She looks down at the paper in front of her. “Your record shows you’ve been in quite a few fights during your time in foster care, including a bad one two years ago. Want to tell me what happened?”

My stomach clenches at the memory. It’s still fresh in my mind, as vivid as when it happened. Those girls deserved it, but I hate thinking about that day. It’s one of those moments that make me wish I didn’t have a perfect memory. “No.”

She gives me a smile, which I can tell is fake. I’ve seen that kind of smile before on social workers, teachers, and foster parents. The smile they put on when they’re trying to be patient with a kid who doesn’t want to cooperate. “Do you like to fight?”

“No,” I say again. “But I will if I have to.”

“Good, good.” She seems pleased with my answer, which sets off little warning bells in my head. But before I can question that, she continues. “We’d like to make you an offer to join our program.”

I sit up straighter and hope floods my veins like a drug, but I try not to show anything on my face. I don’t want her to know how desperate I am. “What do I have to do?”

“We’re recruiting a small group of extraordinary teens to participate in a short research project, which will take place tomorrow at one of our facilities near here. We’ll pick you up in the morning and bring you home in the evening, so you’ll only miss one day of school. The project is confidential, so I’m afraid I can’t disclose any other details at this time.” Her smile widens, her teeth perfect and white. “What I can tell you is that this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and you will be greatly rewarded for participating.”

Her offer is tempting, so very tempting. But I don’t like going into anything blind. I study Lynne’s expensive clothes and her fancy nails, trying to imagine what kind of “research project” Aether Corp could be doing with foster kids. From her questions, I’m guessing it’s some sort of focus group. Watching movies, answering surveys, that sort of thing. Or maybe they’re doing a study about “gifted” teens and want to ask us questions, have us solve puzzles, stuff like that. But then, why was she so pleased to hear I could fight? And why are the details confidential?

“We’ve already obtained permission from your legal guardians.” She slides forward a stack of papers, the top one signed by my foster mom and some government authorities. Below it, there’s a blank line with my name under it. Waiting for my signature. “Please read over the contract and let me know if you have any questions.”

I’m tempted to just sign the thing, but I’m not that stupid. I scan the first page—and freeze when I see the amount of money they’re offering. My God. No freaking way. That has to be a typo or something. There are way too many zeroes there. “Is this number correct?”

“It is.”

I stare at the number and my head spins with all the possibilities. It’s more money than I’ve ever dreamed of in my entire life. That much money means freedom. Safety. Independence. And a real home for the first time in years.

That much money means a future.

I quickly read through the rest of the document. There’s a confidentiality agreement, and a paragraph about medical exams and tests both before and after the research project, including, but not limited to, a physical exam, blood tests, and an MRI scan. The last page of the contract has a waiver for any injuries we might sustain. Definitely not videos and surveys then.

My head snaps up. “What’s this about medical exams? And injuries?”

“We’ll be conducting a routine medical exam to make sure it’s safe for you to participate in the project. It’s nothing to worry about.”

“But it says there are some risks involved.”

“Oh, the legal department always adds lines like that to our contract. It’s standard language for every project we do. The risks are minimal, I assure you.”

She hands me a pen and her smile never wavers. I roll it between my fingers, staring at the words not liable for any injuries, trauma, or permanent damage sustained during the duration of the research project. I want to sign, need to sign, but there’s so much she isn’t telling me.

“Elena, you’re going to be eighteen in two months. You’ll be on your own with no money, no home, and no job. You have the grades to go to college but no way to pay for it.” She taps the edge of the paper with a shiny fingernail. “We can find you a job. We can get you into college. And we’re offering enough money for you to do whatever you want with your life. All you have to do is help us with this project. A few hours of your time, that’s all we ask.”