The back of a motorcycle may not seem like a very calm place, with the roar of the engine and the wind whipping at you, but I love it. Dad says I’m a “speed freak.” There’s something about pure acceleration—like you’ve sprouted booster rockets that send you hurtling forward. You feel alive, but also relaxed, because your mind just shuts down.
It’s definitely a guilty pleasure, because—let’s face it—Dad’s Harley isn’t exactly environment-friendly. I’d be more comfortable on something electric, or at least a hybrid, which would be more fuel-efficient—
Uh-oh. I’m doing it again. “When-I-breathe-in-I-breathe-in . . .”
Today might be the best meditation class ever, since Jett didn’t show up. He’s so bad at meditation that he ruins it for the rest of us. And he isn’t just bad at it like poor Tyrell, who’s too itchy to sit still, and sniffles from the electric vaporizer that pumps incense-scented mist into the air. (We don’t burn real incense, since that produces carbon, and Magnus is against that.)
But Jett is too much of a jerk to give meditation a fair try. He yawns and fake snores. And just when you get to a really deep place in your own meditation, he starts hollering for someone to call an ambulance because he pulled a muscle from sitting in the lotus position. For sure Ivory doesn’t like him very much, and Brandon hates his guts after the pedal-boat incident. I suppose there are a few kids like Tyrell who are still fascinated by the fact that his dad’s rich and famous. In the end, though, it’s hard to be too psyched about a guy who keeps spoiling everything for everybody.
See? Jett isn’t even here, and I’m ruining my meditation by thinking about him!
“And a deep breath as we return to this place and this moment.” Ivory ends the session. “How was everybody’s experience?”
“I was a little bit scattered today,” I confess. There’s something about meditation that makes me want to be 100 percent honest.
“Thank you for your openness,” the meditation pathfinder approves in her rich voice. “There can be no inner peace without truth.”
I don’t always understand the things Ivory says, but they just sound so good. She’s the most impressive woman I’ve ever met. My secret dream is to grow up just like Ivory, although the height part might not be realistic. Not a lot of girls get to be six foot four. And I’m definitely not pretty enough to carry the buzz cut. But I can still work on being like her inside. No one else at the Oasis is so whole, except maybe Magnus.
I can’t wait till I’m old enough to do the special meditation the adults do. Mom won’t say much about it, except how transformational it is, and that it might be a little too much for a twelve-year-old. The word she always uses is vivid. I can’t help but be intrigued. The more Mom describes the one-on-one sessions, the more convinced I am that I’m ready. Maybe if I’m really successful in this class, Ivory will bump me up to the next level. Before that happens, though, I’m going to have to learn to clear my mind of Jett Baranov.
Tyrell and I are on the main path back toward the cottages when we see them. Strangers stand out at the Oasis, but the two men in FedEx uniforms also happen to be lugging an enormous bulky package, wheeling it along on a hand truck.
“What’s that?” Tyrell wonders aloud.
I stare. The thing is covered in brown paper, but the wrapping is torn at the top, and I can see what the giant mystery item is. It’s a full-size Dance Dance Revolution machine, the kind they have in video arcades.
Tyrell’s eyes pop. “We’re getting a Dance Dance Revolution?”
“It must be a mistake,” I conclude. “Magnus would never bring an arcade game into the Oasis.”
“He might,” Tyrell argues. “It’s great exercise. That’s one of the three pillars, you know.”
“No way,” I scoff. “It breaks the no-screens rule. It’s flashy and loud—the opposite of everything the Oasis stands for. Nobody could be whole with that kind of racket going on.”
He shrugs. “Only one way to find out. Let’s see where they deliver it.”
We follow the FedEx guys past the dining hall toward the clusters of cottages. We exchange a bewildered glance. All the main buildings are behind us. Where could this thing possibly be going?
The FedEx men stop at cottage number 29 and unload their burden—I gawk—right next to two other packages that are almost as big! One is a Jet Ski. The other is a four-wheeled ATV with giant balloon tires.
“Who lives here?” I demand in amazement.
Tyrell sniffs the air. “If I didn’t know better, I swear I smell meat!”
We approach the open window and peer inside. Laid out on the dining room table is a mountainous barbecue platter accompanied by several long loaves of bread. Seated there, mouth wide as a cavern, about to take an enormous bite, is Jett.
“Drop that sandwich!” I bellow.
Jett looks up, spots us in the window, and smiles. “Come on in, you guys. There’s plenty for everybody.”
“You’re disgusting!” I snarl.
But Tyrell is already halfway through the door of the cottage. I grab him. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“I thought maybe I’d have just a couple of bites—”
“Help yourself,” Jett invites him, his mouth full. “We’ve got pulled pork, brisket, roast turkey, burnt ends—”
“You’ve got barbecue sauce on your chin,” Tyrell says wistfully.
“That’s not allowed here!” I rage.
“Untrue,” Jett tells me, his face smug. “The dining hall doesn’t serve meat, but show me where it says you can’t bring in your own. Turns out there’s this awesome barbecue place in Hedge Apple, just a few miles up the river. And guess what—they deliver!”
I’m looking at him through a red haze. “Do they also deliver Jet Skis and Dance Dance Revolution machines?”
“Well, not the barbecue joint. I got that stuff through Fuego Prime—all except the fireworks. They came from LightUpTheNightdot-com. Don’t worry,” he adds, spying my stricken face. “You can use all my stuff. Everybody can. Well, maybe not the Bucholz kid. He’s not the friendly type.”
“You’ve got fireworks?” Tyrell echoes.
Jett inclines his head, and we follow his gaze into his room, where there are two large boxes hidden under the bed. “For the Fourth of July,” he explains. “Or maybe I’ll save them for a special occasion—like when Nimbus wises up and kicks me out.”
I’m so angry I can’t even look at him. When I turn away I see lanky Brooklynne Feldman at the far end of the path, peering at the huge packages. Maybe it’s her thick glasses, but she makes me think of a CIA agent focusing on a crucial piece of evidence. She’s always like that—as if she knows something no one else does.
“It’s okay,” I call to her. “Just a misunderstanding.”
Brooklynne walks on, but she seems confused. I don’t blame her. A Jet Ski, an ATV, and an arcade machine are about as out of place at the Oasis as a giant oil derrick pumping crude out of the ground next to the Bath.
I wheel back around on Jett. “What do you mean by dot-com? How can you order from the internet? We’re totally unplugged!”