The Lost Train of Thought Read online

  “In many ways, this trial is about our unwillingness to look in the mirror. A boy too young to vote or drive a car in his own world was confronted by the intractable Rules of another. Did Becker Drane break these Rules? Of course he did. Did he violate the ‘granddaddy of ’em all’? Without a doubt. But in my opinion, that is not what we are here to decide.”

  “What then?” said Dominic Dozenski, anxious to be told what to do.

  “What we’re here to decide is what we, the people of The Seems, are going to do when the letter of the law and its spirit are at odds.” Samuel dropped his foot back to the floor and gazed at the teenager who sat by himself in a small box at the front of the room. “And I for one cannot make that decision without hearing from the Fixer himself.”

  “Um . . .”

  Realizing that everyone in the court was now intently staring at him, Becker stopped in mid-stroke and turned to a blank page in his Briefing Pad. The last thing he wanted anyone to see— especially at this point in the trial— was that the entire time he’d been on the stand, he had not been recording the opinions offered on or against his behalf. Nor had he been taking “notes to self” on case law for a potential appeal. Rather, he’d been pleasantly sketching the initials “J” and “K” in every conceivable combination and pattern.

  “Fixer Drane.” Eve Hightower laid her gavel back down on the bench and focused her piercing brown eyes upon the kid from Highland Park, New Jersey. “If you would like to make a statement on your own behalf, now would be the time.”

  By and large, Becker had kept his head down during the trial, both on his lawyer’s advice and because this whole thing was really embarrassing. But when the Fixer brushed aside his lengthy bangs and scanned the courtroom, he was soothed by the sight of friendly faces smiling back.

  Over there was Johnny Z, program director of radio station WDOZ, whom Becker had swapped mixes with ever since his first Mission to the Department of Sleep. And over there was Mellow, the barista at the Magic Hour coffee shop, who’d been sneaking Becker day-old scones long before he came to her rescue when the Time Bomb exploded. Flip Orenz had snuck away from the lunch rush at The Flip Side to lend his support, while leaning on his janitor’s mop was Brooks, Becker’s connection in The Know, who clenched a fist as if to say, “We’re with you, bro.”

  “Well, I’m not going to lie to everybody,” Becker said as he loosened his paisley tie. “I’m pretty much guilty as charged.”

  A low rumble went through the hall, but seemed to soften the mood.

  “Talk to any Fixer who’s ever gone on a Mission and he’ll tell you the same thing— if it comes down to saving The World or breaking the Rules, I’m gonna save The World every time. But obviously, the same logic doesn’t apply to why I broke the Golden . . .”

  Since Becker’s fellow Fixers had been asked to recuse themselves, a handful of Briefers and Candidates had jumped at the front-row seats marked “reserved for IFR.” All of them were shaking their heads at Becker, trying and failing to get him to change the direction of his testimony.

  “I wish I could say I did it for some important reason or because I was trying to make a political statement, but the truth is, that had nothing to do with it.”

  Samuel Hightower leaned forward and asked the question that was on everybody’s tongue. “Then why, son? Why did you do it?”

  “I guess . . .” Becker flushed red and felt like he wanted to puke, but he had little choice other than to throw himself on the mercy of the court. “I guess because I really like this girl.”

  There was no response from the crowd, other than an instinctive turning toward Samuel, whose voice for so many years had been the most important in The Seems. For his part, the former Second in Command just sat back down on his chair and concluded:

  “That’s good enough for me.”

  Becker might’ve caught the present Second in Command rolling her eyes— just like his mom did when his dad pulled some sort of grandstanding move at a dinner party— but she quickly regained command of the floor.

  “If there are no further opinions, then it’s time to take a Straw Poll in the case of Fixer #37, Ferdinand Becker Drane III.”

  In the Court of Public Opinion, each citizen was issued a packet of three different-colored straws. A red straw equated to “guilty” (and sentencing by the current tribunal), yellow to “guilty, with mitigating circumstances” (usually a slap on the wrist or community service), and green, “not guilty” (leave the court house steps a free man, woman, or child). One straw per person could then be deposited in any of the countless drop boxes used by SPS,6 where they were rapidly gathered and tabulated in the Mail room.

  All that remained to set the vote in motion was for each of the judges to ceremoniously bang their gavels and declare the hearing over. From the way Judge Altman and many others smiled at him, Becker was confident that his “honesty is the best policy” approach in the trial would land him a majority of yellow straws. The last thing he wanted was a sentencing hearing where Administrator Torte would no doubt be pushing for Seemsberia or a complete unremembering of everything he’d fought for and believed in these past four years. But just as he was about to button up his blazer and step off the stand, the doors to the courtroom swung open.

  “If it pleases the court, Your Honors.” A voice with the peculiar twang of southern Australia froze the gavels mere inches above the bench. “Central Command would like to offer an opinion in this matter.”

  “Of course.” Eve Hightower and her two fellows leaned back in their leather-bound chairs. “The court recognizes Cassiopeia Lake.”

  Dressed in a smart pantsuit, her hair up in a bun for this formal occasion, was Fixer Casey Lake. Becker had never seen her in anything other than flip-flops and cutoff jeans or a sundress, and the wry look of amusement she usually wore on her face was gone. She looked deadly serious. But as she stoically handed Clarence the Bailiff a thin brown envelope stamped with a Wrench, Becker couldn’t stop himself from celebrating the fact that his fellow Fixers were coming to his defense. Considering how much weight they were given among the Powers That Be, maybe a not guilty verdict was on the table after all.

  “We, the undersigned Fixers”—Clarence pulled a single sheet of paper from the envelope and began to read aloud— “with one Fixer abstaining— submit the following opinion in the case of The Seems v. Ferdinand Becker Drane III.”

  Becker shot a smile at one of his closest Fixer friends, but when Casey did not return it, the suit that he’d worn to so many confirmations and bar mitzvahs began to feel abnormally tight and small. And that was before he heard the rest.

  “Despite our respect for the defendant’s skill and dedication to The World, each and every one of us swore an oath on the day we received our Fixer’s Badge. A promise to protect the Plan for The World and live by the Rules that govern its enacting. And though every Fixer has been forced to bend or even circumvent those Rules with the fate of The World at stake, we believe that Fixer Drane’s violations came not from any allegiance to our sacred oath or dedication to the Mission, but from a desire to meet his own selfish needs. Therefore, it is with profound disappointment that we recommend a verdict of guilty . . . without mitigating circumstances.”

  The bailiff looked up from the page and delivered the final blow.

  “It’s co-signed by Jelani Blaque.”

  Gasps shot through the Hall of Justice, as literally no one could believe that the IFR’s legendary head instructor had thrown his weight behind the opinion. As for the defendant himself, Becker’s heart started to pound so viciously that he thought he might pass out right then and there.

  “The opinion of the Fixers is duly noted,” declared Judge Alvin Torte, smug satisfaction dripping from every syllable. “Does anyone have anything to say in response?”

  No one did, least of all Becker Drane. Thus, three gavels simultaneously banged down upon the bench, and Second in Command Eve Hightower rose to her feet. “Then let the Straw Poll be
gin.”

  4. Court of Public Opinion Tele vision.

  5. “World-based employees of The Seems, in all cases regarding those without knowledge of The Seems, should (except when permission has been granted by the Powers That Be) keep their mouths shut.”

  6. Seemsian Postal Service: “When it maybe, hopefully, sort of, really needs to get there relatively on timeSM.”

  2

  Unremembering

  Galaxie Diner, Caledon, Ontario

  Jennifer Kaley put her wool hat in her pocket and shook a few stray leaves from her dirty blond hair. Caledon was cold this time of year and the fourteen-year-old was mad at herself for wearing her flimsy army jacket instead of the green parka with the furry hood.

  “One for breakfast?” asked the waitress who greeted her by the cash register.

  “Two. I’m meeting someone.”

  “Right this way.”

  The heavyset woman in the black and yellow apron grabbed two menus and led Jennifer toward the row of booths in the back. These were the best seats in the house, not only because of the soft red cushions, but because they came with their own individual jukeboxes.

  “What can I get you to start?” asked the waitress.

  “Water with lemon.”

  Being a single customer at a table with two menus always made her feel awkward, so Jennifer flipped through the jukebox that was filled with bands like Foreigner and ABBA and a bunch of others she’d never heard of. She finally chose “No Sugar Tonight” by the Guess Who (her dad’s favorite band), which got a thumbs-up from the old biker dude who was working the Galaxie’s grill.

  The bell by the front door dinged loudly and Jennifer snapped her head around, hoping to see a teenage boy with shaggy hair and old-school corduroys walking in. But it was a party of Little Leaguers instead—the Caledon Fireballs—who poured into the surrounding booths, ready to celebrate another victory with a healthy breakfast of chocolate chip pancakes.

  “Don’t worry, honey.” The waitress handed Jennifer a large glass of water, along with a knowing smile that said she too had waited for a mysterious man or two in her time. “If he doesn’t show, it’s his loss.”

  “Tell me about it.” Jennifer smiled back. “This place has the best vanilla milkshakes in the world!”

  “One vanilla, comin’ right up.”

  The person Jennifer was waiting for had often spoken of the milkshakes at some beach-front burger joint as being the best he’d ever had, but since those were literally in another world, she felt quite confident in her opinion. Speaking of that person, he was now over fifteen minutes late and Jennifer couldn’t help but be a little bit concerned. It had been two weeks since they’d last seen each other, and even though they’d spoken on the phone every night, it was hard to put aside the fear that the long-distance thing wasn’t working anymore, or that maybe one of the girls at his new high school was much cooler or prettier.

  Again the bell at the front jingled and when Jennifer saw Norm from Norm’s Great Grocery entering with his family, she ducked under the table— mostly because she didn’t feel like having to explain to her boss what she was doing here all by herself. But when she poked her head back up, someone else was standing by the door. He looked a little worse for wear— his shaggy hair a little shaggier, his corduroys cultivating a hole in one knee—but the smile that lit his face hadn’t changed one bit.

  “Hey,” said Becker, plopping into the seat on the other side of the booth.

  “Hey.”

  Ever since the night Jennifer and Becker shared a kiss in the woods on the outskirts of Caledon, they had been nearly inseparable. Well, that’s not exactly true. The Fixer was determined not to break the Golden Rule again— especially after being reprimanded by his mentor Fixer Blaque—so their early relationship consisted mostly of e-mails, phone calls, and texts. But not seeing each other in person got old quick, and it was finally decided that one brief, innocent, face-to-face meeting could probably be arranged.

  By the time the summer arrived, the Fixer was crossing the border on a regular basis— so much so that he and Jennifer even concocted a cover story that Becker was an American kid whose father’s company had moved their main office to Toronto. This seemed to fly with her friends and family, and were it not for Becker’s Me-2 pleading with him to stop using his Skeleton Key for personal travel, he probably would have started looking through the classifieds for a cheap apartment.

  But that was before the results of the Straw Poll had come in.

  “Is everything okay?” Jennifer slipped Becker’s JV soccer jacket over her own as the two headed west on Henderson Street. “You seem a little weird.”

  “I do?” Becker shrugged, trying to avoid the conversation he knew was unavoidable. “Guess it’s just been a crazy week.”

  “Everything good with Benjamin? Mom and Dad?”

  “They’re chillin’.”

  “Any cool Missions lately?”

  “I did have one a couple days ago.”

  “You allowed to talk about it?”

  “Not really.” Even though Becker was willing to break the Rules time and time again just to be here, there were some things he wouldn’t do: namely, reveal specific Mission details or take Jennifer to The Seems itself. “Let’s just say the Winds of Change are sweeping across The World again.”

  “I knew something was up when my dad signed up for yoga!”

  Becker laughed out loud, something he seemed to do a lot when she was around. “Seriously, Moscow almost got toasted.”

  “My hero! He saves The World and still has time to hang out with the little people.”

  Though Jennifer threw an arm around Becker’s neck and gave him a hug, she’d known ever since he didn’t finish his two eggs over medium at the Galaxie that things weren’t quite right. She decided not to push it though. “Hey, did I tell you I had an idea for a new department?”

  “Which one?”

  “Education. They can teach us everything we need to know by playing audiotapes while we’re sleeping. That way we never have to go to school but we end up twice as smart.”

  Becker cracked up—ideas like that came so easily to Jennifer. When they first started dating, he’d encouraged her to fill out a Seemsian Aptitude Test, since he thought she’d make a perfect Fixer. Her interests were much more geared to Case Worker, however, because they got to map out really intricate strategies to help people in their everyday lives (and also because the offices in the Big Building were supposed to be really plush).

  But as Jennifer continued on about the Department of Ed’s ability to allow each person to pick one thing they could be genius at, Becker could barely hear what she was saying. Instead of appreciating walking down the street with the coolest girl he’d ever met on an even cooler fall day, all he could think about was how horrible it would be if he couldn’t remember any of it at all.

  “Are you listening to me?” she asked, stopping outside the door to Paradise Bound Records, the best music store in Caledon.

  “Totally. I heard every last word!”

  “Liar.” She kicked him halfheartedly in the shin. “What was I talking about?”

  “Um . . . you were saying how great I am and how you wanted me to give you lessons on what it’s like to be Becker Drane.”

  This time, the kick on the shin wasn’t so light, and Becker responded with a nudge, which quickly escalated to a battle of nuggies, and then all gloves were off. But before a truce was declared and they strode into the pleasantly musty stacks of LPs, CDs, and eight-track tapes (three for a dollar) to find their friends, Jennifer turned to the boy who had made these past few months so great.

  “Are you sure there’s nothing wrong?”

  Becker grabbed her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.

  “Nothing I can’t fix.”

  Alton Forest, Caledon, Ontario

  The group known as “Les Resistance” had been formed nearly two years earlier by a group of like-minded kids seeking refuge from the
middle school grind. In a secluded corner of the Alton Forest conservation area, the founding members— Jennifer Kaley, twins Rob and Claudia Moreau, Rachel Mandel, and Vikram Pemundi—had built a clubhouse retreat where the business of resisting could be conducted undisturbed. Their number had recently grown to include the Moreaus’ significant others—Neve and Miles—who, along with Becker, were forced to endure an initiation ritual far too clandestine for these pages.

  This Sunday afternoon, the gang was kicking back on beanbag chairs and the velvet couch Jennifer “borrowed” from her parent’s basement and doing what they usually did—talking about the meaning of life, the lack of the meaning in life, and everything in between.

  “All I’m saying is that adding more seasons is a no-brainer.” Vikram paced back and forth, like he was giving a lecture at a university. “You have Indian summer in October— and I’m not talking about Native American, I’m talking about the way it is in Ahmedabad, hot and humid— then there’s splinter, which is between spring and winter. And if we’re remaking the world, why not a seventh season?”

  “Like what?” asked Jennifer.

  “I don’t know, like the season of the witch or this weird season where the sky is purple, the sun is blue, and Vikram Pemundi rules over the land with an iron fist!”

  “We can see who’s not gonna get invited to remake the world from scratch.”

  “Hey, I’m just trying to think outside the box.”

  “That’s your problem, you think too much.” Rachel Mandel cheerfully knocked on Vikram’s head. “All the world really needs is girls to be in charge and chocolate chip cookies to grow on trees.”

  “Now you’re talking!” Jennifer gave her friend a low five. “Toss in some doughnut bushes and lakes filled with Yoo-hoo and we’re good to go!”

  Ever since she’d supposedly found this weird pamphlet at the record store, Jennifer had enlisted her friends to help her answer the SAT’s crucial Question #3.7 Everybody had poured in their suggestions, and by the time she was finished filling out the questionnaire, it was the size of a book report. But even though Becker had hand-delivered her application to the Department of Human Resources more than three weeks ago, the conversation was still going strong.