The Nobody People

music. Hayden and Carrie found a few singers they both liked, and once Hayden got a sense of how into music Carrie was, they adopted Carrie as their personal tour guide. The only trouble with them was that they wanted to try emulating everything as soon as they heard it, not giving it a chance to sink in. Lately, they’d been listening to a lot of early Leonard Cohen and writing songs with the same murky cadences. There was such a sonorous quality to Hayden’s voice that even their strained metaphors seemed deep. It was as if Hayden shaped their vocal cords into a perfect instrument, an internal echo of their physical attractiveness.
“That was great, Hayden,” Sarah says when the song is done. “Really lovely. And because I wanted to give you a little taste of how abilities and the arts can intersect, Lynette has something for us.”
Lynette Helms stands up.
“I have something, too,” her twin brother, Darren, shouts. It’s awful enough that Lynette has a brother as unlikable as Darren, but Darren hangs on her like a stink. He has no interest in artistic expression. He’s here to make sure Lynette doesn’t have a moment she can enjoy. She has no female friends at the academy. None of the girls are willing to put up with Darren. Lynette doesn’t say anything. She walks to the middle of the room and stands with perfect, practiced posture.
“Since I knew we’d be having guests today,” she says, giving a little bow toward Avi and Emmeline, “I wanted to do something that would involve all of us.”
“Get on with it, Lynnie,” says Darren. The corner of Lynette’s mouth twitches, but she carries on. She turns to Avi and frowns. She looks like she’s about to tell him he has cancer.
“I should say, though, Mr. Hirsch,” she says, “I’ve never tried this with a…”
“A Damp?” says Darren.
“Darren, that’s enough,” Sarah says sharply. Darren smirks. Carrie watches Avi. Even if he doesn’t know the word, he knows what it means. There’s an instant understanding when someone calls you a name meant to tell you you’re other, less.
Lynette produces a stack of note cards from her pocket and hands them out. Carrie stands up and looks over Maya’s shoulder. Hers says VIOLIN.
“What about me?” Emmeline asks. She hasn’t been given one.
“Your part is the most important,” says Lynette, smiling. “I need everyone to think about their card. You can think about the word, or you can imagine the instrument or how it sounds. It shouldn’t matter which.” She goes over to Emmeline. “Emmeline, since you’re our guest, you get to pick the song. Think of it in your head.” Emmeline closes her eyes. “You got it? Okay, I’m going to…” Lynette puts her hands on Emmeline’s head. Carrie’s head floods with music, a descending line played on the violin she has pictured. It catches her off guard, and she flickers visibly. She fights the urge to hum along.
“She’s gotten into your record collection,” Sarah says to Avi. “Or mine.” She’s smiling, and her eyes are closed, so she can’t see how frustrated Avi looks. He strains to hear whatever’s written on his card. He must be visualizing the instrument, imagining the sound of it, but getting nothing. Lynette opens one eye. Her shoulders slump.
“You can’t hear it, can you?” she says to him. “I’m so sorry. Here.” She crosses the room and turns on one of the three stereos. It’s an old silver tank like the one Carrie’s dad has back in Deerfield, Illinois. It comes alive with static. Lynette lays her hand on it, and at her touch it blasts noise. “Dammit,” she mutters. “Levels.” She closes her eyes again. The noise takes shape just as the song hits its swell, spinning off into orbit as an astronaut speaks back to ground control across a void. Even without the lyrics, with the melody line rendered by a tenor saxophone, it rings of spacemen and glitter.
“Nice choice, Leener,” Avi says, looking around, embarrassed. He ruffles his daughter’s hair. Emmeline smiles at him, but there’s a sad quality to it. She’s thrilled with what she’s seen, and Lynette was smart to choose a manifestation of her ability that let the girl be a part of it. Along with the excitement of realizing she’s like these other kids, there’s the understanding that her father is not, can’t be. She’s found her place in the world, but it means she’ll have to leave him behind. He must know that, too. Carrie wonders how long he’s known that the kid is a Resonant. She’s glad things went the way they did with her abilities and her parents. She faded out of their minds, as if they’d heard a song called “Carrie” on the radio once and hummed it for a little while, then forgot it.
“That was very interesting, Lynette,” says Sarah. “And your transfer to electronics has gotten much stronger.” Lynette smiles, delighted by the teacherly praise. Darren stands. He has no intention of letting her enjoy the moment.
“Mine’s better,” he says. “Want to see?”
“Darren,” says Sarah, “today is not the day.”
“Lynette got to do her party trick,” Darren whines. “Hayden got to sing his little song.”
“Fuck you, Darren,” Hayden says.
“Pass, thanks,” Darren says. “I have something I want to share. I think I should be able to express myself.”
Sarah is about to come down on Darren, but Avi, without any context for what’s happening, says, “It’s fine.” Fidgeting in her anger, Sarah spins a finger in the air to indicate that Darren should make it fast. He struts to the front of the room and turns on one of the televisions. He draws a full breath into his chest, ready to proclaim. At that moment, Emmeline raises her hand and clears her throat. Darren deflates.
“May I go to the bathroom?” Emmeline asks. Carrie smiles. It’s possible the girl needs to go, but she timed her request exactly to poke a hole in Darren’s moment. The reporter might not be