In Case of Rejection

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Michael cooked dinner that night, offering graciously to help out in a way that irritated Matthew. His time in the kitchen was spent pulling recipes and knowledge from his memory that didn't exist before. Jean and Matthew watched the whole thing from beyond in awestruck silence, observing the skill and prowess Michael applied to his cooking.

"You never had this affinity before," Jean said, stepping next to Michael and observing his handiwork. She didn't reach out to him, like she usually did. She liked to put a hand on his shoulder or along his back, but now, she retained a wariness in her stance. Matthew acted like he didn't notice, keeping to himself at the couch.

"I've picked up a bit here and there," he said, and Matthew wanted to laugh. What a joke. He knew that kind of thing was implanted, not learned. This Michael was proving different in more ways than Matthew had anticipated.

He glanced upward and behind towards his father's office. The door was half open, room engulfed in shadow. He wondered if he would be able to slip in without being noticed, or if making it known was his best bet. Would he try to stop him? Would they fight?

Michael was busy with his activities and Jean was hovering close enough so that he might not see. It was worth a shot, in Matthew's mind. He figured the least he could do was take a peek. Turn on the light. Catch a glimpse of what he so badly wanted to know.

His mom was still talking with him -- they were both talking in low, close voices. He had already made up his mind.

The boy stood slowly, quietly planting his feet against the concrete. Taking small, light steps, Matthew crossed to the side, clenching both hands into tight fists. He went to the door to the right of his mother's bedroom -- the one he hadn't been on the other side of since he was twelve -- and turned the knob. The world moved slowly around him, and he made the painstaking final step through the threshold. They hadn't noticed, a miracle in Matthew's eyes, and he closed the door softly behind him. It barely clicked, and before he could figure what to do next, he locked it.

Still nothing. He squinted into the total darkness, fingers searching all along the wall to the left. He landed on a small plastic panel, and he flicked all three switches simultaneously.

The ceiling buzzed, and yellow light flickered over the room, filling it with color. It glazed over the equally yellow walls, the tall file cabinets in the corner, and the long, rectangular pages laid out across his father's desk.

Matthew's heart leapt at the sight of them, as they weren't how he expected them to be. He imagined a search -- a desperate, clammy mission. These papers were perfectly centered on the desktop. They were DefTech printed, sweet-smelling and clean. Matthew's breath caught in his throat with his sudden realization. These were marked in red pencil all across, in a frantic, frightening way. It was his father's handwriting, but pained -- big and blocky and sharp, like he had trouble writing.

He heard movement, just beyond the door, somewhere out in the main room. He looked up to the office door, expecting it to move, but it didn't. Instead, Matthew's right hand slid through something on the desk, and his heart went still at the touch of it.

He jumped up, from the office chair, almost knocking it over in his flurry. On his father's desk, a small blue puddle sat, now smeared halfway across, missing the plans by just an inch.

Matthew brought his hand up to his face, surveying the blue stuff on his palm. It was thick, goopy, and dark like blue ink. He rubbed his hand against his pants, finding that the stuff stained his skin long after it was gone. He made a mental note to keep his hand out of his parents' eyes.

He leaned back over the desk, scanning the papers with wide eyes. Matthew wiped his hands on his pants a few times, then reached out to them, lifting the stack with both hands. He leaned slowly back into his father's swivel chair and felt his entire body relax. He furrowed his brow and stared at the pages, carefully turned up towards the light. His eyes started reading before his brain had time to adjust, time to focus. He didn't think. He just read.