I’m sure that’s good. I’ve
got the correct past and present: my bloodline can be traced to our founding fathers and my dad is a respected member of the
government, like his dad before him. There’s a strange category at the bottom of the screen: Security Risk. I haven’t noticed
this before. The box is filled in with a percentage: 51.6%. I have no idea what that means.
In the notes section is a date and the words
interrogated on the suspicion of unpatriotic behavior.
Is this the reason government employees shun me? There’s a letter and a numerical code that looks like a link. I try it. ACCESS DENIED .
I hear squeaking like rubber soles on a tile floor. Probablymy nervous mind playing tricks on me. I take it as a sign to quit snooping. This is only the beginning of my search. There
will be other opportunities. I’ve got to pace myself.
I rush off to make Dad’s copies. When I return, I’m surprised that Effie’s not back yet. I burst into Dad’s office, presenting
his copies like a trophy. “Your copies,” I say, expecting to see Dad’s disapproving glare, but he’s not behind his desk. I
scan the room. It’s empty. Weird. Dad rarely leaves his office. I’m surprised he hasn’t turned into one of those underground
creatures that will shrivel and die in the sunlight. I glance at the coatrack in the corner. His jacket is still there, but
the white lab coat he normally wears is missing. Strange.
I shut the door to his office and plop myself into Effie’s desk chair. I flip open the manila file folder with Dad’s copies.
What’s so all-fired important about this document anyway? Most of his reports are written in some government-speak with way
too many words to say even the simplest thing. I flip through the pages. There’s a sheet titled “Agenda” with discussion topics
including: Historical Analysis, Structural Dynamics and Hypothetical Impacts, Perception vs. Reality, Next Steps. I only understand
the first and final topics. The other document in the folder is eighty-seven pages long, twelve of which appear to be reference
citations.
A Historical Analysis of Protectosphere Changes and Their Corresponding Environmental and Cultural Impacts
by George Adams. The date on the document is well before I was born. It must have also been before Dad earned his PhD. He’d
never forget to include his title if he had it.
“What are you doing?”
I jump.
“Effie,” I say, and slap the file folder closed.
She nudges me out of her chair. “I told you to copy them, not read them.” She sweeps the folder off her desk and checks its
contents, probably to make sure I haven’t screwed with the page numbers or lost a page altogether. “Dr. Adams will certainly
be asking for these soon.”
“Dad—Dr. Adams,” I correct myself. “He’s not even in the office.”
“Ridiculous,” she says. Now she can see through walls?
She’s so convincing that I reach for the doorknob.
“You can’t go in there!” Effie pivots so she’s standing in the doorway, blocking my entrance. “You are not allowed in here
without Dr. Adams’s express permission. Sit,” she barks, and points to my chair. I obey but seethe from being treated like
dog.
Effie knocks twice on the door and then enters Dad’s office. I sneak to the door and scan the room. Dad’s not at his desk.
I told you, Miss Effie-Know-It-All. As Effie places the file in the center of Dad’s desk, something catches my eye at the
far end of the office. Dad seems to be walking out of the bookcase. I blink and look again. He’s fiddling with something and
part of the bookcase slides shut. It’s a secret door!
I dive back into my seat. Through the open door, I can see Effie straightening the files on Dad’s desk. She doesn’t seem to
notice that Dad has magically appeared behind her. But her back straightens in a way that shows she has sensedhis presence. She slips out of the office and closes the door
got the correct past and present: my bloodline can be traced to our founding fathers and my dad is a respected member of the
government, like his dad before him. There’s a strange category at the bottom of the screen: Security Risk. I haven’t noticed
this before. The box is filled in with a percentage: 51.6%. I have no idea what that means.
In the notes section is a date and the words
interrogated on the suspicion of unpatriotic behavior.
Is this the reason government employees shun me? There’s a letter and a numerical code that looks like a link. I try it. ACCESS DENIED .
I hear squeaking like rubber soles on a tile floor. Probablymy nervous mind playing tricks on me. I take it as a sign to quit snooping. This is only the beginning of my search. There
will be other opportunities. I’ve got to pace myself.
I rush off to make Dad’s copies. When I return, I’m surprised that Effie’s not back yet. I burst into Dad’s office, presenting
his copies like a trophy. “Your copies,” I say, expecting to see Dad’s disapproving glare, but he’s not behind his desk. I
scan the room. It’s empty. Weird. Dad rarely leaves his office. I’m surprised he hasn’t turned into one of those underground
creatures that will shrivel and die in the sunlight. I glance at the coatrack in the corner. His jacket is still there, but
the white lab coat he normally wears is missing. Strange.
I shut the door to his office and plop myself into Effie’s desk chair. I flip open the manila file folder with Dad’s copies.
What’s so all-fired important about this document anyway? Most of his reports are written in some government-speak with way
too many words to say even the simplest thing. I flip through the pages. There’s a sheet titled “Agenda” with discussion topics
including: Historical Analysis, Structural Dynamics and Hypothetical Impacts, Perception vs. Reality, Next Steps. I only understand
the first and final topics. The other document in the folder is eighty-seven pages long, twelve of which appear to be reference
citations.
A Historical Analysis of Protectosphere Changes and Their Corresponding Environmental and Cultural Impacts
by George Adams. The date on the document is well before I was born. It must have also been before Dad earned his PhD. He’d
never forget to include his title if he had it.
“What are you doing?”
I jump.
“Effie,” I say, and slap the file folder closed.
She nudges me out of her chair. “I told you to copy them, not read them.” She sweeps the folder off her desk and checks its
contents, probably to make sure I haven’t screwed with the page numbers or lost a page altogether. “Dr. Adams will certainly
be asking for these soon.”
“Dad—Dr. Adams,” I correct myself. “He’s not even in the office.”
“Ridiculous,” she says. Now she can see through walls?
She’s so convincing that I reach for the doorknob.
“You can’t go in there!” Effie pivots so she’s standing in the doorway, blocking my entrance. “You are not allowed in here
without Dr. Adams’s express permission. Sit,” she barks, and points to my chair. I obey but seethe from being treated like
dog.
Effie knocks twice on the door and then enters Dad’s office. I sneak to the door and scan the room. Dad’s not at his desk.
I told you, Miss Effie-Know-It-All. As Effie places the file in the center of Dad’s desk, something catches my eye at the
far end of the office. Dad seems to be walking out of the bookcase. I blink and look again. He’s fiddling with something and
part of the bookcase slides shut. It’s a secret door!
I dive back into my seat. Through the open door, I can see Effie straightening the files on Dad’s desk. She doesn’t seem to
notice that Dad has magically appeared behind her. But her back straightens in a way that shows she has sensedhis presence. She slips out of the office and closes the door
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