the computer isn’t going to convince me—” I protested.
Zach reached over and placed his fingertips over my mouth. “Shhh,” he soothed. His eyes were so soft and approachable just then; I couldn’t look away or say a word. There were faraway places in his eyes. Worlds, even.
“Are you ready to read about Project Zero?” He asked.
Don’t ask me how or why, but at that moment, I believed, with every thread of my being, that Zach Webb indeed knew things. And as much as it scared the wits out of me, he probably did know everything about me. The only question was—how? And more importantly, why?
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I replied.
Floating
Project Zero: File 6-18-2008, Subject Tess Turner
My first thought: Am I dead?
Then, I start thinking about myself—not the boring stuff like my name, address, phone number, but like about me. I start thinking about what’s on the inside, like what, for example, makes me have thoughts to begin with. Why, for example, did I just think up the words, “Am I dead?” It’s because I’m very much alive. A dead person can’t have thoughts. And a dead person most certainly cannot think about having thoughts.
There’s something else I’ve discovered about myself. You’re probably not going to believe it. You might think it’s either really, really cool or really, really scary. But to me, it’s just normal. It’s normal, but somehow freaky all at the same time. I’m a walking contradiction, but that’s ok by me. It just means I’m complicated. And what would the world do without complicated things? Well, for one, we’d have nothing to analyze or discuss or argue about. In fact, we would all be pretty darn boring. When you get right down to it, it makes life sort of interesting, my being such a mixed up mess.
Don’t get me wrong—I’m not telling you this because I want to be analyzed. Because believe me, I do not like to be analyzed. That’s the last thing I need. My friend Dani is always analyzing things to death, and it drives me crazy. Like, once I was going through my sock drawer trying to pick out what to wear with my favorite sweater, and she literally drove me nuts. The sweater was this weird shade of pink like the color of a grapefruit, with these swirly black and white designs on it that sort of looked like penguins, if you think Picasso and/or a blender. I swear Dani pulled out every pair of socks I owned. Those would work if I had black shoes, but only if I had black shoes. These would work because they were almost the right color of pink and no one would notice anyway. And why not wear two different socks, start a trend? Seriously made me want to scream. She is always doing stuff that drives me crazy.
Dani and I have been best friends since the second grade when she ran, huffing and puffing, all the way across the playground, right up to me as I stood there, hands jammed in my pockets, waiting for Kenny Beck to get off the swing. I really didn’t care much about swinging, but I didn’t have anyone to play with, and I wanted on that swing. I wanted it bad. You know the feeling when you’re standing in line at the girl’s room in kindergarten, hopping from one foot to another, just hoping you’ll make it in time? I was intent on having that swing because I didn’t want to stand there like a big, friendless dork in front of the whole school.
Kenny Beck looked at me with a sneer and hooted, swinging higher. He wasn’t planning on getting off that swing anytime in the next century. Jerk , I thought. Little dorky twerp. My mind raced with all the names I could hurl at him, but I was too shy to utter a single one, so, I just stood there, shoving my hands
Zach reached over and placed his fingertips over my mouth. “Shhh,” he soothed. His eyes were so soft and approachable just then; I couldn’t look away or say a word. There were faraway places in his eyes. Worlds, even.
“Are you ready to read about Project Zero?” He asked.
Don’t ask me how or why, but at that moment, I believed, with every thread of my being, that Zach Webb indeed knew things. And as much as it scared the wits out of me, he probably did know everything about me. The only question was—how? And more importantly, why?
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I replied.
Floating
Project Zero: File 6-18-2008, Subject Tess Turner
My first thought: Am I dead?
Then, I start thinking about myself—not the boring stuff like my name, address, phone number, but like about me. I start thinking about what’s on the inside, like what, for example, makes me have thoughts to begin with. Why, for example, did I just think up the words, “Am I dead?” It’s because I’m very much alive. A dead person can’t have thoughts. And a dead person most certainly cannot think about having thoughts.
There’s something else I’ve discovered about myself. You’re probably not going to believe it. You might think it’s either really, really cool or really, really scary. But to me, it’s just normal. It’s normal, but somehow freaky all at the same time. I’m a walking contradiction, but that’s ok by me. It just means I’m complicated. And what would the world do without complicated things? Well, for one, we’d have nothing to analyze or discuss or argue about. In fact, we would all be pretty darn boring. When you get right down to it, it makes life sort of interesting, my being such a mixed up mess.
Don’t get me wrong—I’m not telling you this because I want to be analyzed. Because believe me, I do not like to be analyzed. That’s the last thing I need. My friend Dani is always analyzing things to death, and it drives me crazy. Like, once I was going through my sock drawer trying to pick out what to wear with my favorite sweater, and she literally drove me nuts. The sweater was this weird shade of pink like the color of a grapefruit, with these swirly black and white designs on it that sort of looked like penguins, if you think Picasso and/or a blender. I swear Dani pulled out every pair of socks I owned. Those would work if I had black shoes, but only if I had black shoes. These would work because they were almost the right color of pink and no one would notice anyway. And why not wear two different socks, start a trend? Seriously made me want to scream. She is always doing stuff that drives me crazy.
Dani and I have been best friends since the second grade when she ran, huffing and puffing, all the way across the playground, right up to me as I stood there, hands jammed in my pockets, waiting for Kenny Beck to get off the swing. I really didn’t care much about swinging, but I didn’t have anyone to play with, and I wanted on that swing. I wanted it bad. You know the feeling when you’re standing in line at the girl’s room in kindergarten, hopping from one foot to another, just hoping you’ll make it in time? I was intent on having that swing because I didn’t want to stand there like a big, friendless dork in front of the whole school.
Kenny Beck looked at me with a sneer and hooted, swinging higher. He wasn’t planning on getting off that swing anytime in the next century. Jerk , I thought. Little dorky twerp. My mind raced with all the names I could hurl at him, but I was too shy to utter a single one, so, I just stood there, shoving my hands
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