“Mason and Cassie?” he interrupts. “As in your parents? Your parents are government agents?”
I frown. “Sorry,” I say. “I skipped that part.”
Matt shakes his head again, then runs a hand through his hair. I wait for him to say something, but he doesn’t, so I go on. I tell him about being adopted, which he says he knew from Audrey, and about living with nuns before the crash. I explain that no other bus kids live with agents, but since there was no family to relocate with me, they had to assign me to someone.
“Wait, they told nuns you were dead?” he interrupts again. I don’t mind; I like that he’s paying attention.
“They told the whole town of Bern that everyone on the bus was dead. The program is totally confidential.”
“But nuns? That feels especially wrong.”
“I guess lying to nuns is bad,” I say. “The funny thing is that God lied to them.”
Matt looks at me blankly until I remember that I haven’t shared that part yet, either.
“Oh, sorry,” I say. “I forgot about the nicknames. Because Revive brings you back from the dead, and that’s a God-like ability, the core group of agents started calling the program the God Project. They secretly dubbed the guy in charge God; they called themselves Disciples; and eventually, when they had human test subjects, they named us Converts. The nicknames stuck.”
“That is totally messed up.”
“I guess,” I say, shrugging. “Are you religious?”
“I believe in a higher power, if that’s what you mean,” he says. “But not necessarily religion.”
I nod but don’t comment. So much of religion seems to revolve around death and what happens when you die that being part of a program like Revive has made religion seem unnecessary to me. And come to think of it, not a lot of the science-possessed agents in the program are religious. But I still have faith. In that way, Matt and I are the same.
“Okay, enough God talk,” I say, sensing that I’m losing Matt. “I brought you in here in the first place to show you some of the program’s secret documents and stuff. To give you a better picture of what it’s like. To be honest, I thought maybe you wouldn’t believe me unless I showed you proof.”
He looks at me, surprised. “You thought I wouldn’t believe you?” he asks.
“I… I guess so,” I say, slightly embarrassed.
“Of course I believe you,” he says with a quiet intensity, holding my stare for a few moments. Electric currents seem to pass between us as we survey each other, and somehow the warmth I get from them makes this whole situation seem okay.
“But I still want to see the cool stuff,” Matt says finally, breaking the tension and with an easy smile. I laugh a little, then wave him closer.
“Drag that chair over here behind the computer. I’m about to blow your mind.”
nineteen
I wave my hand to activate the computer, then touch the monitor so it recognizes my fingerprints. It prompts me for a password and I say the first three-syllable word I think of: xenophobe. Matt chuckles because he probably thinks the password is real when, really, the computer just needs me to speak more than two syllables so that it can use voice-recognition software to verify my identity.
“Duck for a second,” I say to Matt. He looks at me funny but crouches down a bit, enough for the computer’s “eye” to scan just me. When it’s satisfied that I’m Daisy and not some imposter, the computer lets me into the directory for Program F-339145.
The God Project.
“They let all the kids in the program mess around in the files?” Matt asks.
“No,” I murmur as I navigate the welcome screens with my hands instead of a mouse. “Like I said, I’m the only one who lives with agents. Mason in particular is really open. He says that I’m almost an agent myself, and that I should be able to access information if I want to. He trusts me.”
“That’s so cool,” Matt says, mesmerized. I don’t answer, choking on the irony of my words.
I motion open the folder with the archived newspaper clippings from the Iowa crash. I choose the longest, most informative story, then scoot my chair aside so Matt can read.
I watch his chocolate eyes float back and forth across the screen. At first, they’re wide and bright: He’s engrossed in the story. Then they narrow, making him look pensive. Finally, when he winces and his face freezes in a pained, uncomfortable expression, I force myself to look away. With nothing else to look at, I read the story again myself.
TWENTY CHILDREN, DRIVER DEAD AFTER BUS CRASH ON HIGHWAY 13
By Jolie Papadopolis, Staff Writer