HEAR Read Free Page B

gone, along with my prospect of an Ivy League diploma. My prospect of any diploma.
    I didn’t fall into a depression exactly. It was more of an extended panic attack. And it was in the throes of this “I have no future” meltdown that my father stepped in. After lecturing me about responsibility and the need to think about “the consequences of your actions,” he promised he’d handle it. My father, a hedge-fund manager, is a guy who has a way with these things; if there’s an angle to work, he finds the corner. The Wall Street Journal even printed a cartoon of him in a wizard’s hat for his seemingly magical ability to make the stock market move in whatever direction he wanted.
    So a few days later, when Dad told me he’d indeed found a solution, I naturally assumed I’d be in New York City come fall as planned.
    I was wrong.
    The rest of his words came out in a jumble. Apparently I was heading to his alma mater, Henley University. Dad explained that his uncle Brian, a prize-winning professor at Henley, had a “gold card” there, which entitled him to one student admission—no questions asked—per year. If I was willing to participate in Uncle Brian’s research this summer, his gold card would go to me. “I know you had your heart set on attending Columbia, but people kill to go to Henley; just remember that.”
    I started crying.
    At least I think I did, because my normally unaffectionate father pulled me into a hug. Then he whispered on the top of my head, “Kassandra, everything will work out.”
    I started packing my bags for Henley. That was less than two days ago.
    Now, forty-six hours later, I am in my great-uncle’s office, trying to figure out what the hell is going on. Alex has fallen silent. Brian has crossed his arms across his chest. I am tempted to bolt, future or no future. I find myself leaning toward my bag.
    â€œRest assured, your dad’s on board with all of this,” Brian says. “A fair number of people object to my test subjects being minors. They find it controversial; they think I’m coercing subjects who don’t have the discernment to say no.”
    I stiffen like an animal that knows it’s trapped.
    â€œ You don’t feel like I’m coercing you, do you, Kass?”
    â€œNo. I’ll do whatever you need,” I reply, steeling myself. I hear my dad’s words: people kill to go to Henley. “Sounds like it’s going to be a lot of fun.”
    â€œWonderful,” Brian replies. “And don’t you worry; the electroshock treatment will only curl your hair temporarily.”
    â€œWhat?”
    Alex nudges me. “I, uh, think your uncle’s kidding, Kass.”
    Brian laughs. I start to laugh too, weakly—but then his lips press into a tight line.
    â€œI’ve kept you here long enough. There are two more things I must mention in all seriousness. Texting is a distraction, and it muddles brain function.”
    I open my mouth to object.
    â€œ You may protest, but you know it’s true,” he continues. “That’s why I ask that you limit the amount you text, doing it only when absolutely necessary.”
    Annoying.“Can I write letters?”
    â€œI don’t know,” he says. “Can you?”
    Really annoying. “ May I write letters?”
    â€œ Yes,” Brian answers. “To your friends. And this brings me to my second request. You’ll see on the release that I ask my subjects to refrain from contacting or speaking to their parents for the first six weeks of our program.”
    â€œAs if being here could get any better!” Alex exclaims.
    â€œThat won’t be a problem for you, will it, Kass?”
    It’s less a question than a statement. Brian knows very well that my parents are leaving later today for a business trip to China; it’s why they couldn’t drop me off themselves. He knows that