Induction Day: Book Two in the Butterman Travel Series by PK Hrezo Read Free Book Online Page A

again. Mom suggested I tone down the charcoal eyeshadow and blue-black mascara to promote a softer image, but Garth of all people advised I show my true self on camera—that I’m a regular teenager beneath the dark-glam colors. It was the first time she’s ever said anything I’ve agreed with. She even managed to convince my parents I should do the press release. I still can’t believe she’s here, staying in this house. If Mom can schmooze her over while she’s here, maybe I’ll get my Induction after all.
    Taming the last few black strands on top of my head, I gesture at my mirror to return to its digital discothèque screen saver, allowing industrial electronica to pulse my surround speakers at a low volume.
    The world is about to meet me. I take a deep breath . I can do this.
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    T he lighting along the ceiling of Butterman Travel’s front reception office is on full blast, drenching the room in fluorescence. A couple of reporters in black long sleeved thermals are making beverages at the espresso machine next to the hearth. I can tell they’re reporters by the control cuffs fixed to their wrists like bracelets to synchronize their hover-cams, not to mention the holo-badges projected at their left shoulders with the Worldwide News Network insignia.
    Mom and Dad are cornered by Garth at the hallway, nodding intently. Dad’s folding his bottom lip between his two fingers, like he always does when he’s concentrating or worrying. I approach them, focused on Garth’s airbrushed-like appearance.
    “Bianca, good morning,” she says, her voice bordering on bubbly. Her platinum locks are swept to one side over her shoulder like she just stepped out of a hair salon. “You had a chance to go over the digi-notes I streamed you?”
    I glance at Dad, who’s rubbing his chin now and looks like he may break out into hives.
    “Dad, are you okay?”
    “I will be.”
    Folding my arms over my black vinyl V-neck, I stare at Garth. “Are you sure about this? I mean, I wanted to say my peace, but maybe Tristan’s agent was right.”
    “Honey, Val Danforth knows what’s best for performing artists like Tristan,” Mom says in her even-toned voice. “This is different. Agent Garth has the best interest of our operation in mind.”
    By the look on her face, she believes it. Until about ten seconds ago, I wanted to believe it too. Before the Timeline Rewrite, Garth tried tricking my great, great grandfather Boris Butterman at Woodstock—so she could sabotage the Butterman biz and prevent our family time travel science from ever being discovered. That was the very reason Evangeline and Evan Butterman showed up in the first place, and they gave me every reason to believe Garth is no friend to this family. Well, they didn’t exactly say that, but they time traveled to 1969 from the distant future to make sure the Butterman CCL wasn’t interrupted, or else Butterman Travel may not exist today.
    I scan the office again, hoping to catch Tristan leaning up against the wall with a latte, but he’s nowhere to be seen. The WNN staff rustles around my desk, handling and moving items that don’t belong to them.
    “What are they doing?” I ask, closing in on the black-shirted guys.
    Mom follows. “They’re setting up for optimum background lighting.”
    “Don’t touch that,” I tell the freckled guy with my photo pyramid in his hands.
    “Sorry,” he says. “Better if no personal effects are in visuals. Producer’s orders.”
    “They won’t bother anything, Bianca,” Mom says. “Let them do their job.”
    I snatch the pyramid from the guy’s hands, wiping any fingerprints away from the digital display of six-year-old me with my dog, Nivarre—the only pet I ever owned.
    “We’ll be ready in five,” the other black shirt announces, readjusting the wireless mike at his ear, then moving backward while holding up a device to test the lighting. The hover-cam at his shoulder moves in sync with him to the corner of the