Ordinary

by Starr Z Davies

  7

  At the top of the stairs, I round the landing and crouch down in the corner behind the hallway bureau Mom uses to store extra towels. The lemony scent of furniture polish drifts up my nose as I press a hand against the side of the wood. It’s as smooth as glass. For a moment all is absolute deafening silence. I hold my breath, waiting for something to happen, though I’m not sure what. I know it’s my imagination, but it feels like my sense of hearing has heightened. Probably just from the adrenaline pumping through me.

  The familiar sound of creaking floorboards echoes up the stairs as my parents move in the entryway below.

  Dad breaks the silence, his voice so low I barely hear what he says. “I thought we made ourselves clear.”

  “Just open it, Gavin,” Mom says. Her voice sounds almost breathless, anxious. It doesn’t help my already pounding heart.

  The hinges on the front door creak as it opens.

  “I don’t suppose it’s a coincidence you’re here today,” Dad says in a tone I know too well. He’s ready for a fight, and if there’s one thing I know about my dad, it’s this—no one should want to ever try to pick a fight with him.

  Heels click on the hardwood floor near the door, and a familiar female voice says, “I’m merely here to follow up.”

  “You’re wasting your precious time,” Dad says. I can’t see downstairs from my hiding place, but I can picture my dad, arms crossed over his chest, which is puffed out stubbornly.

  “Far from it.” The moment she speaks, I realize who it is.

  Dr. Joyce Cass. And somehow my parents know her.

  “We told you before, he won’t be coming to Paragon,” Mom says. The strength in her voice surprises me.

  “I don’t think that’s up to you anymore,” Dr. Cass says. Her heels click on the floor again.

  I edge tighter against the white rail, hoping my shadow isn’t casting on the wall.

  “I’m not sure you fully understand just what your son has to offer—and I’m not just talking about our research. I’m talking about our society.”

  “We won’t let you torture our son in your tests,” Mom says.

  “Torture?” Dr. Cass laughs out the word. “Do you really think so little about the pursuit of knowledge and science? I hear he has an aptitude for our research. Perhaps if he helps us find a cure, we will be able to find a place for him in R&D.”

  My breath catches, and not with fear. But something unfamiliar—hope. Could there really be a solution to my problem?

  “You would be generously compensated, of course,” Dr. Cass goes on. “Your illness is progressing rapidly, Gavin. We could help. Paragon is on the brink of a breakthrough in curing illnesses like yours. You will be first in line.”

  Illness… No one said anything to me about Dad having an illness.

  “I’m already getting treatment.”

  “Ineffective treatment,” Dr. Cass says. “You know the injections will only slow the illness. Paragon could reverse it.”

  “If you get to experiment on our son,” Dad says flatly.

  “You can’t force Ugene to go with you or undergo more testing,” Mom says. “You don’t have the authority.”

  “Yet.”

  The word hangs in the air, and the implication is clear enough. Even for me. My heart drums so loud I’m afraid it will give me away, and I close my eyes to try and calm it.

  Dad’s voice lowers into a threatening growl. “You have some nerve—”

  “You knew this day was coming, Gavin,” Dr. Cass cuts him off. “It’s time. Give this to him. He can call me any time, day or night. I’m happy to answer his questions. But don’t wait too long.” Heels click again, and the door opens. “Ugene has the potential to save us all. Don’t let him waste that.”

  The door slams shut, and for a moment all is dead silence again. I can’t move a muscle, frozen in place. After everything that’s happened today, my mind is spinning. I can’t quite figure out how the pieces go together yet, but, if I really do have that much potential, Dr. Cass would be the one to know.

  “What do you think?” Dad asks.

  Mom sighs. “I don’t know, Gavin. She’s hiding something. I can’t read her. It’s like she’s mastered her mind and I can’t penetrate the barrier. But something is off.”

  Mom’s Psionic Telepathy ranks strong—89th percentile—and she works as a desk clerk in the Department of Social Welfare.

  “I don’t need Telepathy to know that,” Dad says. “But she will be back.”

  Mastery of the Mind is hard to accomplish, and usually, only Psionics can do it. Dr. Cass is a Naturalist, so if she has a barrier to block my mom, it wasn’t put there by her.

  I ease out of my hiding place and move to the top of the stairs.

  Mom leans against Dad, her head against his shoulder and his arms around her.

  Despite all the confusion in my mind, only one question comes out. “What illness was she talking about?”

  Both of my parents jump and turn their attention to me.

  “What…what dear?” Mom asks.

  “What illness? What treatments? Is that what you were doing when I came in?”

  Dad has always been a rock in my life. Unyielding sometimes, but that wasn’t always a bad thing. I chalked it up to him being a General. Despite the problems the two of us are having, I love him. He’s my dad. Even unyielding and harsh as he might seem, he cares about me—on some deeply buried level.

  “It’s nothing for you to worry about,” Mom says, moving toward the bottom of the stairs.

  “But it is. I’m part of this family still, right?”

  “Of course you are, sweetheart.”

  “Then tell me.”

  “Ugene, you can’t listen to that woman,” Dad says. “She can’t be trusted.”

  “But you need treatments,” I say. “Is Dr. Cass right? That you can’t get them without their help?”

  “No!” Dad’s hand falls on the railing, and it rattles under his grip. “You listen to me, Ugene. For once in your damn life, listen to me!”

  Mom places a hand on Dad’s other arm in an attempt at reassurance. “Gavin—”

  Dad barrels over Mom’s protest. “That woman is sneaky and slippery and conniving, and she won’t stop until she gets her way, no matter what.”

  “I am listening, Dad,” I say, taking a step toward the edge of the stairs. My hands clench into fists at my sides. “I’m listening to the fact that her offer has an expiration. And if the Proposition passes, I won’t have a choice, and you won’t be on that list.”

  “I don’t want to be on any list she has!”

  “Why are you so stubborn?”

  Dad says, eyes wide. “Go to your room.”

  “Typical. Can’t win, so you send me away. Fine. But Dr. Cass is right. This isn’t your choice.”

  I storm away to my room and slam the door.

  ~~~

  In middle school, I went from being the bright kid to the late bloomer to that Powerless kid. By the time I reached high school, most of my friends had moved on.

  Dad assumed the same as everyone else. One day my Power would manifest. I just hadn’t discovered one yet. He recognized my interest in the sciences, though, and for my fourteenth birthday, he bought me a secondhand microscope and slides set. He believed I’d develop a Power that would allow me to get a prestigious science job. Over the next four years, I collected odds and ends—glassware, tongs, and clamps, a chemistry set, measuring scales, slides—until the assembly grew so large I had to move it to the basement. Tonight, after my parents go to bed, I sneak down the stairs to my basement laboratory.

  The basement smells of an odd mixture of mildew and bleach. I do my best to keep my area sterile.

  I cross the barren floor to my metal desk littered with a dozen lab notebooks. Each contains information about my experiments with the different Branches of Power. So far, the only thing I have been able to discern about myself clearly is that my cells lack the linking mech
anism Dr. Cass became so famous for discovering. Somewhere in these notebooks, there has to be some clue I’ve missed, some answer to what gives me so much of the potential Dr. Cass sees.

  Of the four Branches of Power, each has its own unique linking mechanism; its own way of bringing the cells together to create just the right Power. One of my notebooks is filled with notes about Somatics. I begin digging for answers.

  Somatic cells bind together when abilities are activated. Not all the cells in their body, but only the ones connected to the physical ability. For instance, someone with Enhanced Touch would have cells that bind in a chain from the point of origin—say the fingertips—through the nerves that send the signals to the brain, enhancing the sensation. No matter how many times I’ve tested myself under a microscope, I haven’t been able to make it happen. The cells repel instead of bind.

  Through the course of my research, I’ve learned that Somatics have a cellular structure that responds differently to particular acidic chemicals. Because their bodies are more physically adaptable, they are more attuned to response than the other three Branches, which causes their cells to react. It wasn’t my breakthrough. Paragon published it years ago. In a few rare cases, the type of response generated can indicate the type of Somatic Power one has.

  When I learned this three years ago, I ran out and bought a chemistry set. I scraped off my cells and started testing them in every acidic chemical I could legally get. After months of testing and retesting, it was evident Somatic could be checked off the list. I would never develop a physical Power. Today’s review of the notes doesn’t reveal anything new. My scribbled comments, diagrams, and formulas all reach roughly the same conclusive results. I reach for the next journal.

  Naturalists are the most uniquely diverse Branch. The linking mechanism for them is fascinating. The Power to tune into nature and shape, mold, or heal it is directly connected to how the cells respond to the environment. For instance, someone with Natural Mutation—the ability to mutate energy or objects into something of similar natural energy—would have cells that bind with the energy or object itself during manipulation. It doesn’t change their body. It merely allows them to transform it into something else.

  When putting my cells against those from natural energy, nothing happens. I have two notebooks of various experiments to prove it, and today the notes lack just as much revelation as they did when I wrote them. No dots connect. I scrub through the next two journals looking for something, anything.

  Divinics and Psionics are somewhat similar in their recordable activation. Both are best tested by watching brainwave patterns to see which areas light up, and how brightly they do so. Of course, this makes them the hardest to prove at home because I don’t have access to the equipment necessary. Mr. Springer and I worked on a couple experiments, hooking up electrodes to record responses while doing various tasks. For instance, we recorded my brainwaves while testing cells—hoping for some hint at any of the Healing Hands abilities within the Divinic Branch. While he was impressed with how my brain lit up for certain parts of the test, none of them were even close to textbook indicative of Divinic ability. We also tested my brainwaves while I attempted to read his mind, testing for Psionic Telepathy. That came out to be a complete dud. Turns out I’m very creative, though.

  After years of research, I’m no closer to an answer than I was at the start. If anything, I’m farther away. This reality is nagging at me as I pour over the notebooks, hoping for something, anything, to rocket me on to answers. There must be some reason I’m so different.

  Frustrated, I thrust the notebooks away and sit back in the chair, fingers dragging down my face. I lace them together behind my head as my gaze falls on the diagrams of the Branches of Power stuck on the wall above my desk. Each diagram shows a complicated web of each Branch and the Powers within it. All of them have an X over them as I eliminated options.

  But I do have one option left.

  The only option, really.

  I sweep my journals off the desktop into a neat pile and peek under the metal desk for my messenger bag. It’s tucked back in the corner near the wall. I dig it out and stuff the notebooks inside, then head upstairs, tiptoeing all the way.

  8

  Dad’s snoring reaches all the way down to the kitchen, where I’m digging through the stack of mail on the table. The number of medical bills gives me pause, but that’s not what I’m after. I’m not even sure what it is I’m looking for. Dr. Cass gave my parents something, and my only assumption would be a business card.

  Nothing on the table is suspect, so I move on to the counter, searching everything on any surface as quickly and quietly as I can. A creak upstairs freezes me in place, and I hold my breath, listening, but the only sound to return is Dad’s snoring.

  I can’t find it. Everything is sickeningly normal. I brush my fingers against my fuzzy black hair and turn. Think. Think, Ugene. It must be somewhere. What would happen if I just walked into Paragon and asked for Dr. Cass? Would the people at reception know me like Devon did?

  Something in the trash reflects as I drop my hands, and I rush over. The red PD logo shimmers on the business card. But it’s only a logo. Frowning, I turn it over. Dr. Cass’s phone number is hand-written on the other side. Glancing over my shoulder, I pocket the card and drop the note I wrote for my parents on the table. Hopefully, they will understand I’m doing this for them.

  At the back door, I give the warm kitchen—with its modern wooden cabinets and granite countertop—another look, then turn off the light and slip out into the darkness.

  The scent of sarsaparilla reaches for me like a familiar caress as I make my way around the house. The Salas borough of Elpis is far enough from the heart of the city for the house to resemble houses and not compressed brick buildings. Regent Road is always quiet at this time of night, not quite midnight but still dark. Some of the neighbors’ windows are still lit.

  The houses on my street are in fair condition—all sided in different natural colors and trimmed in bold white. The smell of the gardens in a few of the sprawling front lawns has a calming effect on my nerves—jasmine, lavender, and spiderwort. The gray sided house beside ours has a freshly mulched bed of Sessile Bellwort, the bloom of the flower hanging its head as if in sympathy for my fate. Sarsaparilla cowers in tree beds on one side of the road, hidden by taller plants. But the smell is familiar. Like home.

  I turn right and start up the street. Trams don’t run as frequently at this time of night so far from downtown, so I’ll have to walk. Not that it matters too much. Once I’m far enough from home, I’ll make the call.

  “Ugene?” Bianca’s voice draws my attention toward her front porch. Even at night, the pink staghorn sumac is bright with color, weaving over the latticework that covers the porch crawlspace.

  Bianca glances back at her house before she stands from the steps and jogs down to me. Her eyes shift over the messenger bag strapped across my chest.

  I pause, captured by the way the moonlight casts luminous highlights and shadows over the contours of her heart-shaped face. “Hey.”

  “What brings you out so late?” she asks, smiling in a way that makes my heart race.

  The smile reminds me of the time when we were seven. Bianca had a thing about playing in puddles in the rain, but our parents wouldn’t let us out during the storm. As soon as it ended, Bianca was at my door in her rain boots, smiling like the sun. I remember the way rain clung to her clothes, and how her boots were coated with a layer of mud and water. She made sure to hit every puddle between her front door and mine on the way over, so by the time she arrived she was already half soaked. We spent the better part of the afternoon under cloudy skies, playing in the puddles and making mud castles. It wasn’t until Forrest pulled her home that the fun ended.

  “I’m just… hoping that a late-night stroll will give me some answers.”

  “To what?”

  Awkward silence settles. It’s apparent that the boy who splashed in pudd
les and was the knight to her mud castle kingdom was forgotten. Now, I’m nothing more than the Powerless boy across the street.

  “How did Career Day go for you?” I ask, trying to break past the uncomfortable feeling between us.

  “Great. A lot of prospects, I think. I’m looking forward to graduation tomorrow.” She glances at the house again, then pulls her hair over her shoulder and absently braids it. An old habit. “How about you?”

  “Um, I got a lead, so we’ll see I guess.”

  “Cool.”

  “Anyway.” I shift and glance up the road.

  “Right. Sorry. Enjoy your walk.” She moves back toward her porch, and I start back up the road. “I hope to see you tomorrow, Ugene.”

  I don’t for a second believe Bianca thinks she will actually see me tomorrow. We both know it isn’t true.

  Salas is peaceful. The only sounds are the night birds on the hunt, crickets, and the occasional hum of a vehicle as it passes down the road. Each time I hear the engine, I glance over my shoulder, praying it isn’t my dad. The houses are all quiet as the residents slumber, oblivious to my own inner turmoil.

  This has to be done. For my dad’s sake. For all of us. Maybe they won’t tell me what’s wrong, but it doesn’t mean I can’t help. Earlier today, I hesitated, unsure if volunteering for Paragon’s program was a good move. But if it really can help Dad, what choice do I have, really?

  The park at the edge of the Salas borough is simple. Swings, a slide, and a climbing wall for little kids. Bianca and I used to climb that wall. She was always better at it than me.

  I settle on a bench.

  For a few minutes, I just sit, leaning forward with the card in one hand and my phone in the other. Suddenly I understand what Dad meant when he told Dr. Cass it couldn’t be a coincidence. Paragon wants me. The convention center. The hard sell. The security. And when that failed, Dr. Cass showed up personally. The profound lack of trust my parents have toward her isn’t lost on me, and, as it all comes together, I wonder if I’m really doing the right thing. But something Dr. Cass said lingers.