by Sean Platt
But I can’t tell Trudy what really happened. She has no idea that my dad and I are special.
And the last thing I want is some doctor examining me. What if they find something abnormal, something that tells them about my gift, or gifts?
On the rare occasion that I do need to see a doctor, Dad takes me to ones that he’s already screened. Ones who work with people like us, and have a deal with the government to keep our secret.
So, no, Aunt Trudy, a walk-in clinic will not work.
It was weird enough to try and explain to the nurse that my eardrums were fine, even though they’d ruptured and blood was spilling from them just ten minutes before. Heck, I don’t even know how that happened. I’ve always healed fast, but not that fast. I didn’t feel any pain in my ears, and I’m sure that’s not normal.
We pull onto our street.
“Want to go to my house or yours?”
Either way, she’s coming with me. If I go home, I can head up to my room and pretend to sleep. If I go to her house, she’ll want me to sit in the living room with her. That’s always awkward. Usually, I’ll read or do homework while she sits and watches TV. She hasn’t worked in years, living off an inheritance from her mother along with a few smart real estate investments. She spends most of her time either watching TV or hitting the gym. But if the power’s out at her house, then we’ll be forced to talk.
“My house, please.”
“Okay,” she says.
**
It’s been five and a half hours since we came home and one hour since the power came back on. I’m lying in bed reading The Talisman by Stephen King, trying not to think about what my father will say when he gets home.
I hear the door open behind me.
I turn around to see Dad standing there in his black suit and pants, his face serious like he knows more than whatever the nurse told Aunt Trudy. “What happened?”
I’m not sure how to tell him.
He’s lectured me countless times, whenever we moved to a new place, warning me how important it is that I never tell anyone about my gift.
“If you see something’s about to happen, make sure you’re safe, but do not intervene. Ever.”
Most people don’t know that our kind exist. It would mean big problems for us if they did, not to mention the secret government program my father works for.
I can’t imagine how he’s going to react when he learns that seeing things isn’t my only gift. And that I allowed so many witnesses to see me.
I hedge around it, talking about my migraines, but he rolls his finger: get to the point.
Does he already know?
If so, the buildup will only anger him. My father, John Shepherd, isn’t exactly known for his patience.
“I think I caused the power outage.”
He sits on the edge of my bed. “Why do you think that?”
I’m struggling not to get emotional. Dad doesn’t like tears. He doesn’t know how to deal with them. He says they make you weak, and that the weak are easy prey.
“Because I could feel it building inside me,” I tell him about the humming, how it was similar to when something bad is about to happen, but this time it was different. I explain it all: the immense pain, the building pressure, and the explosion inside me that happened at the same moment as the power went out.
He’s staring at me. I can’t read his expression. He looks like he’s trying to decipher a foreign language printed on my skin.
“Is this the first time this has happened?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Can you do it again?”
“Again? I don’t ever want to feel something like that. Ever.”
“What were you feeling before this happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? You weren’t feeling anything? You were just mindlessly wandering the cafeteria?”
I tell him about what happened with Rick — the bully at the bus stop. I tell him how I was worried that I might’ve messed things up for Timmy or me.
“What have I told you about getting into fights?”
“I can’t just sit by and let him ridicule Timmy every day!”
“Has he ever hit Timmy?”
“He pushed him!”
“But did he hit him? Was Timmy actually attacked?”
“No.”
“Then you don’t need to get involved. If Timmy’s not man enough to stand up for himself, that’s his problem, not yours.”
“So, I’m supposed to sit by and let a bully pick on my best friend?”
“Find new friends. Here, I’m going to make it easy for all of us: I forbid you from seeing Timmy anymore.”
Dad stands and heads for the door.
“What?” I cry out. “Where is this coming from?”
Dad wasn’t warm and cuddly, but he was rarely a jerk.
Why is he acting like this?
Dad turns, gets in my face, and bores his blue eyes right into mine. “Rick is right, Timmy is a pussy, and I don’t want my son hanging out with pussies.”
I stand, feeling an energy ripple through me. Anger, mixed with something else.
And then I hear the hum.
No, not again.
I close my eyes.
Dad pushes me back onto the bed. “Ah, I see he’s made you a pussy too.”
I open my eyes, glaring at him. How can he talk like this to me? Why is he being such an asshole? A bully?
“What?” He smirks. “You going to do something, Ben?”
I don’t get it. It’s as if Dad is channeling one of the jerks in school. Like they jumped into his body and took control.
I don’t like it.
The energy starts coursing through me.
My head is pounding.
I hear the broadcasts again, a chaotic mix of music, voices, and beeps. A static that grates like sandpaper against my rawest nerves.
The pressure is building, the sounds growing louder, though not piercing like before.
“Come on, Benny,” Dad laughs. “Do something.”
I hate when people call me Benny.
I stand back up and without even thinking, I shove him, hard.
As my hands touch him, I feel another, smaller explosion inside.
He stumbles backward, and my room falls into darkness.
The power is out.
The house is still.
My dad laughs as he goes to the window and opens the blinds to the darkness outside.
Not a single light in any of the houses for as far as we can see.
He turns and stares at me, eyes wide, a rare smile claiming his face.
He wasn’t being mean. Dad was coaxing me to cause another power outage, to determine if I was truly capable of what I’d imagined.
“I think we’ve found your real gift.”
“No, I don’t want this.” I shake my head. “I don’t want any of these gifts!”
It was bad enough that I picked up on people’s thoughts I didn’t want, had visions that didn’t help me and only made me anxious, but whatever this is, being overwhelmed and causing power outages, this is too much.
I turn and fall on my bed, punching the mattress, screaming.
I feel his hand on my shoulder, and think he’s going to turn me around and lecture me on allowing my emotions to escape me.
But my father hugs me instead.
And despite my best efforts, I cry.
He pats my back as he holds me tight. “It’s going to be okay, Ben.”
I let years of pent up emotions flow free — years of feeling like a freak, of never having known my mother, years of not having friends or anyone to share my real feelings with.
It all comes out.
He holds me tighter, repeating, “It’s going to be okay.”
For the first time, I get the sense of a despair my father must’ve been feeling all this time, too. Raising a boy on his own, working at a job where his life was always in danger. Emotions were a luxury he couldn’t i
ndulge in, so he taught his son to be tough like him.
But now, as he holds me, I feel like he might be crying too.
I wonder if he’s crying because he’s happy to bond with me at this moment, or sad. Maybe he’s been dreading this day for years, the moment I’d be doomed just like him by our curse.
He finally pulls away, but it’s so dark in my room that I can’t tell if his eyes are wet.
“There’s a place that can help you.”
“What place?”
“The school where I went. A place where you can be yourself. A place that will teach you to control your gifts.”
* * * *
CHAPTER 3
Ben Shepherd Age 12
Two weeks later…
Anchor Harbor, Washington
We’re driving up to the school in Anchor Harbor, about one hour north of where we live, and I’m doing my best not to be anxious. I try to find peace in the tall trees flanking the road as far as we can see.
Dad told me that the school is a great place. Private, and for “gifted” children. I asked why he never mentioned it before, and he said that my gifts weren’t as pronounced before. As far as he’d known, I was only “slightly gifted.” But now that he knows what I can do, the school will be eager to help me.
Between the lines, I see what he really means: now that he sees the damage I can cause, the school is the only place that can help me.
“You went to this school?” I ask, even though I know.
“Yes. For six years. They helped me get my powers under control.”
“What are your powers? Can you tell me now?”
He smiles, scratches the cleft in his chin, then says, “Similar to yours. I’m a telepath. I see things. But, this electricity thing, I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Except when he says it, his mouth isn’t moving.
I look at him confused.
Did you just talk into my head?
“Yes,” he says, his mouth still not moving, “I can communicate on another level.”
Can you read my mind?
I imagine all of the horrible thoughts over the years he might’ve been privy to, and my face feels hot. Then I think of the embarrassing ones.
Now he talks with his mouth. “Don’t worry, Ben. I’m not always reading your mind. I give you your space.”
“You can just turn it on and off?”
“Yes.”
“And that’s what you do for your job? They have you spying on people?”
“You know I can’t go into details. But, yes.”
“So, you’re a spy? Cool!”
He smiles.
“Will I be able to do the same thing?”
“I’m not sure. That’s what the school will help you figure out. Every Deviant is different, but some abilities run in families, with generational and other variations, of course.”
“Deviant? There’s a name for what we are?”
“One of many. But yes.”
We drive in silence.
I stare out the window, seeing a deer and a fawn on the roadside ahead.
Dad starts to slow in case they jump in front of us.
Instead, the deer dart into the woods.
“How long do I have to live here?” I ask, trying to be strong.
“You’re not living here. You’ll come home on weekends and holidays. I’ll also come up to see you whenever I’m able.”
“But how long? You said you were here six years. I don’t want to live here for six years.”
“As long as it takes to get your gifts under control.”
I turn my face back to the window. I’ll cry if I don’t.
At first, I was excited to meet other kids like me, and maybe finally fitting in. But that was before I knew it was a boarding school. It’s not like I see my dad all that much during the week. He’s always working late, and I spend more time with Aunt Trudy. But still, now we’re a two-hour drive apart. The school may as well be in another state. And what if Dad has to move again for his job? For all I know, he could wind up in Florida next month, and weekend visits will be out of the question.
“What if I don’t like it? Can I come home?”
Dad sighs. “You can’t go to a regular school. Not until you can control yourself. It’s just not safe. For you or the other kids.”
“I wouldn’t hurt anyone.”
“I’m not saying you would, but you also don’t know the full extent of your powers. What you’ve seen so far might be just the beginning.”
Just the beginning?
I swallow.
“Will the headaches get worse? I’m not sure I can take that.”
“They’ll help you with that.”
“Did you get headaches?”
“Sometimes. But I don’t think they were as bad as yours.”
“Great.”
Another sigh. “Listen, Ben. There are two ways to roll with this. You can dwell on all the negatives: how things are going to change, how you won’t be home, and how you won’t see your old friends. Or you can choose to see the opportunities ahead: a chance to start over, a chance to be with other kids like you, a chance to determine your future. Like I said, ninety percent of life is interpretation.”
I say nothing.
We’re pulling up to a giant set of wrought iron gates. A black oval circle set in the concrete column to the right of the gates reads The Academy for Talent and Distinction.
There’s a small guard’s building in front. A man in uniform approaches my father’s side of the car.
I note his holstered gun and wonder how many schools greet you at the gate with a weapon.
This place is going to suck.
* * * *
CHAPTER 4
Ben Shepherd Age 12
I’m in line for the snack bar, eying the freshly baked cookies, thinking that so far, four days in, the school doesn’t suck as much as I’d imagined.
It feels more like a vacation. My room, in one of the six dorms, is all mine. It has everything I could want — a bed, a bathroom with a shower, my own mini-fridge and microwave, a Nintendo and a small TV, along with a VCR and access to a library of movies, including some R-rated ones.
The campus is massive — more like a tiny village than a school. There are three in all: an elementary, a middle, and a high school, all ringed around a giant courtyard where kids mingle between classes and at night for social events.
I’ve yet to make any friends, let alone really talk to anyone, but I’m still going through the orientation process, meeting with people who are giving me all sorts of tests, most of them medical and involving blood work, along with an endless battery of questions about my gifts.
I’m supposed to start classes next week, and I’m actually looking forward to it.
I take my cookie and carton of milk to the courtyard, looking for a place to sit that will give me a good view of others, without attracting attention. The circle is composed of gardens, gazebos, and cobblestone paths.
I stay along the outer edge, finding a bench in front of a corner created by two bordering hedgerows.
I sit with my back to the tall bushes, take a bite of the cookie, warm and oozing with buttery chocolate goodness, and look out across the courtyard.
It’s three fifteen and students drift out of their classes still wearing their school uniforms: boys in blue pants with white shirts, girls in plaid skirts or blue pants with white shirts, some wearing navy sweaters with the school’s crest embroidered over their hearts. Some kids are sitting on benches like me, drinking sodas or eating snacks. Others are playing hacky sack or Frisbee. A few of the artier kids are painting or drawing, and a girl with long black hair is playing a sad song on the violin.
I’m surprised that none of the kids are using their gifts. I’m not sure what I expected to see, maybe some kids playing football, one of them teleporting to catch a long pass while another shoots a fireball at the ball.
But there doesn’t seem to be any magic here
. The young teacher, Miss Marlena who took me on a tour and laid out the ground rules on Day One, told me that using one’s powers outside the curriculum is frowned upon.
Some of the kids must ignore the rules, right?
It is a school, after all. And what’s a school without the class clowns, rule breakers, and boundary pushers?
A kid in a cobalt blue jacket dives to catch a Frisbee, and before he hits the ground manages to flick his wrist and fire it back to the guy who threw it.
Impressive.
I keep eating the cookie, wishing I’d bought two. I wonder how Timmy is doing. My father let me call to tell him I was going to a private school, but wouldn’t let me say anything more. Timmy asked if it had to do with the power outages. I hated not being able to tell him the truth, but I lied, saying no, it was some academy my father had gone to, which was nearly impossible to get into, and a position had recently opened.
I’m not sure if Timmy bought it, but like a good friend, he read between the lines and didn’t press the issue.
“Will I see you anymore?”
“I’ll be home on weekends, I think,” I said. “Don’t worry. You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”
“It’s not going to be the same without you, Ben. But good luck.”
Then he hung up, and I’m pretty sure he was crying.
I wonder if he’s found another friend. Or if the bullies are picking on him even more now that I’m not there to intervene.
While my mind was wandering, my eyes settled across the courtyard, just past a group of girls sitting on a grassy spot, to the bench behind them, where a girl is sitting alone. She’s wearing glasses and has super long red hair. She has a large book in her lap and is either writing or drawing — it’s hard to tell from here.
I’m not sure why, but I can’t look away.
It’s not like she’s so beautiful I can’t help but stare. She may very well be, but I’m too far to know something like that.
Her hand moves back and forth in a sweeping motion on her page. Yes, she’s definitely drawing.