I lock my stare on him for a moment until he removes his elbow and I lift up on the locker, swinging the door open with a creak.
“Ah,” I say. “I kind of guessed that from the jacket.”
I hope that this is the end of the conversation, but as I straighten up with an armful of books against my chest, I see that the boy is still there, staring me down. I sigh.
“My name’s Shaun Boding -” I start, but Tyson interrupts me.
“I already know who you are,” he says. “Your dad is the guy who wrote those Super Guy comics. Everyone’s talking about it.” From the string of words that are coming out of the boy’s mouth, it sounds to me like he’s trying to make a good first impression. To cozy up to me. But, the tone in which he speaks those words betrays the sentiment. I’m not really sure what he’s after.
I close my locker and turn to face the boy head on.
“Yeah,” I say. “That’s me. Do you want a signed copy or something? Because that’s not going to happen since my father has been dead for a year.”
“I don’t want an autograph,” says Tyson, pushing his face closer to me, his lower jaw jutting out in an intimidating way. “I bet you think that because of your father’s fame that people are going to fall all over themselves for you. But, I’ve got news for you. Nobody’s going to be doing any of that because the only person they celebrate around here is me.” He jabs a finger against his chest and it gives a thick thud. That chest is all muscle. I’m sure the guy could break me in half if he wanted to.
I slip my backpack off my shoulder and drop the books into it.
“I think you’re confused,” I say. “I’m not here to stay. I’m only here for about a month and then I’m headed as far away from this place as I can get.”
“You better be,” says Tyson, his brows low over his eyes. “Consider this your only warning. Around here, football is what makes men into legends. This is my last year, and there’s no way in hell that I’m going to stand by while some celebrity wannabe takes attention away from my reign.”
I roll my eyes.
This guy is completely delusional. I would tell him so, but I figure that would only make things worse for me. Instead I throw my backpack on my shoulder and go to leave.
“Don’t worry,” I say. “I’m not here to cause any waves.”
Tyson raises a hand and stops me in my tracks. The hand is strong like a cinder block. He fixes his stare right at me.
“You better not,” he says. “Because if you do, you’re gonna pay for it.”
He punches his fist into his open palm and I jump a little.
Then he turns and disappears into the throng of students bustling down the corridor.
I stand there in front of my locker for a few moments, stunned. I raise my eyebrows.
“Well,” I mutter to myself, not even caring if anyone hears me. “One day down. Only twenty nine God-forsaken days left.” I glance up at the ceiling, imagining my father up in the clouds somewhere staring down at me. I shake my head with that sinking feeling settling in my stomach.
“I don’t know how you survived here, Dad,” I say.
I turn to leave my locker, but I barely get a single step into the hallway when I barrel into someone who was trying to hurry past me. Books go flying everywhere and the person is knocked to the floor, landing with a thud that stops the flow of traffic for a moment.
I rush to pick up the books and papers, my cheeks getting red from all the eyes giving me judgmental looks.
“I am so sorry -” I start to say. Then I look up at the girl who I bumped into.
She’s getting to her feet, brushing her golden hair out of her face.
“It’s fine,” she says as I hand her the books.
We make eye contact for a moment. I’m sure I look stupid with my mouth hanging open. What can I say other than I’m sorry? I’m an idiot.
The girl gives me a quick smile, then she turns and heads off down the hallway.
I smack my hand against my forehead.
I didn’t even introduce myself, or more importantly, get her name.
She probably thinks I’m a freak after this, anyway. Perhaps it’s better if she doesn’t know my name.
I groan.
“Such a good first impression,” I mutter.
I gather up my things and then head to class.
7
An Old Relic
Even though I just want to be left alone, I am forced to attend dinner downstairs.
Grandma has spread out everything into bowls. There is mashed potatoes, slices of cooked roast beef, and some gravy, and peas.
Grandpa folds his hands as I grudgingly take my seat.
“Let’s say grace,” he says, and I close my eyes, trying not to look too baleful as the blessing is said. Afterwards, Grandpa concludes with an amen and the bowls get passed around.
“So, Shaun,” says Grandma as she ladles some peas onto her plate. “How was your first day at Pine Grove?”
I snort.
“Awful,” I say.
Both her and Grandpa raise their eyebrows, giving each other glances.
Grandpa takes the bowl from her and dishes out his own peas, his attention turning to me.
“Surely you made at least one friend,” he asks, but I shake my head.
“Nope,” I reply. “Not a single friend. But, thanks for asking.”
Grandpa finishes filling his plate and sets down the utensils with a frown.
“Now, I find that very hard to believe,” he says.
I set my own silverware down, spilling peas onto the tablecloth that go rolling everywhere. The clink of the china is a little louder and sharper than I meant it to be, but there’s no stopping it. Grandpa decided to dig at this wound, and now it’s open.
“From where I’m standing, I don’t find it hard to believe,” I say, staring him dead in the eye. “As far as all these country hicks are concerned, I’m just a stuck up rich kid with a dead father, crying for attention. I’m the troublemaker. That’s why I was sent here, isn’t it? So, they’re right. Even if I try to tell them otherwise, they’re right.”
I push back in my seat and press my hands against my eyes. I can feel a headache coming on and it’s not going to be pretty.
I go to reach for my glass of ice water and miss, knocking it with the back of my hand and sending the water spilling everywhere. Before I can scramble and pick the glass back up, the table is soaked.
“Great,” I groan. I’m making messes that Grandma is going to have to clean up. I’m probably not capable of even cleaning up my own disasters.
I push my chair back with a screech and get to my feet.
“I’m sorry, Grandma. I’m not really hungry.”
I go to turn and head up to my room, but Grandpa gets to his feet, stepping in my way.
“You might not be hungry,” he says, “but, you’re not dismissed. Now, go get some paper towels from the kitchen and help clean this mess up.”
He doesn’t say it in an angry voice, but it’s the stern tone that I hear him use when he means business, so I listen to him. I get the paper towels from the kitchen, spun on one of those wooden rollers, and return to sop up the spilled water. It takes a few minutes before things look relatively back to normal, and I throw the wet paper towels in the trash and return to my seat.
Grandpa waits for me to be settled, then he cuts some of his roast beef and takes a bite.
“I know you’re upset,” he says. On the other end of the table, Grandma gives me a soft smile, folding her hands in front of her as if she were preparing to pray. Grandpa continues, chewing on his food. “But, I need to tell you something that I told your father a long time ago. It helped him, and I’m hoping that it will help you, too.”
I cross my arms.
“Alright,” I say. “I’m listening.”
Grandpa looks me in the eye and suddenly his serious expression melts away. He grins and lets out a chuckle.
“What?” I say. “Wha
t’s so funny?”
Grandpa takes out his napkin and wipes at his mouth.
“It’s just that you look so much like your father when you make that expression,” he says. Grandma also starts to laugh.
At first I want to tell them that they’re being stupid, but then I realize that they knew my father even better than I did. I need to lighten up a bit. I try to hide the smile, but their own laughter is infectious.
“You mean he looked like a jerk when he was angry, too?” I ask.
“Not a jerk,” says Grandma. “A teenager.”
I feel my cheeks go red and lower my head a bit.
“Believe it or not,” Grandpa goes on. “Your father wasn’t a star in high school. He wasn’t the most popular kid there was. He might have been incredibly popular when he grew up and became a publishing sensation, but in school?” He scoffs. “Jeff was as gangly and hard-headed as you.”
Grandpa reaches out and rubs my hair, and I pull away.
“Grandpa!” I say. “Now my hair’s all messy…”
He smirks.
“What I told your father all the way back then is that it doesn’t matter what other people think of you. They don’t have to like you. More than likely they’re going to hate you. But, none of that matters, if you don’t let it. Shaun, you need to love yourself. You need to believe in yourself, and once you do, there’s nothing you won’t be able to do.”
I give my grandfather a look.
“And that really worked for Dad?” I ask.
Grandpa gets to his feet, pushing his chair back, and he heads over to a cabinet in the corner of the dining room. It’s the kind with glass doors and shelves filled with knick knacks that my grandmother collected over the years. He opens the bottom door and takes out something, then closes the door and returns to the table.
“You tell me,” he says.
Then he hands me a square of folded fabric. It’s thick and heavy and sewn together.
I unfold the square slowly and realize that it isn’t just a hunk of different colors all patched together. This is a football jacket - a letterman. On the shoulder I can see my father’s last name stitched in bold text, and on the chest is the high school insignia.
“Dad played football?” I say. My jaw is dropped. Dad never once mentioned playing football in high school to me.
“Well,” says Grandpa, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his chin. “He tried to play. It was only one season, and he was on the bench the entire time. But, your father had dreams of being a football player. Sure, he was only a replacement. But, he worked hard and built himself up until the coaches had no choice but to put him on the team his senior year.” Grandpa looks over at Grandma. “Maybe I’m remembering incorrectly. Did he play in any games that your recall, Theresa?”
Grandma is just finishing taking a sip of her water when she nods.
“I think he played in one game,” she says. “He was so proud.”
“And we were proud of him,” Grandpa agrees. “Even if he was only on the field for five minutes,” he adds with a wink.
I continue to admire the jacket. To think that my father was probably my age when he received it and wore it… I never really thought of my father as a young man. He was always the wise older man who brought me to conventions or snuck me out of school to take me to a matinee movie.
I stand up and pull the jacket over my shoulders, sliding my arms inside. The jacket fits nearly perfect. Dad had to be a bit more built than me back then because it’s a little slack in the shoulders, but otherwise it’s a perfect fit.
“Can I keep this?” I ask. I feel something permeating from the jacket. It’s like an energy. It makes my hair on my arms ripple.
Grandpa nods.
“Why do you think I brought it out?” he asks. “I thought this could be a reminder of what your father achieved when he faced adversity around here. He ignored the bullies and accomplished what he wanted. Come to think of it, I’m sure he would have wanted you to have it. It was up in a box collecting dust when he moved out. Your grandmother found it and thought it deserved to be preserved down here. Now it’s yours.”
I straighten the jacket a bit and walk over to the mirrored cabinet to see how I look. The green and gold colors make me look almost regal. I was never really a sports person, besides an ill-advised time where I tried to do the long jump in track. But, this jacket makes me look like I am a normal guy. It makes me feel like I fit in somewhere in this back woods place.
A sigh escapes my lungs and I turn to my grandparents.
“Thank-you for this,” I say. “It really means a lot to me. Now I feel like Dad is really with me.”
A twinkle appears in Grandpa’s eyes and he holds his gaze on me for a few moments. Then he snaps out of it and settles back into his seat.
“Anyway,” he says, picking up his utensils. “We better eat before this food gets cold.”
I finish straightening up the jacket and take a seat. My appetite has returned.
8
In The Deep
The next morning I pull on my father’s football jacket, full of confidence, and step out onto the front porch to find a boy standing at the bottom of the steps, waiting for me. He is pudgy with dark hair and thick-rimmed glasses that remind me of JJ Abrams.
I stop halfway down the steps.
“Can I help you?” I say. “My grandma is inside if you’re looking for her...”
The boy lets out a small, forced laugh and shifts his stance on the stone walkway self-consciously.
“I’m here to meet up with you, actually.”
I stare at him blankly, blinking once.
“I don’t follow,” I reply.
The boy holds out his hand.
“You don’t remember me, do you, Shaun?” he says. “Robby Collins? I live a few houses over? We used to play together in the summer at the lake.”
I feel stupid now. The memories of running around the neighborhood as a kid come flooding back and I bring a hand to my forehead.
“Of course, Robby. I remember you,” I say. I shake his hand briefly and step down onto the walkway. “Are you my chaperone of something?” I ask. “Because something tells me that it’s not a coincidence that you just appear on my grandparent’s doorstep.”
“You would be correct on that one,” Robby explains as we begin to walk to the edge of the drive. “Your grandma called my mom when she found out that you were going to be staying here, and long story short, I heard about your rough day yesterday.”
I groan.
“Word travels fast here,” I mutter.
We continue onwards on the walk to the school. Our shoes crunch on the gravel on the side of the road.
“Don’t worry,” says Robby. “I’m not here to judge. I’m just here for moral support.”
“Great,” I reply. I’m going to stick out like a sore thumb with this guy.
___
As we walk, the silence doesn’t last for long. Robby claps his hands together and breaks the rhythmic crunching of gravel beneath our sneakers.
“So, I’m not trying to be a super nerd or anything, but I gotta ask...what is the Vestige? I mean, the series that your dad wrote isn’t finished yet, but you must know something. Does it really come from space?”
I close my eyes for a moment. I can’t be mad at Robby for asking about the series. It’s most likely the first thing on many people’s minds when they meet me. Everyone wants insider secrets, but I really have none. I try to appear like the questioning doesn’t irritate me and shake my head.
“Honestly, I have no idea what it is, or even where it came from. Dad never told me, and I don’t even think he wrote it down. If he did it’s probably locked up in his publisher’s office in Boston.”
“Ah,” says Robby, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well, I had to ask, you know, to get it out of my system.” He clears his throat. “Sorry if it was insensitive.”
I look over at Robby this time, struck by that last statement. He
sounds sympathetic, which is not something I’m used to. The only people sympathetic towards me lately are my grandparents. Even then, it feels kind of mandatory. Robby, on the other hand, has no reason to feel bad for me and my situation. He didn’t know my dad, really.
But, here he is, not making eye contact, with his head down.
I give a short smile.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say.
This gets him to lighten up a bit. We continue on down a pathway leading out to the lake. There’s a short cut around the lake front that bypasses the curving back roads of the country. It’s peaceful out here and I’m thankful for that. The water laps against paddle boats anchored just off shore and birds flit from tree to tree overhead.
“I bet there’s nothing like this in the city,” says Robby.
“Not really,” I say. “We have parks, but nothing this spread out.”
“It would suck to not be able to go swimming,” says Robby as he snatches a dry branch from a tree trunk with a snap and waves it around like a wand.
I glance out at the sparkling water.
“I don’t know how to swim,” I admit.
“Get out of here!” says Robby, aiming his stick in my direction. “You mean a city boy like you can’t swim at all?”
“Nope.” I pick up a rock and throw it into the nearby water. “Not even the doggy paddle.”
“Well, you have to learn,” Robby insists as we come to the start of a footbridge that zig-zags over a rocky area of the shore. “It’s an essential skill to have in your arsenal.”
I laugh.
“I’m only going go be here for a month,” I say.
“Still.” Robby chucks his stick into the lake like a spear. It disappears into a deep area where the lake bed has dropped steeply. The water is dark. “You can learn before you head back to the city. You never know when it might come in handy.”
We continue on across the winding footbridge. Its wooden planks are bleached from the changing seasons. I’m just about to end the subject with a ‘maybe’ when I see a small group of boys up ahead.
Aberrant Trilogy 1: Super Charged Page 4