by Jason Parent
I should have done more then. I should have taken him out of that home and out of school, at least for a while longer, away from those he had hurt and those who wished to hurt him. I failed Glenn, and I failed the boy who shot him. Two lives ruined, all because of my inaction.
She stared at the smooth wood of the Mastersons’ front door, convinced she had a moral duty to help Tessa Masterson, even if her official duties prohibited it. Yep, I’m bound to get fired over this. She shrugged. No one knew she was there, not even her boss and partner. Given the delicacy of her work, Gloria preferred to keep things that way. Whatever negative consequences would come her way, she was willing to accept them. She couldn’t live with herself if something happened to Tessa while she sat back and did nothing. She rang the bell.
Tessa opened the door and gaped at Gloria. She paled and asked, “What are you doing here?”
“Who’s at the door, Tessa?” a man asked from somewhere inside the house.
Gloria assumed the voice belonged to Christopher Masterson, the girl’s father. She tried to catch a glimpse of the man she’d come to see by peeking around Tessa. The teenager closed the door to a crack.
“It’s no one, Father,” Tessa replied. She bit her thumbnail as she turned toward the voice.
“No one doesn’t ring the doorbell,” he said with a hint of irritation. “I’ll ask again. Who’s at the door?”
“A friend from school. She was just leaving.”
The look Tessa gave her made clear that she wished it were so. “Leave,” Tessa whispered. “Quick. Please,” she whined, appearing on the verge of tears.
A moment later, the door swung all the way open. A man stood behind Tessa. No more than five-ten, with thick-rimmed glasses set high upon a crooked nose and a widow’s peak that made him look a little like the Count from Sesame Street, Christopher Masterson wasn’t particularly intimidating. He looked thin, almost feeble, as if he wouldn’t put up much of a fight against most men his age. Only the weak prey on the weak.
Still, something about the way he stood there, staring at her as if measuring her, made Gloria shiver. She tried to figure out what she saw in his eyes that was so creepy until she realized that it was what she didn’t see. His eyes were flat and dead.
Gloria was determined to have the stronger will. And if push came to shove, she could shove pretty hard. I can’t let this guy intimidate me. I won’t.
He stepped in front of Tessa and extended his hand to Gloria. “Christopher Masterson.”
She shook his dry hand and released it as quickly as possible without being rude. “Gloria Jackson. I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Masterson.”
“Please, call me Chris.”
“Certainly, Chris. I’m your daughter’s guidance counselor at Carnegie High School. May I come in to speak with you about Tessa?”
“Tessa didn’t tell me I should be expecting you. Is she in some kind of trouble?”
“No, not at all,” Gloria said, smiling reassuringly at Tessa.
Tessa slunk away like a beaten dog, disappearing into the house. Gloria’s students never did have much faith in her to do her job. Most children of abuse saw no escape from it.
Chris didn’t seem to notice his daughter’s fearful behavior as he gestured for Gloria to enter. “Come in, but please take your shoes off.” The corner of his mouth curled wryly. “First rule of the house.”
Gloria stepped into the foyer and slipped off her shoes, grateful that she hadn’t worn ones with laces that would take time to get on and off. Then, she followed Chris deeper into the house, having already lost sight of the girl she had come to help.
Chapter 12
The doorbell rang, and Michael raced out of his room and down the stairs. With the allowance he made from doing chores around the house, he often ordered comic books over the Internet, which he burned through faster than he could earn the money to buy more.
He nearly hip-checked Helen out of his way, smiling as he shouted, “I got it!”
Helen frowned, but he didn’t care. Comic books were his escape, his chance to live in a world where he didn’t have to worry about his foster parents rejecting him, school bullies attacking him, or other kids making fun of him. In those comics, he wasn’t alone but part of a team of superheroes fighting the bad guys of a simpler reality. In those comics, he was strong and admired, not the weak little freak everyone thought him to be. He ripped open the door and grabbed the package out of the startled mailman’s hand.
The guy laughed. “Whatcha got this time?”
Michael rotated the box in his hands. It looked as though it could hold up to ten comics. “I’m not sure. Some I subscribe to, and others I just get when I feel like it or if it looks like something big is going to happen, like when they killed off Wolverine for a while.”
“Oh, so you’re a Marvel guy. I’m a DC man myself. Been reading Batman and Superman for years, and Aquaman, too.”
“Aquaman’s lame.”
“He used to be, I admit. But now he’s pretty badass. Ever since he lost his hand.”
“I don’t know… I do like DC, but I mostly stick to Batman. I kinda have a thing for Harley Quinn, if you know what I mean.”
“You and me both, bro.”
“Anyway, Batman’s gotta be in here, and Avengers and X-Men, too.” Michael leaned in closer. “I get Deadpool, too, but I don’t want my foster parents to know that. The last ones I had went ballistic.”
“Over Deadpool?” The mailman rubbed his chin. “That’s like Dr. Seuss when compared to all that Japanese shit.”
“You’re telling me.” Michael stared longingly at the package in his hands, wishing Willie would leave so he could tear it open. “Well, thanks, Mr.…”
“It’s Willie. And next Saturday, I’m bringing you some Aquaman for you to borrow. Read it. You’ll be thanking me later.”
Michael’s eyebrows raised. Free comics? He liked that idea. “Thanks, man. I mean… Willie.”
“No problem, bro.” Willie held out his fist.
Michael rolled his eyes at the ridiculousness of how some adults tried to be cool. But the guy had offered free comics, so Michael put out his hand and bumped the fist anyway.
Suddenly, Michael was sitting in a mail truck. In the driver’s seat, Willie was humming a tune Michael didn’t recognize. They were at the intersection of Spruce and Route 6, stopped at a red light. The light turned green, and they proceeded into the intersection.
A loud crash, like that of a refrigerator dropped off a hundred-story building and smashing onto pavement below, threw peace into chaos. Metal crinkled. Glass shattered. Willie flew from his seat toward Michael, the side of his head colliding with the roof and jarring his neck almost completely sideways as the truck rolled onto its side. The metal rim of a wheel stripped of its tire spun like a table saw over Willie’s limp body and headed straight toward Michael, who brought his hands up to try to protect his face.
When nothing happened, he lowered his hands and realized he was standing in his doorway again. The box lay at his feet. Beads of sweat rolled off his forehead.
“You okay there, buddy?” Willie frowned. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Michael took a deep breath. “For a minute there, I think I might have.” Still shaking, he bent over and picked up his package. “I’m okay. Thanks again.”
The mailman turned to leave, and Michael started to close the door, but he couldn’t let it close. He pounded a fist against the wall then ran outside and down the steps.
Willie turned. “You sure you’re okay?” he asked, looking at Michael as if he had sprouted a third eye.
“Yeah, just… wait a second at the light on Spruce after it turns green before crossing Route 6, at least for the next couple of weeks. People have been running that red light a lot lately.”
Willie looked surprised then shook his he
ad. “Um… okay.”
“That is part of your route, isn’t it?” Michael stomped his foot. “Listen to me! You know how some people believe in God just in case there is a hell? Well, believe me now when I say to wait there, just in case I’m right that another car will run that red light and kill your sorry ass if you don’t fucking wait!”
“Okay, okay. Man, you’re a strange little dude.”
“Maybe. But remember what I said.” Michael huffed. “You’ll be thanking me later.”
It happened when I touched him, he thought as he marched back into the house. That’s just effing great. I’m going to have to wear gloves for the rest of my life, just like Rogue. At least she gets to fly. Is that what I am? A mutant? The idea of being a superhero like Wolverine and Rogue might have been cool except for one thing: in the X-Men comics, most humans generally hated the mutants. Just like they generally hate me.
After the incident with the mailman, Michael was convinced his visions had become a part of his life he would have to learn to deal with… fast. He didn’t know how much contact was required to bring one on or why he saw only terrible things. He wondered why his visions couldn’t show him someone getting a new puppy or maybe a young couple doing sixty-nine, because no matter how many times he looked at those two numbers, he couldn’t figure out how they related to sex.
At dinner that night, he cringed when Helen’s hand brushed his as she passed him the mashed potatoes. Nothing happened. The next day, in line at a burger joint, he could have sworn he never touched the employee who gave him some extra napkins. But some itsy-bitsy follicle of that strung-out, yellow-toothed creep must have made contact somehow. Michael fell to the floor, convulsing in a vision that seemed to last for hours. He had to watch as the junkie shot up, then had sex with his boyfriend’s corpse.
When Michael “woke up,” he was in a hospital bed. Helen and Greg were there and seemed genuinely concerned, and for that, Michael was appreciative. Maybe they no longer considered him the devil’s apprentice.
He told the doctor he had been overwhelmed by what had happened at school and wasn’t getting much sleep, and that seemed to satisfy her. She recommended he speak with a “professional,” and Michael knew exactly what that meant.
Embarrassed, he said he just needed things to get back to normal. The lie seemed to placate the doctor and his foster parents. He didn’t know how he could tell them the truth: that he was still having visions and that all he saw was death and more death. The visions seemed to be coming easier, more frequently. The short one he’d had with Willie was simple, like an ugly daydream, horrific but over before he knew it. The scene with the junkie corpse-fucker was like a marathon nightmare filled with graphic details he hoped never to witness again.
He was amazed by how often he came into physical contact with complete strangers while going about his everyday business. Under normal circumstances, he would never have noticed, but for whatever reason, Michael’s circumstances were no longer normal. On Monday morning, he would be back to funneling through the doorways of his classrooms and through crowded hallways, standing in line at the cafeteria, and participating in all the touch-filled sports Mr. Humphries made them play in gym class. The motions of daily life came with a considerable risk of human contact. And even though a vision didn’t happen every time someone touched him, Michael vowed to stay alone as much as possible. He would become a shut-in, leaving his bedroom only for necessities and education. He would share his curse with no one.
Except Sam. Only she would understand.
When he got home from the hospital, he called her and told her about both visions. He cried, too depressed to care how much of a baby he was being. He told her how he loathed the visions. He had never asked for them. If only he knew where they came from, then maybe he could make them stop. Sam tried to console him, but there really wasn’t anything she could do.
Monday, Michael lagged behind after some classes and showed up late to others. He had always kept to himself, but he was still worried his teachers might notice and send him in for another meeting with Ms. Jackson. Just the thought made Michael furious. He wasn’t about to tell some random guidance counselor about his visions. Ms. Jackson was probably no different than all the other adults, dismissing his visions as products of the wild imagination of a lonely kid needing attention.
As usual, his fellow students gave him a wide berth, only in his new reality, he welcomed their avoidance. They whispered as he passed them, and he could feel their stares. Some seemed in awe of him; others seemed to fear him. Those who lacked volume control said things like “warlock” or “harbinger of death.” Those were the prettier terms. Michael wasn’t quite sure what “harbinger” meant, but he wanted nothing to do with death. But mostly, he heard “freak.” He didn’t like that word, probably because it described him perfectly.
After Robbie had cornered him in the lunchroom—even if it was only to apologize—Michael had begun eating his lunch on a bench outside, never minding the late fall chill. Eating outside was against school rules, but no one stopped him. Actually, no one even seemed to know or care where he was, so he was startled to look up from his sandwich and see a girl standing over him.
The tall, thin girl seemed as lost inside herself as she was in her two-sizes-too-big hooded jacket. He paused mid-bite, his teeth clenched firmly into his sandwich. His saliva turned the bread in his mouth into mush as he waited for her to speak.
He sat. She stood. Neither said a word.
The silence made her presence infinitely more awkward. Why is she waiting for me to acknowledge her? What the hell could she possibly want? He didn’t ask for her company, and he certainly didn’t want it. It quickly became evident that if he was going to get rid of her, he would have to be more proactive.
Slowly, Michael chewed the ball of roast beef, lettuce, and bread, then swallowed hard. “Yes?”
“Your name is Michael, right?” Nearly every part of her fidgeted, and she kept her gaze pinned somewhere on his chest.
It made Michael jittery just watching her. “Yeah. So?”
“I heard…”
Michael leaned forward, waiting for that mouse-quiet voice to finish the sentence. He set his sandwich down then tilted his neck to crack out some of the tension rising within him. But his muscles balled up in knots. Her uninvited appearance had gone from minor nuisance to huge irritation in a matter of seconds.
Oh, this is just great. I bet I know where this is headed. Can you tell me my future? She probably wants to know if she’ll end up with some stupid guy. It was either that, or she was there to mock him for the whole bathroom incident.
Either way, he wanted nothing more to do with her. “Can’t you see I am trying to eat my lunch here? I want to be alone.” He sneered. “Why else would someone come out here to eat in the freezing cold?”
For the first time, the girl looked at him. Tears shimmered in her hazel eyes. “I’m sorry for disturbing you.” She turned to leave.
Michael felt lower than a grave. “Wait.” Before that moment, he hadn’t realized he was a sucker for a girl’s tears. His conscience scolded him for being a heel. The least he could do was hear her out. She had obviously reached out to him for a reason. “What’s your name?” he asked.
She half turned back to him and mumbled, “Tessa.”
“Are you a freshman?”
“Sophomore.”
One-word answers are better than no answers, I suppose. “Well, Tessa, what can I do for you?”
Tessa approached the bench with hesitant steps. She stopped before sitting and glanced at him. He nodded, and she gingerly sat on the edge, as if prepared to jump up and run at a moment’s notice.
Looking at the ground, she said, “They say you can see things, things that haven’t happened yet.”
There it was. Michael had known someone would eventually confront him and taunt him about it. He had t
hought it would be someone like Ryan Taylor or some other jerk. Never did he expect a timid wisp of a girl to be the first to broach the subject.
Michael shrugged. “Is that what they say?”
“Of course, I don’t believe it, but—”
“Then why are you pestering me about it?”
“Because if you can, I need to know something. I need to know if there’s anything in store for me. You know, if things will ever get better for me.”
Suicidal? The thought made Michael’s head spin. He wasn’t equipped to handle that. What does she expect from me? Shit, I can’t cure depression. I’ve got enough problems of my own to deal with. “Tessa, I would like to help you, but—”
“Then try. That’s all I ask. I’ll do whatever you want. Just please, try to see what kind of future I have waiting for me.”
Michael thought about lying to her, telling her that he was a fraud or that what had happened with Glenn Rodrigues was a fluke. He wouldn’t even have to lie if he told her that the rumors had blown things way out of proportion. Also, he didn’t know why his visions happened or if he could actually make one occur. He did know that he didn’t want to see any more of them.
But he could see she’d had to summon a lot of courage to come to him. He wondered what could be so important that she would seek him out and beg for his assistance. Grudgingly, he held out his hand. “Um… I don’t know if this will work, but I have to touch you. Give me your hand.”
She seemed as reluctant to put her hand in his as he was to take it. “Does it hurt?”
“I don’t think you’ll feel anything.” He shook his head. “Look, I can’t promise I’ll see anything. In fact, I doubt I will. The only reason I’m agreeing to try is so I can prove to myself that what happened with Glenn was all just a strange coincidence.” The last part was a lie. Nobody at school knew about John Crotty or his other visions, and no one needed to know.