by Vanessa Skye
Matt is in his element, his already over-inflated ego visibly expanding with all the attention.
I roll my eyes and take my seat at my usual table.
Even the nerds are in the Matt mix, their necks craned to get a view as he answers the questions fired in rapid succession by his adoring fans.
“Hey, freak!” Matt shouts.
The crowd parts as Matt stands and strolls to my table with his giggling, whispering groupies falling into step behind him.
I am unprepared for the sudden attention and sink in my seat.
“I’m the goddamned king of this school and I say there are no freaks allowed!”
The rest of the students whoop and cheer in agreement while clapping and punching the air.
Matt stalks closer and grabs the carton of milk off my lunch tray.
Before I realize what he is doing, he’s got it open, and with great relish, pours it over my head until it is all gone. “You better get out of here and wash up. Don’t forget your hands, freak!”
I shoot out of my chair, the cold milk running down my face and neck and dripping into my top. Anger fires through me, and my palms start itching.
Enough.
“You’re real brave, bullying a girl, asshole!” I yell before I can stop myself. “Maybe everyone here would like to know what really happened to you, you freaking liar!”
The crowd, down to the last freshman, waits to see what Matt does next. Everyone one of us is holding our breath, including me.
The look on Matt’s face is dangerous, but for a split second, I see him waver. I guess he didn’t expect me to fight back while he has an audience. He’s losing the respect of the crowd as they look back and forth between us, and he knows it.
“Freak!” he yells, picking up my half-eaten salad and tossing the plate at me.
That does it. Every piece of food not already shoved down the gullets of the slathering crowd flies with varying degrees of force.
Tears stream down my face as the cries of freak, loser, and wash your hands echo around the room, punctuated with everything from sandwiches and pizza to full milk cartons and fruit cups slam into my body.
And all of it led by Matt, who is pointing and laughing his ass off.
I’m covered in garbage, my lovely white shirt ruined, and my hair smeared with gunk.
Mr. Arden and the other teachers rush the cafeteria in an attempt to break up the taunting crowd, but their commands are ignored.
My gaze meets his, and I watch his eyes widen as he spies the target of the melee.
“It’s okay, Alex!” Me. Arden yells over the chaos. “Calm down.”
But it’s not okay. It is about as far away from okay as it can get. My palms are prickling and tingling. They itch so badly.
Curious, I raise my hands and watch them split and bleed as if an invisible knife is slicing my flesh open.
The others notice the leaking blood, which starts a new, heartier chorus of wash your hands! The noise is deafening.
I feel every one of their words as though they’re physical blows.
The blue light leaks from inside my skin again.
Not a dream.
I stare out at the jeering crowd perched on chairs and table and surrounding me now, almost salivating, like the pack of hyenas I always knew they were. Enough. They have no right.
I raise my hands.
“No, Alex!” Mr. Arden screams and reaches out.
“Stop!” My booming voice is louder than the entire student body put together.
Everyone falls into shocked silence and takes a collective step back. But it’s too late.
The power rolls out, not blue, like before, but only visible as a slight shimmering in the air. It pours out of my hands in a silent surge, like heat rising from the pavement in summer.
It starts with Matt, who is flung back several paces to land on his ass in the middle of the room. Tables and chairs are upended and students are thrown off their feet, their ugly catcalls replaced with screams of hurt and fear.
A few seconds of madness and the only sounds in the space are groans of pain.
The students clutch various injuries, sit up, and look around, trying to figure out what happened.
I am the only thing left standing in the room.
Mr. Arden, scrambling from where he landed, rushes over, and grabs my raised hands. “Stop!” he mutters between clenched teeth. “Enough, Alex!”
I jerk my hands out of his grasp, and in the resulting pandemonium, I flee.
Chapter Five
I’m crazy. I’m crazy. I’m crazy! It’s the only explanation I can come up with as I run out of the school and down the street. Somehow, the idea of being crazy is almost comforting. I need to be locked up in a funny farm. Because…what’s the alternative? There is no alternative. Stuff like this cannot happen in the real world.
I run without really knowing where I am headed, as if I’m being chased by an angry, torch-wielding mob—which is a distinct possibility. That’s what they do to witches, isn’t it?
I think about heading home but decide against it. Home is where everyone will look.
And then there’s the fear in my mom’s eyes last night. She is all I have in the world. I cannot live without her. I couldn’t stand it if she looked at me like that again.
I cannot live.
I almost laugh. Yes, of course. This pain, this confusion, it can all be over.
I run to my place—the abandoned old church a few blocks away—and squeeze through the haphazard fencing. Instead of heading to my favorite garden in the graveyard, I make my way toward the crumbling steeple.
Someone, probably the construction company, made a half-hearted effort to block off the stairs to the dilapidated bell tower by nailing some boards over the entrance.
A few hard kicks and the boards give way, providing access to the tall structure.
I rush up the worn stone spiral stairway and climb through the trapdoor onto the rotten wooden landing. There is a gaping void where the huge bell used to be and a steep drop surrounding three sides of the tower onto the rough, cobbled courtyard below.
I walk across the creaking boards to one of the intricately carved arched windows and look down. It must be at least a sixty-foot drop.
A small part of my mind objects. Don’t do this to your mother!
Then I am reminded of the fear on her face as she stared at me in the alleyway. I am a danger to her. I’m a danger to everyone. That or I’m crazy. Neither one sounds like a good option. And I’m tired, so tired, of the constant, relentless bullying. So tired of Matt and his cronies going out of their way to ensure my high school experience is a miserable one. And what for? What do they get out of it? Why do they hate me so much?
Because I’m slightly different.
That’s it.
Being a bit too tall, having eczema, and weird ears are all it takes to have classmates turn on me like a pack of wolves. It’s times like this when there’s no doubt how little we’ve advanced past our Neanderthal beginnings.
I close my eyes, step out onto the stone ledge, and—
“Stop!”
I turn around, nearly losing my footing.
Mr. Arden grabs my elbow, picks me up by my upper arms, and hauls me back inside, only to drop me on my ass on the old wood with a glare before I can object.
Whoa. He’s way stronger than he looks.
“Just what do you think you are doing?” he asks, his green eyes flashing behind his glasses.
I’m tired of being polite. “What the hell does it look like?” Nice little Alex, who gets bullied and never says anything to anyone, doesn’t live here anymore. Angry Alex is in the house, and she’s pissed.
“It looks like you are about to make a stupid, not to mention selfish, decision.”
I shrug. “What do you care?”
His fierce expression softens, just a bit. “I care. I care very much. And so does your mother. Don’t do this to her. Do you think those idiots deser
ve to win? Do they deserve your tears, or hers? Don’t give them that kind of power by doing something in the heat of the moment.”
I snort. “Did you miss the little scene back at school? They already have that kind of power over me!”
“No they don’t!”
I cross my arms and look away.
“If they have power over you, then you’re giving it to them. The only way words can hurt you is if you’re afraid they are true. No one can take something from you without you allowing it.”
“Ha! That’s crunchy crap.”
“Really?” he asks. “So if I said you were a green two-headed alien from the planet Krypton, would that bug you?”
I shake my head. “Of course not, that’s stupid.”
“But a couple of morons who call you a freak, or a giant, or whatever they said, that bothers you?”
“Well, yes, because…” He’s right, damn it. “I am a freak!” I yell. “Just look at what happened today and la—” Bad idea to talk about any other examples.
He sighs. “Look. I’m not saying it’s easy, but you’ve got to feel sorry for the people bullying you.”
“I—what now?” He’s the one who’s insane! Why on earth would I feel sorry for those horrible assholes?
“You should feel sorry for them. How bad must their lives be that the only way they can feel better about themselves is to make someone else feel as bad as they do?”
“I don’t think Matt puts that much thought into it.”
He shrugs and the beginnings of a grin tug at his mouth. “It’s not a conscious decision. But before you write him off, you should know he has a terrible home life.”
“He does?”
Mr. Arden nods. “His father suspects, correctly, that Matt’s gay, so he pushes him to have a career in football. Bullies are, more often than not, bullied themselves, usually at home. They bully others in an attempt to get some control back in their lives.”
“Oh.” I look down at my feet. “I guess that makes sense.”
“All bullying is motivated by fear, Alex. The bullies know, at any time, it could be them. One slip up in high school, one wrong outfit, one wrong word, one question of sexuality, and they will be the targets, not you. They have a vested interest in keeping the spotlight off themselves and firmly on you. It’s not personal. And even if it was, it shouldn’t bother you if you feel okay with yourself.”
“Ha! Well, guess what? Having food thrown at me does bother me! Nearly being punched bothers me. I am not some kind of Zen master like you. I have feelings!”
“Being different comes with challenges, but it also offers greater rewards. Conforming is easy. It takes courage to walk your own path. Courage the bullies don’t have.”
I snort again.
He gently takes my hands, flips them over, and looks at my palms.
“Hey, the eczema is gone again,” I say. “But…my hands were just bleeding. That’s weird.”
He sighs and looks at me. “Not really.”
I frown. “What do you mean?”
He rubs his face and sits against the wall behind him. “Do you want to tell me what happened today?”
“You saw what happened. The other kids were teasing me and…”
“And?”
“And…I don’t know.” Maybe he didn’t see anything, and all of this is my imagination. Even as I think it, I know it’s not true. “What do you think happened?”
“The official word around the school is a table in the cafeteria gave way, causing a chain reaction and resulting in several minor injuries to students who greatly deserved it. The ringleaders have been suspended, including Matt. But we know that’s not what happened.”
“We do?”
He nods.
My gaze skitters away from his. “Um…”
“We know you did it. What I want to know is how you did it.”
Tears well up and run down my cheeks. “I-I…d-don’t know. I d-don’t und-understand what’s happening to me!” I sob into my hands.
“It’s okay…it’s okay,” he says, rubbing my back as I cry. “I’ll help you figure it out. It’s why I’m here.”
I cry until I feel wrung out, and the only sounds I have left are soft hiccups.
“Your hands,” he says, softly. “You had eczema yesterday, I saw it. But this morning it was gone.”
“Yeah. S-so?”
“So what happened last night, Alex?”
I look away. “N-nothing.”
“Alex, please. I can’t help you unless I know what I’m dealing with. Today wasn’t the first time it happened, was it? You let your magic out, didn’t you?”
I whirl around, eyes wide, and face him. “My what?”
“Your draoidheacht, your magic. It happened last night, didn’t it?”
“Maybe…” I take a deep breath and, with my sentences running into each other and the words making little to no sense, tell him as much as I can remember about last night. “…and then I said a word to my mom that sounded like der-mud, and somehow I knew it meant forget…and…and she did.” By the time the last words trip over my lips, I feel as if I’ve run a marathon.
“Dearmad,” he whispers. He’s pale and his hands tremble, ever so slightly. However, he tries to hide it behind a wonky smile. “None of that should be possible.”
“My mom said the same thing before I…”
He nods. “Have there been any other times something happened? Something you can’t explain?”
I tell him about the locker hitting Matt and my ninja moves in the clinic.
“Fascinating,” he mutters. “Anything else?”
“Oh, yeah, there was the branch that nearly killed me.”
His gaze sharpens. “What branch?”
“Well, I was getting off the bus and this perfectly healthy branch snapped off one of the huge oak trees and started falling right on top of me. Everything got all slow again, and I…I don’t know. I just stepped out of the way. The bus driver said he didn’t even see me move, but I was under it and then…I wasn’t. I was somewhere else, and it missed me.”
Mr. Arden stares at me with a slight frown on his face and rubbing a slow, steady rhythm across his bottom lip with his finger before he finally asks, “Did you notice any strange smells?”
“No…oh, wait. Yes! Pine needles. Which was weird because it was an oak tree…”
He sighs and nods. “Any other times you’ve noticed it?”
I shrug. “Well, yeah. Matt’s cologne and also around the man with the gun.”
“Foraoise fae,” he mutters with a scowl.
“What?”
He shakes his head, stands, and holds out a hand to help me up. “Come on. I need to speak with your mother.”
“My mom? Why?”
“Because you are in danger.”
“Wai—danger? What?” I shake my head. “You can’t talk to my mom. She’s forgotten everything, and I don’t want her to…if she remembers…” I shake my head again and whisper, “she’s scared of me.”
“She’s not, I promise.”
“You don’t understand,” I say and follow him down the stone stairs. “She was afraid of me!”
He turns and stares into my face. “She was not afraid of you. She was afraid for you.”
“Why would she be afraid for—I don’t understand what’s going on!” I yell, trailing behind him into the church courtyard. “Why does everyone else seem to know more about me than me? Even the man in the alley knew more than I do, and he didn’t even call me by my real name!”
Mr. Arden stops and grabs my upper arms. “What did he call you?”
“Wha—” I frown. “Something like…Alees.”
“Alys.” He groans, rubbing his face with a hand. “Damn! I thought you’d be safe here. I was wrong.”
I break into a trot to keep up with his long, purposeful strides as he heads out of the site and down the street. As we walk, his eyes dart around as if he’s on the lookout for something, which puts
me on edge too.
“What’s going on?”
“You’ll understand soon enough, Alex.”
One turn, then another, and I realize we’re heading to my apartment.
“How do you know where I live?” I ask. “Actually, how did you even know where to find me today?”
“Do you go to the church often? Do you find comfort being there?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“The veil is thinnest there, as is the case with many holy sites across the world. The humans often unconsciously erect their places of worship where the veil is weak. Some ancient part of them can feel the magic nearby.”
“Weak veil? Magic? What the hell are you talking about?” Mr. Arden’s crazier than I am!
He doesn’t slow his pace even slightly. “The veil between our world and the human world, Alex. It makes sense you would find comfort where it’s fragile, where you are nearest to your people. I knew I would find you there.”
We’re almost at my apartment now and definitely at the end of my patience.
“You’re a crazy person! I don’t understand anything you’re saying.”
“I know.”
He raps on the door three times, even as I reach for my keys and open the door.
“Alex! Why are y—” My mother’s eyes widen and she stares at Mr. Arden. “Baird! What are you doing here?”
She knows him?
“Ní Ghallchobhair.” Mr. Arden tips his head. “We have a problem.”
My mother looks equal parts surprised and scared. Before she has a chance to respond, Mr. Arden waves his hand in front of her face.
“Cuimhnigh,” he says.
Clutching her head, my mom staggers back and moans.
I rush forward to catch her. “What did you do to her?” I scream. I help her to the couch.
Mom’s alive, but she’s not moving, and her eyes are closed.
I face Mr. Arden. My palms start to itch and I feel the pressure welling up inside my head.
“Peace, Alex.” My teacher holds out his hands, palms up, like he’s trying to calm a wild animal. “I didn’t hurt her. I simply restored the memories you took. She’ll be fine in a moment.”
I look back at Mom, who is already stirring, and the itching slowly subsides.