The Good Fight 4

by Ian Thomas Healy

  While Misty heard it all, none of that meant anything to her. All she could imagine was being that frightened child at the base of the wall, hearing the taunts of her classmates, feeling their hate and fear, all of those horrible emotions directed at her this time.

  I’ll never tell anyone, as long as I live. At least this is something I can hide, not like when we moved.

  * * *

  Three years ago, Craig Michaels had gotten a big promotion at work, but it meant they had to move two states south to a small town. A small, almost completely white town.

  Misty’s own skin was fair enough that few people realized she was African-American, but she’d known since she was little that some people treated her differently when she was with her mom than when she was with her dad.

  Her parents had tried to prepare her for it to be worse when they moved, but she hadn’t really understood what it would be like. Things were fine at school until the day she missed the bus and her mom dropped her off. Then the looks started, those sideways glances. Whispers. Glares. No one wanted to sit by her anymore. Then came the name-calling. Misty felt their hate, the threat of it like a wild beast ready to attack at any moment.

  Meanwhile, her mom was setting up a private practice, intending to cater to the tiny minority population of the county. The space she’d rented was vandalized, racial slurs spray painted on the walls. Then the windows were shot out—not just broken, actually shot. Days later, the landlord told her someone had threatened to bomb the building and tossed her out.

  When their car windows were shot out, her parents decided the job wasn’t worth it and they moved back north. Her dad hadn’t been able to find a job, so they bought a smaller house in their old neighborhood so Misty could go back to the same school.

  She’d thought it was over, that she could go back to feeling somewhat normal again, to mostly fitting in—even if her mom did get the occasional sideways glance, or get pulled over a lot, or have to show three forms of ID to write a check at the grocery store, when the white lady ahead of them just flashed her driver’s license. What she felt from those people was bad—mistrust, uneasiness, contempt—but it was better than the wild hate. Anything was better than that.

  * * *

  For the next week, Misty felt self-conscious, as if somehow, everyone would know. It was like “freak“ was tattooed on her forehead for all the world to see.

  But no one knew. And nothing changed. Her friends were her friends and everyone was okay. She started to let her guard down and accept herself.

  It’s not like I have an extra face, or purple skin, or wings or scales or horns. So I feel things, big deal. After a while, it was hard to even believe she was a parahuman and she told herself she wasn’t a freak until she started to believe it.

  * * *

  “Misty, can you stay after class for a moment?” Mrs. Stanley asked softly as she handed her back a math test. Misty’s stomach clenched; had she done something wrong? She looked down at the paper on her desk and saw C- in red on the top and understood.

  Minutes later, the bell rang and Misty told Sarah she’d catch up with her in the lunch room. Hands shaking, she approached the teacher’s desk.

  “I’m assuming you saw your grade,” Mrs. Stanley said, looking at Misty over her reading glasses. Misty nodded. The teacher sighed, taking off the glasses and laying them on the stack of papers in front of her. “Is everything okay? You seemed a little distant last week, and now this.”

  Misty squirmed. She hadn’t been okay, but she was now, wasn’t she? Not exactly, she decided, but she didn’t want to tell Mrs. Stanley why. “I was upset about some of the other kids picking on Andrew, is all,” she lied, feeling bad about it.

  Mrs. Stanley gave her a slow nod. “I saw the list of kids involved in that and was surprised you were on it. You’ve always been so kind.”

  Shame descended on Misty the way it had when Andrew’s mom had told her parents about it. Her heart raced and she wanted to run away. “Yeah,” she said. It was all she could manage.

  Mrs. Stanley gave her a pitying look. She’d gotten a lot of those looks after they moved back from people who knew how her family had been targeted. Misty hated those looks. They were mostly fake, she knew, put on by people who were uncomfortable and didn’t know how to act. This one was genuine, and that almost made it worse. It made Misty feel dirty, to be pitied when she’d done something wrong.

  “You’d better run along before all the pizza’s gone,” Mrs. Stanley said, standing up and shifting to a more natural smile. “I’m sure you don’t want to get stuck with the chicken fricassee.”

  Misty managed a weak smile. She knew her teacher was anxious to leave the room, probably because she wanted to eat, as well. As Misty turned to leave, she caught her foot on the corner of the desk and tripped. She dropped her books as her hands flew out to catch her. Mrs. Stanley grabbed her by the hand and kept her from falling, then jerked back as if she’d been burned.

  “Whoa, that was quite a shock you gave me! You must’ve been shuffling your feet on the carpet, eh?” The teacher laughed and rubbed at the hand that had touched her. “Your hair’s even standing up a little. That was some charge.”

  Misty reached up and smoothed the hair that was, indeed, standing up away from her head. She hadn’t felt a thing.

  * * *

  Misty’s dad picked her up from school and they went to the grocery store. He was in the middle of texting with her mom when he swore under his breath and jammed his phone in his pocket. “Hey, hon, can I borrow your phone? Mine just died.”

  She handed hers to him and he hit a button. “Looks like yours is dead, too.”

  “Just squeeze it,” she told him. “It’ll come back on.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “How so?”

  “Like this,” she said, reaching up and giving it a squeeze. It came on. “I think there’s a bad connection with the battery or something.”

  He shrugged and sent a text, and then went back to wandering up and down the aisles. A few minutes later, it died again.

  “I’m squeezing it right where you did, but it’s not working,” Craig told his daughter.

  “Right there?” she asked, pointing to it.

  He nodded and squeezed it again. “See? Nothing.”

  Misty went to take it from him, but as her finger touched it, it came back on. His hand jerked and the phone clattered to the floor. The case and back came off, pieces scattering all over the slick, shiny floor, and the screen went black. They both scrambled to pick it all up. Misty grabbed the phone, and the screen lit up.

  Just then, her dad straightened up and held the battery out toward her. Misty looked at the battery, then back at the screen, then turned it slowly to face her dad. His brow furrowed as he reached out and took the phone from her. It went black.

  * * *

  At home, Misty ran to her room and slammed the door. She refused to consider what her dad had suggested on the way home—that maybe she had more than one parahuman ability. Nooo! her mind railed. It’s hard enough to hide one!

  Her dad knocked on the door. “Can I come in, punkin?”

  “No! Leave me alone!” she yelled. Part of her was stunned that she’d dare yell at her dad like that, but the rest of her was so angry that she couldn’t do anything else.

  He was silent for a minute but she knew he was still there—she could feel him worrying just on the other side of the door.

  “Okay, punkin. I’ll give you some time.” His footsteps receded down the stairs and Misty threw herself on her bed and cried.

  * * *

  Misty heard the garage door go up at 5:45 and knew her mom was home. That meant an end to her solitude. Dad always knocked and respected her privacy. Mom never hesitated to barge in. She steeled herself for the interruption, which came about three minutes later.

  “Angie, I think we should give her—“ her dad was saying as the door flew open. Her mom came in, wearing green scrubs and a stethoscope around her neck, w
orry lines around her mouth, concern coming off of her in waves.

  “Why so upset, hon?” she asked as she sat down on the edge of the bed.

  “I don’t want to be a stupid parahuman, I just want to be normal.” Misty knew her sulky tone would aggravate her mother, but she couldn’t force a different tone of voice right now.

  Her mom sighed. “I know you’re not comfortable with it yet, but Misty, there’s nothing wrong with having these abilities. Come on, show me how it works with your phone.”

  Misty shook her head, not brave enough to actually voice the word ‘no’ to her mom, face to face. “It doesn’t make sense anyway. Why would I have empathy and some weird electrical thing?”

  “They’re actually not as different as you think,” her mom said, slipping into her doctor voice. “Thoughts and emotions are really just electrical impulses, so it may be that you’re just somehow in tune with the right frequencies.”

  Misty gaped at her mother, confused. “What do you mean, emotions are electrical whatevers?”

  Her parents exchanged a look and chuckled. Angie pulled out her own phone and Googled an image of a neuron, then gave her tween a crash course in basic neurology.

  “So . . . every time someone has a thought or feeling, it’s because of electricity moving through their brain cells?” a dubious Misty asked when it was over.

  “That’s right. I know it’s hard to grasp, but that’s how our brains work.” She laid a hand over her daughter’s. “Look on the bright side of this—who wouldn’t like to be able to charge their cell phone with a finger?”

  Misty giggled. Despite how much she didn’t want to be a para, that was kind of awesome.

  * * *

  Over the next several weeks, Misty and her parents experimented with her electrical abilities and found she had a low level charge most of the time, with higher spikes due to adrenaline. Most of the time, it was just enough to power a phone or get a lightbulb to put off a dim glow.

  During spikes, though—which they tested by startling her or, when she came to expect that, tickling her or making her sprint up and down the stairs—she blew up a bulb, turned on the TV, and even ran a blender, until her adrenaline started to taper off. The microwave and the washing machine took more wattage than she could muster, though.

  The testing was fun, and with her mom’s help, she even learned how to shield herself from other people’s strong emotions so they didn’t overwhelm her. Before long, Misty realized she was okay with it. She didn’t feel freakish anymore. She still didn’t want anybody to know, but she didn’t feel wrong or ashamed because of what she was.

  On a particular sunny day, she was walking home with Jessica, Sarah, and Brittany. They were giggling over Sarah’s crush on a sixth grader when they turned a corner and saw a group of boys surrounding Andrew, who was lying on the wide sidewalk, tangled up with his fallen bike. Misty’s heart pounded in her ears as her adrenaline surged.

  Her friends darted forward and she ran along with them, scared for Andrew, scared in general. She didn’t think to put up her shields, and as she got close, the other kids’ anger, hate, and fear made her reel.

  Andrew’s head spun left and right as both sets of eyes took in his surroundings—the five boys towering above him and the four girls sprinting in, girls who’d bullied him in the past. Misty thought she was going to throw up just before Andrew actually did.

  “Pick him up,” Jimmy, the biggest boy, ordered. “Let’s see if we can give him four black eyes all at once!”

  Jessica cheered. Sarah’s steps faltered and Brittany stopped, and Misty realized the fear she’d felt from them when they’d bullied Andrew, when Jessica had derided parahumans, and as they’d taken in the scene ahead of them wasn’t directed at Andrew at all. They were afraid of Jessica.

  She realized what that meant—their fear was the same as her fear. They didn’t want to be singled out, the next target of cruelty. She not only realized the truth of that, she realized what it could mean—if only she could find it in herself to be a hero.

  “Stop,” Misty yelled. “Let him go!”

  All eyes turned toward her. Two of the boys had hauled Andrew to his feet. She felt hope blossom in him, relief in her two friends. Anger flaring white hot in the rest.

  Jessica wheeled toward her, her nostrils flaring. “What, are you some kinda freak lover?”

  She stared Jessica down. “He’s not a freak, he’s nice and he’s scared. You were at his eighth birthday party just like I was, remember? Back when he was your friend?”

  “That was before he had that other creepy face,” Jessica spat at her. “Before we knew what he was!”

  “He’s just a kid with a different gene, no different from my mom having dark skin, or from Sarah’s brother having Down’s.” Her eyes shot to Sarah and she saw as well as felt that she had an ally there.

  “Yeah,” Sarah said, her voice cracking. “Leave him alone, guys.”

  Misty looked from Sarah to Brittany, feeling braver than she ever had. “Come on, girls.” She turned and sprinted toward the knot of boys, the other two—confused and tentative—at her heels. Two of the boys started backing away, not sure what was going on. One of the ones holding Andrew let go, looking at Jimmy for guidance. Jimmy, not the brightest, stood watching them with his mouth open, perplexed.

  The three girls inserted themselves between Andrew and the other boys, Brittany elbowing the one who still held onto Andrew in the gut hard enough to make him let go. Misty stared at Jimmy, knowing he was unsettled, and hoping she could intimidate him enough that he’d back down. He seemed to be weighing the options, but slowly.

  Just then, a car came around the corner and the boys ran. The three girls let out a cheer and a big smile broke out on Andrew’s sweaty faces.

  Misty felt a wave of cold fury behind her and turned to see Jessica charging right at them, her hands balled up in fists, face red. She pushed Sarah out of her way and drew an arm back, getting ready to punch Andrew.

  “No!” Misty screamed, reaching out to grab Jessica’s arm. As she touched her, the most powerful jolt of electricity she’d ever felt leapt from her hands. It knocked Jessica off of her feet, right over the edge of the sidewalk. Sarah screamed just as the approaching car entered Misty’s field of vision. She watched, seeing it in slow motion even though she couldn’t move to stop it. Jessica, falling into the street. The squeal of the car’s breaks, the grating sound of the tires skidding on gravel. Jessica’s head hit the asphalt and for half a second Misty thought the car would stop in time. But it didn’t. The tire went right over her friend’s neck.

  Time went back to normal speed as the car stopped and the driver leapt out, running back to Jessica’s body.

  Blood. So much blood. Jessica’s blood. Misty’s mind clamored to both make sense of what she was seeing and to deny the truth of it. Her ears rang. The world swam in front of her eyes, rippling like a curtain. She wanted to rip it away, make the truth not the truth.

  She and her friends stood together in mute shock as the driver screamed and dialed 9-1-1. As a fire truck from the station a few blocks away shrieked toward them, traffic backed up on the road, curious neighbors climbing out to see what was going on. If it were their child who was hurt. Or dead.

  Dead. Jessica is dead. I killed her. It’s my fault.

  She had no concept of how long it was before a police officer came over to ask the girls what had happened. She hadn’t even noticed the cops arrive.

  “We were trying to keep her from hitting Andrew,” Brittany said, gesturing to the pale boy who sat on the curb next to his bike fallen bike, staring at the street as a firefighter draped a sheet over Jessica’s body.

  “Misty was trying to grab her,” Sarah told the cop. “And then she . . . she must’ve tripped or something, ‘cause she suddenly just fell into the street. It happened so fast.”

  The officer knelt down in front of Misty. “Are you Misty?” Misty nodded slowly. He put a hand on her shoulder. “Do you
know what happened, Misty? Did you see why she fell?”

  She shook her head, her eyes never leaving the spot where Jessica’s blood stained the road. “No. I barely touched her. I just wanted her to stop . . .” Her voice broke and a single sob escaped before the numbness took over again and she just stared.

  “You didn’t do anything wrong, Misty, okay? It was an accident,” he said, trying to reassure her. She knew he wasn’t certain, though. “It sounds like you girls were trying to do the right thing, and this was a horrible, horrible accident.”

  Brittany’s mom was the first of their parents to arrive. She called Sarah’s mom, then Misty’s dad.

  Misty didn’t want her dad to come. He’d know. He’d know what she’d done and she’d have to face the horror of it, the shame. She couldn’t do that, couldn’t let herself.

  My parents will know what I did. What I did with my ability. The idea of jail briefly lingered around the periphery of her thoughts, but she knew her parents would protect her. They wouldn’t tell anyone. She also knew, with absolute certainty, that no one else could ever, ever know what she could do. What she had done.

  -~o~-

  Adrienne Dellwo is a proud geek and tea snob who lives in Washington state. She works as a freelance medical writer; writes, produces, and directs indie film with her husband; does a little acting and singing from time to time; and is raising two kids who still seem to like her even though they're teenagers. Her novels, Through the Veil and Traveler Lost, are available from Sky Warrior Books. She's had short stories published by Alliteration Ink, Local Hero Press, Siren's Call, and others.

  Website: http://adrienne110.wixsite.com/adriennedellwoauthor

  Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/adriennedellwoauthor/

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  The Scent of Rose Petals

  Ian Thomas Healy

  February, 1946

  New York City, New York