by R. T. Lowe
“No. He was hooking up with Piper so I came down here.”
“Piper?” She rolled her eyes. “He’s such a slut.”
“I was actually heading down to the common room to crash on a couch, but then I got to your floor, and I guess that I… I just wanted to talk to you.”
She smiled and quickly turned her head to look at something on her desk that had suddenly captured her interest. Her cheeks had gone pink. “Alright, Belus.” She went over to the window. “Go to your room, get your stuff and get outta here. I’ll give you ten minutes then I’m pulling the alarm. They’ll have to evacuate the building. When the firemen get here, they’ll find this disaster.” She pointed off to her right. “I’ll tell them I woke up smelling smoke, jumped out of bed and pulled the alarm. It’s kind of strange it died on its own, but I’m not the expert on fires. Hey, are you gonna tell anybody else about this?”
“No.” He shook his head emphatically. “I’m still trying to wrap my mind around it.”
“I agree.”
“Yeah, so don’t tell—”
“I won’t say a word,” Allison promised. “You can trust me.”
“I know. Give me a few minutes to get my shit together.”
* * *
Lucas, to Felix’s immense relief, was all alone and sleeping soundly. Felix grabbed his things and slipped back out of the room. Lucas didn’t stir. When the fire alarm sounded, Felix had just reached The Yard. Wailing and screeching, rising and falling in waves, it rolled across campus. And then just as he entered Ferguson Hall, he could hear the fire trucks howling to a stop on 1st Street.
Chapter 30
Timetables
“Hello, Dad,” Bill said into his phone. He was standing at the table in his office, looking out the window at The Yard below.
“Hello, William. I haven’t heard from you in a while. How have you been?”
“Living the dream as an assistant groundskeeper. The other day, I was mowing the lawn and some smartass kid yelled, ‘you missed a spot’. That’s a good one. These kids are funny. The next kid who does that is going to get circumcised with my hedge clippers.”
“You sound tired. I hope that’s not discouragement I hear in your voice.”
“Me? Discouraged? I’m an eternal optimist. You know that. I didn’t get much sleep last night. That’s all.” Bill rubbed a hand over his chin, pausing for dramatic effect as the moment seemed to call for it. “I met with Felix last night.”
“And…?”
“He read the journal.”
A short pause. Bill thought he heard his dad let out a single relieved breath.
“And so it begins.”
“Yeah,” Bill replied. “After all this time.”
“How did you convince him to do it?”
Bill glanced at the baseball bat propped up against a stack of books in the corner. “I asked him politely.”
“Sure you did,” his dad said skeptically. “I know you, William. Sometimes you’re the proverbial bull in a china shop. It’s that temper of yours. If you’d learn to control it, you might make things easier on yourself.”
“I’ll try to remember that,” Bill muttered softly.
“So how did he react?”
“Exactly as we had anticipated,” Bill answered.
“Refused to believe a word?”
“Of course not. But he’ll be back. Soon. Once it starts to sink in, he’ll want to know what it all means.”
“I hope he doesn’t wait too long.” There was a note of anxiousness in his dad’s voice.
No one spoke.
His dad was waiting for a response.
It never came. This was about a timetable, and that was a conversation Bill was determined to avoid. The situation was too fluid for that, and besides, he had a plan.
“So tell me,” his dad said after a while, “what’s he look like in person these days? Does he still look like Lofton?”
“The similarity’s hard to miss. Felix is a little bigger, but they could be father and son.”
“And what’s the boy… like?”
“Like? He’s an eighteen-year-old kid.” Bill put the phone on speaker and set it on the table, taking a seat. “He seems conflicted about something. But what teenager doesn’t? He’s probably got himself worked up about girls. Not to mention midterms, football, and of course, his parents. He’s a small-town kid. You know that. You know everything about him. I’d describe him as a simple, unsophisticated kid. But he’s not dumb. He’s actually quite smart, smarter than he realizes. And he won’t always be simple.”
A phlegmy cough rattled through the phone as Bill’s dad worked out something in his throat. “It’s the simple-minded that make me nervous. They cannot even grasp that there are things beyond their understanding. And that makes them dangerous. That makes them confident controlling the lives of others. Hitler and Stalin were such men. Simple-minded monsters.”
“He’s not Hitler.” Bill stared at the phone and shook his head. “Jesus, Dad. He’s eighteen. And he’s on our side, remember?”
“Hitler was once eighteen,” his dad barked in his gravelly voice. “And the boy has the potential to make Hitler look like Mother Theresa.”
An uncomfortable silence followed.
Bill gazed out the window and sighed, watching two students out for an early morning jog cut across The Yard through a light mist that was beginning to lift. The grass was wet, though it had stopped raining a few hours ago, and the sky was mostly clear.
“Do you think he has any idea of what he’s capable of?” his dad asked, finally breaking the quiet.
“No. None whatsoever.”
“All that power,” his dad growled softly, like a contented lion. “The power of the universe flows in that boy’s veins, and he doesn’t even know it. Can you imagine what it must be like to wield that kind of energy?”
“No. But I intend to bring it out of him.”
“And when do you anticipate that happening?”
“I’ll start training him when I think he’s ready,” Bill said adamantly, aware that his tone alone wouldn’t cause his dad to drop the subject. But it was worth a try.
“But we don’t have the luxury of time! If you don’t start training he won’t—”
“He’s not ready! This isn’t something you can force. And you’re telling me that I’m the bull in a china shop? I’m dealing with an eighteen-year-old kid who’s been through a lot. He’s got enough teenage angst to supply the rest of the school. If I push too hard, or too soon, he’ll break. He’s like an unloaded gun at this point and you’re telling me to fill him with bullets. So don’t you think we should know where he’s aiming before I show him how to pull the trigger? I have a good read on this kid. I’ve been doing my homework since he was in diapers. I know what I’m doing.”
“Of course you do, William,” his dad said in an overly pleasant voice. “Fine. That’s fine. Train the boy when he’s ready. By all means, let the boy dictate the schedule. That makes perfect sense.”
“I’ll call you later,” Bill said, ignoring his dad’s sarcasm. “I have a game to attend. If the Sturgeons win, we’ll play for the Rain Cup.”
“The rain what?”
“That’s right. Gotta go.” He ended the call, amused by his dad’s consternation.
Chapter 31
Rain Cup on the Horizon
Felix caught the ball on the Sturgeons’ eighteen-yard line, dodged a defender, stiff-armed another to the facemask and darted out of bounds at the thirty-five. The whistle blew. The crowd cheered anxiously. He glanced up at the clock—eight seconds left. He flipped the ball to the official and jogged back to the huddle.
He still couldn’t believe he was playing in a football game. The past twenty-four hours hadn’t exactly been a typical day: he finished his midterms; a groundskeeper threatened to break his fingers with a bat; he found out he was adopted; he read a cursed journal; he imagined people chasing him (people who wanted to kill him); he defied gr
avity and set fire to Caitlin’s bed (in his sleep); and if he understood the journal correctly, he was not only immaculately conceived, he was the only person capable of preventing the Drestian (aka Lofton Ashfield) from enslaving the world.
During pregame warm-ups, he’d been mostly catatonic and went through the motions of getting ready for the game, relying on habit and muscle memory to conceal his state of mind from the coaches. And this wasn’t just any game: The only thing standing between the Sturgeons and a shot at playing for the Rain Cup was the Milford Lava Bears. The game was huge—the most important game anyone in attendance could remember. But Milford presented a gigantic obstacle. And as the game wore on—in front of the largest crowd in school history—it was clear they were simply the better team: bigger, stronger and faster at nearly every position.
Yet the scrappy Sturgeons had gone after them full throttle, putting everything they had into every play. His teammates’ determination and desire was contagious, and by the mid-point of the first quarter, Felix had stopped thinking about the journal and whatever it was that had happened in Allison’s room. It wasn’t as hard as he’d thought it would be. It was all so bizarre, and so surreal, it wasn’t much different than trying to shake the lingering effects of a bad dream.
The only distraction he hadn’t been able to block out was Bill’s voice in his head telling him that he was adopted. He wasn’t sure why, but he thought it was probably because he could actually grasp the concept. Adoption was almost normal—at least compared to finding out that he was the Belus (among other things). So between plays his mind had drifted; he wondered why his parents had never told him, and if they ever planned to. He’d never know. It was their secret—a secret they took with them to their graves.
And now, with just eight seconds left, the Sturgeons were down by four points. They’d outhustled and outworked Milford the entire game. But it looked like talent was going to win out over heart and effort. Brant huddled the offense and took a knee. He looked up at his teammates and said with a smile, “Helluva game guys. Whadya say? We got one play left. Nothin’ to lose. I’m throwin’ it to August. Felix, you catch it and run. Déjà vu, baby.” He broke the huddle.
Felix lined up on the left side of the formation in the slot position. At “two” the center snapped the ball to Brant. Felix pushed aside the defender and Brant delivered the ball to him in full stride. He tucked it tightly under his arm and took off down the middle of the field, leaving Lava Bears in his wake. He jumped over a diving defender at the forty-yard line. Another player slammed a shoulder into Felix’s thigh but bounced off without slowing him down. At the fifty, he cut back sharply to his right, split two defenders, and making it to the sideline, turned on the jets.
At least half the players on Milford had the angle on Felix—he had no chance of reaching the end zone (or so it appeared). But the yard markers beneath his feet flew by: 40… 30… 20. The entire defense was in pursuit. He could hear their cleats striking the ground, churning up the soggy turf. He could hear their panting breath as they thundered down on him, diving at him in turns, swiping at his legs. The sounds triggered a primordial fear deep down in his consciousness—and a recent memory, a memory that couldn’t be suppressed no matter how focused he was on staying in the moment. They’re back, he thought, the panic surging inside him. They’re trying to get me. Trying to kill me.
Felix barreled ahead, tearing past the ten-yard line, his legs a blur. The crowd roared in anticipation. The end zone was right in front of him (4… 3… 2…). He reached out for the goal line.
Something blindsided Felix, crashing into him, sending him flying through the air and out of bounds. He jumped to his feet—and for reasons unknown to him, raised his right arm up to his shoulder, fingers extended—prepared to protect himself against the dark-haired man and the woman with the scar. But the only people around him were wearing two-tone uniforms, helmets and shoulder pads. He wasn’t being attacked in no-man’s-land—or dreaming about being attacked in no-man’s-land. And he wasn’t being chased—or imagining being chased—across campus in the rain and mist. He was playing football. Snap out of it, he told himself. Snap out of it! He stared at the referee, waiting for him to hoist up his arms to signal a touchdown.
He didn’t. Instead, he looked Felix straight in the eye and said: “Out at the one. Out of bounds at the one. Game over.” Then he turned and ran off.
Felix stared at the man’s diminishing back in disbelief. He felt his jaw drop. His mouthpiece tumbled out of his mouth and landed on the grass between his feet. The ref was wrong—he had to be. He must have misheard him. It had to be a mistake. He looked up at the scoreboard. It read 00:00. He spun around and around trying to find someone to tell him that the game wasn’t really over. It couldn’t be over.
But it was. The Lava Bears were already celebrating on the field.
Felix collapsed on his butt, elbows on knees, head down. He sat there on the wet grass, alone, drained. The stadium was silent, the crowd stunned.
“Felix. Hey, buddy. Felix. C’mon, man. Get up.”
He recognized Larry’s voice. But he didn’t move. He didn’t have it in him.
“C’mon, August.” A different voice—Salty’s. “Keep your chin up. That was the most awesome play I’ve ever seen. C’mon.”
Felix looked up. Larry, Salty, Jonas and Brant were all there, helmets off. And behind them were the rest of his teammates. Larry and Salty reached down and hauled him up by his grass-stained jersey. Then they moved across the field toward the tunnel beneath the east side stands like a herd of depressed lumbering animals. Felix kept his head down, letting the fatassosaurs lead him away.
In the locker room, Felix sat on a bench to strip off his gear. He shrugged out of his shoulder pads and banged them against his locker in frustration. How could the season be over? So much for winning the Rain Cup this year. So much for making PC football history. With everything else going on in his life, he knew that a game shouldn’t matter. He shouldn’t care. But he did. He didn’t understand how it had ended so wrong. How did they knock him out of bounds inches—inches—away from scoring the winning touchdown? Why did he let that happen? Why didn’t he run faster? Why didn’t he score? He blew the game. He blew the whole season. He blew it for everyone—the whole team. It was all his—
His gut contracted so violently a seizing grunt burst through his teeth, causing all eyes in the room to turn to him. He ran to the bathroom, launched himself into a stall and threw up his pre-game breakfast of oatmeal, toast and apple juice in three shaking heaves. After his stomach had settled, he got up off his knees and wiped the tears from his eyes, then opened the door.
Jimmy Clay was blocking the doorway, feet planted wide, an expression of pure hatred on his scarlet face. Before Felix could react, Jimmy punched him in the stomach with every ounce of his steroid-enhanced strength, burying his fist up to his wrist. Felix’s feet lifted off the floor. The air escaped him all at once. Unable to catch his breath, his legs reduced to jelly, Felix felt himself falling backward. And then two iron hands, like vises, gripped his arms and pulled him forward. The pain was excruciating. He felt like he would never be able to breathe again. Like his lungs had been permanently deflated.
Jimmy’s face—an acne-riddled mask of sheer fury—was pressed into his own. His foul breath was so rancid Felix could taste it. “You lost the game for me, you little bitch!” Jimmy whispered in a low menacing snarl. “There’s gonna be pro scouts at the Rain Cup. And now they won’t see me play. You fuck with my career again and I’ll cut off your balls!” Jimmy hacked up an enormous mouthful of phlegm and spat in his face. Felix felt the warm sticky mess dripping down his mouth and chin, and he couldn’t do anything to stop it. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t move his arms. He was helpless.
Jimmy released him and slammed a forearm into Felix’s chest. It was like getting hit with a sledgehammer. He tripped over the toilet and fell over backward, banging his head against the wall. He heard footsteps, J
immy walking away. He lay there on the piss-spattered floor for a long while, wiping the putrid phlegm from his face, gasping for air.
When he finally felt like he wasn’t going to die, he struggled to his feet and opened the stall door a few inches, half-expecting Jimmy to be there waiting for him. He wasn’t. Felix limped over to the row of sinks and washed his face in scalding water, using up an entire dispenser of coarse pink soap. Then he showered, changed and left the building without saying a word to anyone.
Chapter 32
Answers
“Tough break,” Bill said to Felix. “Good game though. Best game all year.” He sipped his tea and leaned back in his chair. He continued to watch him for a while, then finally placed his cup on the table and sighed. “So are you going to say something or should I grab a book to pass the time?”
Felix was seething. His blood boiled, infused with rage. He’d beelined it for Bill’s office right after he fled the stadium, prepared to assault him with a thousand questions. But each time he opened his mouth, the thought of Jimmy made his mind cloud over and his tongue clot. He stared out the window at a quartet of robins zipping over The Yard, landing on the roof of Rhodes Hall. He usually liked birds just fine (who didn’t?), but at the moment he felt nothing but hatred for the feathery devils that carpet bombed his Wrangler nearly every day.
“They say it’s a game of inches,” Bill offered.
“It’s not that,” Felix said, breaking his silence. “It’s just this guy on the team. He’s such an asshole. I’d like to rip his head off.”
“Hey!” Bill shouted with a jab of his finger. “Hey! Don’t even say that. Don’t even think it! You think little Nathan’s gall bladder exploded all on its own?”
Felix jerked back in his chair, his fingers curling around the armrests. The suddenness of Bill’s outburst was startling. Felix watched as Bill’s expression changed from pleasant to angry—the veins bulging in his neck were a dead giveaway—to neutral in a span of about three seconds.