“Lightning,” Wren murmured. “That would be cool.”
“Can we please focus?” Chloe snapped, throwing her hands in the air. She took a deep breath and pointed at Beck. “You will call us if anything—anything—out of the ordinary happens. No matter how small.”
Beck's lips twitched. “Yes, ma'am.”
“Shut up,” she grumbled.
He jumped down the front steps, pausing only to call over his shoulder. “I don't feel anything anyway. Maybe nothing's going to happen.”
They both looked doubtful, but Beck smiled and waved as he headed toward his car. Nothing was going to happen. Magic boxes and super powers and smoke monsters. Oh my.
It was all so ridiculous. So impossible. Crazy.
Nothing was going to happen.
Except that it did.
Beck barely managed to stay under the speed limit as he raced to his father's house, concern over his sister pushing aside the odd events of the past hour. He parked in the driveway, and jogged up the front steps, calling out as he slammed through the door. His father emerged from the kitchen, face drawn and haggard, and all Beck's hopes dwindled in a flash.
“What is it?” he asked, slumping against the wall.
His dad sighed. “Another delay. It'll be at least a month before we can go to court.”
“A month? You've got to be kidding me.” Beck dropped his backpack and rubbed at his forehead. “They have the psychologist's report, right?”
“Your mom has her own psychologist.”
“What about my testimony? Isn't it worth anything?”
“They say I could have coerced you.”
Beck tightened his jaw. He could feel his teeth grinding. “That's ridiculous. You're not the one who plays mind games.”
Jacob pulled a chair away from the dining room table and sat down with an exhausted huff. “I know you're disappointed.”
“I'm more than disappointed,” he replied. “But this isn't about me. It's about Tru.”
“I know.”
“It's about keeping her safe. It's about getting her away from—”
“I know, Beck. I wish I had better news.”
Frustration and anger twisted in Beck's stomach, heating his skin. “I don't understand how they can leave her there. It's not right. Anyone who spends more than five minutes with her would see that.” He kicked his backpack, and to his surprise, it shot across the floor, nearly to the kitchen door. He was vaguely aware of his hand tingling and clenched his fist against the sensation.
“Beckett . . .” Jacob slumped in his chair, unable to console him.
Beck shook his head slowly, the fury burning through him. “Can't they see through her lies?” he asked. “She puts on a dress and a smile and charms her way past all the social workers and psychologists. Why can't they see through it? See through her?” His hand almost throbbed now, but he barely noticed.
“Beck, calm down.”
“No!” He spun on his heel and headed for the door. “I need to get out. I need to think.” He tightened his grip on the doorknob, surprised to see a soft glow appear around his fingers . . . a glove of light. Shocked, he shoved that fist into his pocket and opened the door with his other hand. “I'll be fine,” he muttered. “I'll call you later.”
His dad sighed again, defeated. “Please do, okay? I want to make sure you got home all right.”
Beck nodded and all but shot out the door. He looked up and down the street then ducked into his car, holding his breath as he pulled his hand out of his pocket.
Nothing. The glow was gone. He blew out a slow hiss of relief, then he pulled his phone from his pocket to send a quick text.
Something happened.
They met at a park about a block from Chloe's house that was busy during the day but after dark was pretty much empty. Streetlights cast long shadows of playground equipment across the ground, and the ball field hovered in that semi-eerie state of half-lit, half-darkness.
“So, it just started glowing?” Chloe asked.
“Yep.”
“And nothing else?” Wren watched him carefully.
“Like what?” Beck noticed she'd clenched her own hand into a fist.
She shrugged. “Like . . . tingling? Itching? Any kind of feeling to go along with the light show?”
“No—” Beck started to shake his head, then froze. “No, wait. Yeah. Yeah, there was some tingling . . . and heat.” He lifted his hand and wiggled his fingers. “What do you think it means?”
Wren exchanged a glance with Chloe. “It's what happens to me,” she explained, holding up her own palm. “I get a tingling feeling and the watch starts to glow.”
Beck's eyes widened as the image of a clock face appeared on Wren's hand, pulsing lightly. She closed her fingers around it and the glow faded after a moment.
“But then time stopped,” Chloe pointed out. “At least the first few times you had no control over it, but for Beck, nothing else happened.”
Wren thought for a moment, chewing on her lip. “Are you sure about that?” she asked him. “Nothing out of the ordinary? Do you remember anything about what you were feeling right before it happened? Maybe we can replicate it.”
Beck considered that. “I was . . . mad.”
“How mad?”
“Pretty mad,” he replied, remembering how he'd felt when his dad had told him Tru would be stuck with their mother for the time being. “Furious, actually. And frustrated.”
Wren nodded, turning to pace a little on the damp grass.
“What do you think it means?” Chloe asked.
“Emotions,” Wren replied, stopping just short of a pool of light. “Fear. Frustration. For me . . . I was overwhelmed and wanted everything to stop. And it did.”
“But nothing stopped for Beck,” Chloe said.
“No, but . . .” Beck scrubbed a hand over his head, thinking . . . remembering . . . There was something. “I kicked a backpack. I didn't really think about it at the time, but . . .”
“But?” Wren prompted.
“It kind of went a long way. I mean, I didn't kick it that hard, but it slid all the way into the kitchen.”
They moved to stand in a loose circle, absorbing the information. Unsure what it all meant.
“So what now?” Beck asked.
Wren shrugged. “Now, I try to teach you to focus, and we figure out exactly what gift that box has given you.”
“Okay, so how do we do that?”
“Umm . . . close your eyes.” Wren looked uncertain, but Beck figured she was the best he had, so he did as she said.
“Now, try to think back to how you were feeling at that moment. What set you off?”
Beck rolled his shoulders. “I was talking to my dad. About my little sister.”
“I didn't know you had a sister.”
Beck opened his eyes to find Wren flushing.
“Sorry,” she said, looking away.
“It's okay. It's kind of a long story. She lives with our mother,” he replied. “That's kind of what I was mad about.”
Wren opened her mouth, and he could tell she wanted to ask more, but instead she nodded.
“Okay, so think back to how you were feeling. I think the first step is trying to recapture those emotions.”
Beck closed his eyes again and took a deep breath as he tried to follow her instructions. He thought about Tru, about the battle to get her away from their mother.
About the lawyers. The court. The endless hearings and evaluations.
About the waiting.
About the pain. The frustration. What Tru could be going through at that very moment.
The endless criticism and humiliation. The taunts and emotional abuse.
Anger curled in his stomach and twisted through his chest and he let it grow, let it flow unchecked into a ball of white hot fury. Beck was vaguely aware of a tingling in his right hand.
His fingers twitched.
“Whoa,” Chloe murmured, and his eyes flew open.<
br />
Both girls were staring at his hand and he lifted it to find it once again enveloped in a glove of light. He wiggled his fingers loosely.
“Now what?” he asked through gritted teeth, the anger still pulsing through him.
“Umm . . . try to do something?” Wren suggested.
“What?”
“I don't know.”
Beck glared at her. “I thought you knew what you were doing.”
Wren glared right back. “Well, you thought wrong. We're all trying to figure this thing out.”
“Great!” Beck snapped, waving his arm, the light trailing behind his movement. “In the meantime, I'm a walking glow stick!”
“I think we should all just calm down,” Chloe interjected.
“Calm down?” Beck stalked toward the swing set as the tingling in his hand intensified. “How am I supposed to calm down? My family's a mess, my sister's in trouble, and I look like I've been possessed by a black light poster.”
He smacked the swing set in frustration. “Not—”
A creaking interrupted his thoughts and it took a moment for Beck to absorb where the sound had come from. The swing set shuddered, the support post bent neatly into a ninety degree angle where he had hit it. With a loud groan and clatter of chains, the whole thing swayed forward and Beck scrambled back as it collapsed onto the bent post. He stared at the crumpled metal, mouth dropped open in shock as the tingling eased in his hand and the glow faded away.
The silence that followed hung heavy around them, broken only by Beck's uneven breaths and the lingering rattle of the one swing still hanging crookedly from the remaining posts.
“Well,” Wren said clearing her throat when it came out as a croak. “I guess we know what you can do.”
Beck looked at her wide-eyed. “I'm sorry,” he all but squeaked. What did he do? What was going on?
Chloe stepped forward. “I think maybe that's enough for tonight,” she said, glancing at the crumpled swing set. “We should get out of here.”
The distant whine of a siren broke Beck out of his stupor and he stumbled after them toward the parking lot.
“That can't be for us. It's not for us, right?” Wren asked, worry lacing her tone.
“The siren? No, I don't think so,” Chloe replied. “There's a lot of stuff going on in town lately. People are nuts. Must be a full moon or something.”
They stopped at Beck's car and he hesitated at the door. “What should I do now?” he asked, still more than a little bewildered.
Chloe took him by the shoulders. “It's going to be okay,” she said, shaking him slightly. “Go home and get some sleep. Tomorrow after class, we'll work with you and figure out how you can control it. In the meantime . . .” She glanced at Wren.
“In the meantime?” Beck prompted.
She shrugged. “In the meantime, try not to freak out. And try not to get mad.”
“Right.” Beck nodded, his head loose on his shoulders. “Right. Yeah, sure.”
He got into his car and squeezed the steering wheel as he watched the girls head for Chloe's house.
Don't get mad. Don't freak out. Easier said than done.
A woman stood at the edge of the playground, concealed in the shadows of a few evergreen trees. She shifted restlessly on her feet as she watched the boy start his car and drive out of the parking lot. She was nondescript—middle-aged, slightly overweight, wearing loose, colorless clothing and sensible shoes, with skin once the color of creamy coffee now sallow and faded, neat braids springing loose in frizzy, sporadic tufts.
The kind of woman people rarely noticed.
Which was why It had chosen her, of course.
“What do I do now?” she asked, eyes on the boy's taillights as he turned and headed down the street.
“Nothing,” It replied. “It's too late to stop him now. He's already claimed the gift.”
She waited, knowing It would instruct her further. Nervously, she thumbed at the wedding ring on her left hand, spinning it around and around.
“I'm hungry,” It said.
She turned to tromp listlessly down the street toward the middle of town, the scream of police sirens a potent lure to the thing inside her.
Beck had a headache before his first class had even started the next day. Having barely slept, he slogged through early practice, gaining seconds on his lap times and criticism from his coach. Coffee and aspirin helped him focus during class, and he was grateful that he had a three-hour break after lunch so he could grab a quick nap before afternoon swim practice—or at least toss and turn for a couple hours, managing maybe a half hour of sleep. By the time he emerged from the locker room that afternoon, all he wanted was to go back to bed and forget everything. Or go back in time a couple days before he'd ever opened that chest . . . or heard about this battle he was evidently destined to be a part of.
Maybe Wren could help him out with that.
“I don't time travel,” she said with a roll of her eyes when he asked her. “And that's not really a solution to your problem, anyway.”
“I know,” he mumbled.
They'd met at Chloe and Miranda's house, which was apparently where all this super-secret, superhero training went on. They were the only two occupants of the huge Victorian, but Miranda said their landlord insisted the place would fill up quickly. Beck didn’t know about that. They were months into the school year, so he wasn't sure where all these tenants were supposed to be coming from.
Miranda, he'd learned, was in the know on the whole mystical window premonition, mysterious chest of super powers thing, but apparently hadn't been chosen by the chest, or whoever—or whatever—was in charge of such things. She'd opted out of training, saying she was going to be doing research, whatever that meant. She headed up to her room while Chloe led Wren and Beck out to the garage, where she rolled out an ancient set of barbells.
“Best I could come up with on short notice,” she said as she straightened, dusting off her hands. “They look like they've been here forever, but they should do the job.”
Beck rounded the barbell, eyeing the weights on either end. “How much is on here?” He gave it a tentative tug, but couldn’t lift it.
“Everything I could find,” Chloe replied. “I hope it's enough.”
“It's enough,” Beck said, trying to pick it up again and failing.
Wren stood across from him. “So, we need to work on helping you to access this strength, without having to get so angry.”
He rolled his shoulders. “And how do I do that?”
Wren chewed on her lip. “For me, it's about focus. You need to think about how the power feels, separate from the emotion. You know—the tingling in your hand—that kind of thing. For me, it's like an electric shock, almost.”
“Yeah . . .” Beck nodded, remembering the feeling. “But not a zap, more like the current is kind of flowing through you.”
“That sounds pleasant,” Chloe muttered.
Wren shot her a look. “Not helpful.”
“Sorry.”
Wren turned back to Beck. “So, try to recapture that feeling,” she told him. “Imagine it until you feel it.”
“Fake it until you make it?” he said with a lopsided grin.
“Something like that.”
Beck swallowed. “I meant to say . . . I'm sorry, you know, for biting your head off last night.”
“It's okay.”
“I didn't mean it. I wasn't mad at you.”
“I know.” Wren smiled softly. “Really, it's okay. I get it. This whole thing is pretty overwhelming.”
They locked eyes and Beck felt his face grow hot under her gaze. He cleared his throat and looked away. “Okay then, imagine the tingling. Check.”
“Visualize it,” Wren suggested. “Think about the feeling, and the light. Try to picture it in your mind.”
Beck nodded, his brow furrowed as he concentrated. He tried to follow Wren's murmured instructions, wiggling his fingers slowly as he focused on the memor
y of what he'd felt the night before—laying aside the anger and frustration as he centered his thoughts on his hand—the tingling and the light. The electricity flowing out from his fingers, up his arm and through his body. The surge of strength that came along with it, making him feel awake . . . more aware of everything around him. It took more than an hour, but eventually, he felt the beginnings of an electric pulse in his fingertips.
“That's it,” Chloe said quietly.
At that, Beck's focus faltered and he opened his eyes just in time to see the light fade from around his hand. He let out a defeated sigh and cursed under his breath.
“Don't feel so bad,” Wren said, reaching out to squeeze his arm. “You did great. It'll just take practice. It gets easier, I swear.”
Beck nodded, not one to give up or shy away from hard work. He knew what it took to develop a skill—knew from long hours in the pool—that becoming good at something wasn't only about gifts and talents, but about being willing to put in the time and effort to make it happen.
He closed his eyes and tried again.
Beck collapsed onto his bed with a jaw-cracking yawn that night, more tired from the constant mental exercise of visualization than from swim practice. He stared sightlessly at the ceiling, more than a little disappointed at his showing. By the time he left Chloe's, he'd been able to maintain the light around his hand for close to a minute, but as soon as he tried to lift the barbells, it would fade. He'd yet to be able to draw on the hidden strength that the glove had apparently given him.
He frowned when his phone chimed, Tru's familiar ringtone playing merrily. He glanced at the screen before answering, wondering why she'd be calling so late, and worried about what that could mean.
“Tru?”
“Hey, big bro,” his sister's melodic voice greeted him.
“Is everything okay? Are you okay?”
Tru laughed. “Relax, Beckett. I'm fine. Can't a girl call her brother to say hello when she hasn't seen him in forever?”
Beck forced himself to relax back into his pillow. “You know that's not my choice. The lawyer said—”
Super Powers: The New Super Humans, Book Two Page 4