“So my telling you that I’m in love with you hasn’t already done that?”
“I’ve always hoped that somebody could fall in love with me. Not my looks. Not the glamor. But me.”
“I don’t mind your looks,” said Ryan.
“I don’t mind yours, either,” she said.
“I’m going back inside now,” said Ryan, “because what you showed me, and what you’ve been saying—it makes me want to hold you and kiss you and all kinds of stuff that would require me not to be in the friend zone.”
“You actually said that out loud?” she asked.
“Should I lie and pretend I don’t want what I want?” asked Ryan.
“Yeah, you’d better go inside now,” she said. “But please keep walking me to school and back. It’s giving my mom so much more time during the day.”
“For her,” said Ryan. “I’ll do that for her.”
* * *
A few mornings later, when Ryan and Bizzy got to school, Defense bounded up to them and announced, “I’ve got the greatest costume for Halloween!”
Ryan knew his old friend well enough to dread the announcement, because Defense never looked quite this happy unless he was about to lay a zinger on somebody—most often Ryan.
“I’m going as you,” said Defense.
Bizzy gave one small hoot of laughter.
“Nobody will know who you’re dressed up as,” said Ryan. “So nobody will get the joke.”
“Joke?” asked Defense. “Everybody will know it’s you, because I’m going to put a picture of Bizzy on a broom, and then I’ll go around staring at the Bizzy-broom and saying sweet lovey things to her. Everybody will know it’s you.”
Bizzy looked like she was going to answer, but Ryan forestalled her. “He’s not going to do it,” said Ryan, “because he wants to remain my friend. So he’ll get all his pleasure from teasing me about it, but then he’ll do what he always does, and go as Yoda’s handsome older brother.”
“Correct he is,” said Defense, “but tell him not, or spoil my fun it will.”
Bizzy shook her head. “Why have I been committed to the same asylum as you two?”
“Excuse me, what have I done that’s insane?” asked Ryan.
Bizzy seemed disposed to answer, and Defense certainly had that idea in mind. They both opened their mouths at once to speak, then waited for the other. During the pause, Ryan jogged away. Bizzy didn’t need him to escort her once they were on school grounds, and Ryan had no need to stick around and face any more humiliation, like Defense’s assertion that he was in love with Bizzy. Of course it was true, but Ryan wished sometimes that he had a best friend who actually cared about his feelings, at least now and then.
Once he was inside the main doors of the school, Ryan looked back outside and glanced across the crowds of students yammering and walking and taking selfies. That’s when he noticed a guy who looked a little too old for high school, standing near the school buses and covertly watching Bizzy.
Ryan had seen him before. Near the house, once. And another time, he couldn’t be sure when, but this guy had shown up to stare at Bizzy several different times. The guy knew where she lived, he knew where she went to school. This was exactly the kind of person that Ryan was walking home with Bizzy to protect her from. A stalker.
But the moment Ryan stepped back outside—pushing past a group of inconsiderate girls who thought they owned the whole width of both doors—the guy was gone. Did he know that Ryan meant to confront him? He couldn’t have been afraid Ryan would beat him up or something, because nothing about Ryan would intimidate anything bigger than a bee. Maybe the guy was still hoping he wouldn’t be recognized. But I will recognize you from now on, thought Ryan.
There was going to be a history test this morning, probably a pop essay—a kind of quiz that nobody but Mr. Hardesty would give students, because that would mean he’d have to grade the papers himself, which meant reading a whole bunch of really stupid short essays. But as Mr. Hardesty had said more than once, “The only tests worth giving are oral and essay, even if it means I have to read all the drivel you write.” Ryan regarded that as a challenge, so he tried to write jewellike essays that covered all the points so economically that he never had to use a second paragraph.
But he couldn’t resist putting a completely extraneous statement—a gibe at the principal or the president or some celebrity, or an absurd stand on some issue—in the middle of his answer. Then he would draw a couple of lines through that sentence, leaving it perfectly legible but marking it as not part of the essay. He figured that Hardesty couldn’t come down on him for adding stuff to the essay, as long as he crossed it out.
So today, in the middle of a clear disquisition on the War of the Roses, its causes, and its impact on England, he inserted, “The problem with keeping hamsters as pets is that they’re always snarling at bigger rodents when you walk them through the neighborhood.” Hardesty had never commented on Ryan’s gratuitous observations, but Ryan was sure he read them, and hoped he was either amused or annoyed.
By the time the test was over, Ryan had forgotten about Stalker Dude for a while. But when he looked at Bizzy, he was reminded that she might actually be in some kind of danger. When she was paying no attention to him, he could see how the glamor poked through, stabbing at the hearts of strangers. Unlike people who had resting-angry-face or resting-bitch-face or whatever, Bizzy had resting-beautiful-face. It was all he could see, now that he knew what to look for. Her talent wasn’t that she could make herself beautiful, it was that she could make herself less beautiful in order to have a friendship with an easily intimidated regular guy like Ryan.
At the end of history class, when Mr. Hardesty picked up the essay tests, Ryan had already decided to see if he could avoid walking with Bizzy, so that people couldn’t see what a puppy dog he was around her. But instead, Mr. Lindquist, the guidance counselor, appeared in the door of the classroom and said, “I need to see Ryan Burke.”
“After school?” asked Ryan.
Lindquist looked at him. “Now was more what I had in mind.”
Ryan followed him through the crowded corridors during the class changeover until they got to Small Group Room B, which had chairs around a table. Apparently, it had been reserved for Lindquist and Ryan.
“Have a seat,” said Lindquist.
Ryan turned a chair around so its back was against the table, then sat down on it.
“You couldn’t just sit up to the table? Or is that how you sit at the dinner table at home?” asked Lindquist.
“We don’t use a table,” said Ryan. “We stand at the kitchen counter.”
Lindquist got a pained look. “Oh, you’re one of those.”
“On the contrary,” said Ryan. “I’m one of these. Much better than any of those.”
“Mr. Burke,” said Lindquist, “you’ve been recommended to take part in a research group.”
“Recommended by whom?” Ryan asked.
“The recommender,” said Lindquist.
“No need to keep it a secret,” said a voice at the door to the room. “He knows it’s me.”
Ryan jumped backward from the chair and turned to face the door. It was Stalker Dude.
“You,” said Ryan.
“I saw you notice me today,” said the guy.
“I’m not going anywhere with him,” said Ryan.
7
Stalker Dude came into the room and sat across from Ryan at the table. He had a limp. Ryan noticed that one leg was a little shorter than the other. He knew that they made shoes with one sole thicker than the other, to compensate for that. But this guy didn’t wear shoes like that. Just regular shoes, and a limp.
Lindquist headed for the door.
“You’re leaving me alone in here with this weirdo?” asked Ryan.
Lindquist stopped. “He would be entit
led to ask the same question.”
Ryan was stung. Weirdo? What had he ever done that would make Lindquist think of him as a weirdo?
“No offense,” said Lindquist.
“Wrong,” said Ryan. “I’m definitely offended.”
“So am I,” said Stalker Dude.
“You’re the one who asked for this meeting,” said Ryan.
“Why don’t we talk for a while before you decide whether to continue regarding me as your enemy,” said Stalker Dude. He looked at Lindquist. Lindquist left and closed the door behind him.
Ryan got up and walked toward the door.
“Not even curious?” asked Stalker Dude. “If I had stayed by the bus when you headed back out of the school, wouldn’t you have talked to me then? Even though you know I could beat the crap out of you without even trying?”
Ryan stopped, his hand on the doorknob.
“For instance, I have a name. I can tell it to you, if you want.”
“Dying to hear it,” said Ryan.
“Aaron Withunga,” said Stalker Dude.
“Withunga,” said Ryan. “You must have to spell that a lot.”
“Every time I write it down,” said Aaron.
Ryan was tired of this. “What’s this research group I’m supposed to join? Because I’m not a researcher.”
“My mother founded it and she’s in charge of it. She’s got a doctorate and she’s a scientist, but she’ll be the first to tell you that what she’s doing isn’t actually science, because almost everything we learn is unrepeatable—it deals with only one case.”
“So, scientific but not science, and still I have no idea what the group does.”
“It’s called GRUT, G-R-U-T—the Group of Rare and Useless Talents,” said Aaron. “Only we found out last year that the talents aren’t really useless, though they really are rare. Anyway, Mom tried to change the name, and when she writes about the things we learn, she doesn’t say ‘useless talents’; she says ‘micropowers.’ And members of the group are called ‘micropotents,’ or ‘micropots,’ or sometimes just ‘mops.’”
Ryan waited for some kind of clarity.
“The opposite of superpowers,” said Aaron. “Which don’t actually exist outside of movies and comic books. But the micropowers are real.”
“And you think I have one.”
“I know you do,” said Aaron. “And I know what it is. Because I saw you with the bee.”
Ryan sat and thought about that. He must surely mean the bee that was in Bizzy’s hair, the bee that he put in his mouth and then blew out again.
“I don’t know what you think you saw,” said Ryan, “but the only thing you can conclude from that is that I’m so dumb, I put a bee in my mouth.”
“I wasn’t inside your head,” said Aaron, “so I don’t know what you think you did. I only know what I saw, and that was a mental process so phenomenally fast that you made all your moves as if you had spent ten thousand hours practicing them. You were reaching for the bee before it got caught up in Bizzy’s hair, and you didn’t reach for where it was when it started. You reached for where it was when it got tangled. You already seemed to know. You reached, you slid your hand down her hair, but you were already reaching your hand to your mouth and your mouth to your hand before the bee was even free. A single movement—reach for the bee and put it in your mouth as if that was already your only goal. Like you had a real craving for fresh bee.”
“Like I said, phenomenally dumb. If that’s a micropower—”
“For all I know, it is, but you don’t have it. At first I thought your only micropower was to resist other people’s micropowers, but you don’t have that at all. You have your own. Your brain just makes a connection and you act, flawlessly, smoothly, so that the whole bee-catching took about a second. Maybe less than a second. No lag time. Even opening your mouth to let the bee out again—”
“I blew it out,” said Ryan.
“Happened immediately, so you put in the bee and blew it back out as if your only purpose was to catch a bee and blow it out into the air.”
Ryan hated knowing he had been spied on, but he also felt a thrill at knowing that someone had actually seen what he did.
“So my micropower is bee catching?” asked Ryan. He did not add, Why couldn’t I catch the bee that stung my sister before it did the stinging?
“I don’t know,” said Aaron. “I don’t know what’s actually going on. I just know that no other human I’ve seen has reflexes like yours. I don’t even know if you think of what you’re going to do before you do it—there doesn’t seem to be enough time. You just act, and you make no mistakes at all. Everything works as it’s supposed to. The bee didn’t get tangled in Bizzy’s hair, it didn’t have time to sting your hand, you didn’t yank on Bizzy’s hair hard enough to hurt her, and when it was all done and the bee flew away harmless and unharmed, you didn’t seem to think you had even done anything. No adrenaline rush, no panting, and no apparent need to brag to Bizzy about what you had just done for her. I don’t think she has a clue how close she came to being stung.”
“I was just looking out for her,” said Ryan.
“I think that might be part of your power. Looking out for somebody you love. Or maybe somebody you have responsibility for. Some condition internal to your own mind, which has to be met for this micropower to assert itself. But that’s why you come to GRUT: to have the group help you understand the rules of your own micropower.”
“I don’t come to GRUT,” said Ryan.
“I know,” said Aaron. “And if I’m reading you right, you have no intention of doing so. That’s fine, there’s nothing compulsory about it. We have no plan to study you, but we can be helpful when you decide you need to study yourself. I could tell you stories, but I won’t, because the stories are fairly private, and you aren’t part of the group. So here’s where I’m going to leave things. Mr. Lindquist has my contact information. When something happens that makes you decide you might need our help, our experience, whatever—when that happens, you go to Lindquist and ask him to call me.”
“I’d ask him to give me your number,” said Ryan.
“He wouldn’t give it to you. I have to protect myself, don’t I?”
“Seriously? Like you said, you could beat me to a pulp.”
“I could, sure. Unless you were in your hyperactive mode. Then it’s quite possible you’d move so fast I couldn’t defend myself. With micropowers, all things are possible. And neither you nor I know the limits of yours. I just know that if you ever come to think of me as a bee about to sting Bizzy, I might not be able to get away in time.”
“And that’s why you hid from me when I came back out of the school,” said Ryan.
“Because I was afraid of you, yes, if I triggered your hyperprotective mode.”
“And that’s your message,” said Ryan.
“Yep,” said Aaron as he rose to his feet.
“You’re not going to try to persuade me to come to your therapy group?”
“Not a therapy group,” said Aaron. “And why should I care whether you come or not?”
“If you don’t care, then why would you—”
“Because you got yourself chosen to be Bizzy’s protector,” said Aaron, “and she matters.” Then he was out the door and striding—well, limping very quickly—along the corridor.
Ryan didn’t try to go after him, because he wanted Aaron gone and now that had happened. Mission accomplished.
Except that nothing had been accomplished. Aaron might have been watching Ryan and saw his thing with the bee, but it was Bizzy that this guy was stalking. Nothing he said gave Ryan any assurance that he and this group he was with had good intentions toward Bizzy. Mrs. Horvat was right to worry. And Ryan was right to stay with Bizzy and look out for her.
Any more attacks by insects, Ryan could prob
ably deal with. He was the right man to call if bees were out to get you. Anybody tougher than a bee, though, he wasn’t sure what he could do.
Boxing lessons? Kickboxing? Karate? None of those would make him any bigger. Well, no, all of them would get him working hard, putting on muscle. And getting some skills, that would help. Might even intimidate somebody into backing off.
Except people with weapons. Knives, guns—what would Ryan do if they came at Bizzy with tools like those?
Witness protection. International espionage. Deep cover. Talking with Aaron Withunga didn’t rule out any of that. In fact, Ryan was starting to think that maybe this ridiculous GRUT thing was just a distraction, meant to get him away from Bizzy so they could do . . .
Whatever. Kidnapping? If they wanted her dead, a sniper could take her out at any time. Or maybe this was a conspiracy of predatory fashion magazines to force her into sweatshop employment as a fashion model. Every idea he thought of sounded more and more absurd. And any idea of protecting her sounded even stupider.
He needed to find a way to earn money and get a car. Get Bizzy off the street.
Of course, Ryan was the one who put her on the street. She had been safely in her mother’s car before he started walking with her.
So he should tell Bizzy and Mrs. Horvat that he couldn’t walk her home anymore. Get Bizzy back into the car.
But he liked being with her. He loved her. Could he give up a half hour a day walking with her even if other kids mocked him for it? He loved her more than he feared their ridicule, that was for sure. But did he love her so much that he would keep exposing her to greater danger by walking with her every day at predictable times?
Nothing he did would take her out of danger, if she was in danger.
Nothing he did would make any difference at all, except to him. If he stopped having conversations with her, then his life would reduce like soup stock, leaving only his miserable existence as a child of a marriage that was breaking up, a house that had been divided, sleeping on the couch and hating himself and his life and, to be honest, both his parents for not being able to work things out like grownups.
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