High School Freak

by Aaron Grunn

right?"

  "That's right."

  "Then why did you disobey your mother?"

  "I didn't."

  "Don't lie to me, John."

  "I... It wasn't me. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them they were lying everywhere. I swear ma, it wasn't me." John felt a tear coming down his cheek.

  He felt his mom's eyes all over him.

  "I'm sorry honey." His mother hugged him. "I'm sorry."

  "I don't know what happened."

  "It's okay."

  John shook, then felt his eyes dry up. "And look." He showed her his lip. "He punched me and there's nothing."

  His mother nodded; she was looking at him like he was another person again.

  "What is it mom? Why am I such a freak?"

  His mother stared at him, mulling something over in her head. "I told you that you were changing, right?"

  "Yes, but they didn't talk about this in class."

  "I know, but you're..." His mother rolled her eyes up to think of a word. "Special."

  "How? Why? I don't want to be special."

  "Listen, John. Promise me you won't get into a fight again. If someone wants to fight, you just run away. All right?"

  "Why do I..."

  "John! Promise me, okay?"

  "Okay, I promise."

  "And don't stay in school any longer than you have to. You come home right away."

  "But..."

  "John! Promise me."

  "All right, I promise."

  "Good. You don't want to move again, do you?"

  "No, I don't."

  "Then please, listen to me."

  The next day at school John tried to keep his head down and not look up. In biology class, he couldn't help but want to see Jessica again. He waited until Mr. Cox turned to write on the board before he tilted his head and strained his eyes to see Jessica.

  She was looking right at him. Smiling. This time, for some reason, John didn't look away; he stared right at her and smiled back. His heart raced. It felt good. There was a tightening sensation in his chest, but there was also giddiness in his head. Mr. Cox droned on for the rest of the class. John didn't pay attention and managed to get a few more looks at Jessica.

  Only towards the end of the class did he remember what his mother had said about keeping his head down. Then he thought about Smitty and how he'd said Jessica was his girlfriend. John couldn't get into any more confrontations. That thought in his mind, he ran out of class as soon as the bell rang.

  Walking home, down the same road, he stopped to look at the ants that he'd observed the day before. The wheels from Smitty's car had smashed half of them. John wondered why the world was so cruel. He placed his hand above the ants hoping that somehow he could make them feel better. Then something started to happen. Like the day before, he felt a surge. This time, however, he kept his eyes open and watched as the ants started to move towards his hand.

  Did they think he had food? No, ants didn't do this, not that John had seen or read, anyways. The ants got in a circle, then in a pile, then they started climbing towards his hand, one on top of the other. John held his breath.

  The rumble of a car engine sounded. John glanced up, half expecting to see Smitty's car. But turning the corner of the otherwise abandoned street, was an old, shiny car that emitted a deep growl as it throttled. The man at the steering wheel didn't seem familiar. He didn't have the appearance of a man who belonged in this neighborhood, or the town. He had a face carved like marble, a wide jaw, and a large gorilla-sized hand on the steering wheel.

  Except for a few birds, the neighborhood seemed quiet, as if it was holding its breath just for his sake. John stared at the houses with their perfectly placed trees and soulless windows. This man did not belong here with these houses. His mother had warned him to be wary of men who seemed out of place. It had been the reason they left the last place: he'd mentioned an odd man in a suit and before he knew it, they moved here.

  John turned his attention back to the man and the car. There was something about the stranger that drew John to him. He stepped out on the road. He knew what his mother would say: run away, but he couldn't, not this time.

  The car picked up speed and came to a halt next to John.

  John stared at the man. The man sneered, and looked every part as mean, but he somehow seemed like a friend. The man's dark brown hair shone in the light, and his almost-black eyes seemed to glow. John assumed it was from a special pair of contacts like some kids wore to school; though this man seemed to be too old to be a raver. His face and hands had scars all over them, and he had a leather jacket on and a day's worth of stubble. The car, close now, was an Impala. It was a car from the seventies, if John guessed correctly.

  "Hey there young man," the man said. He glanced over to the skid marks in the grass, where Smitty had confronted John and stuck out his lip, nodding in an approving manner.

  "Hi," John said uncertainly.

  "What?"

  "Hi."

  "Better learn to speak up."

  A strange aroma hit John's nose, and he realized that something was wrong about the man. He took a step back, and yet he felt like it was too late to run. "Who are you?" John asked.

  "You don't recognize me?"

  John looked over the car again. In the backseat he noticed an ax and the barrel of a shotgun sticking out from under a tarp. "Who are you?" John asked, surprised that he was so calm.

  The man grinned, revealing three teeth that were gold.

  "I saw what you did to those kids. Nice work. One against five, not many people can do that. Not when the five each outweigh you two to one."

  "Y...you saw?"

  "Oh, I watched. Like I said. Bravo," the man said, smiling again. Though this time John felt there was a certain level of sarcasm behind it.

  "What did you see?"

  "Oh that's right, you had your eyes closed," the man said and laughed out loud. It was a raspy engine-starting laugh. "How many people in the world can do what you did with their eyes closed, huh?"

  John was starting not to like this man. "A few."

  "A few?" Again he laughed. "I would dare say no more than one. You?"

  "You can do it?"

  "Oh, I wish I could." The man shook his head and stared at the road in front of him.

  A car honked its horn and the man snapped his head with a deep sneer on his face.

  Behind the Impala was a car of upperclassmen, and John could see Jessica in the back. He didn't know what to do. Whoever was driving decided to honk the horn again.

  "I think they want you to move," John said to the man.

  The man huffed through his nose, stepped out of the car, bumping John out of the way and raised his hands. "Honk the horn again, kids."

  The man, now that he was standing, was huge in a menacing way. It wasn't just extra pounds, but the width, the wingspan-of-an-albatross-shoulders, and the way he moved lightly on his feet. He was at least over six and a half feet tall. The car full of kids had nothing but white eyes, and they immediately reversed the car and sped off.

  "Punks," the man muttered. "Is everyone at your school like this?"

  John shrugged. "You shouldn't be so mean."

  The man looked at John. "I should be like you instead eh? Send those kids through a windshield?" the man said with a chuckle and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He packed them with a cusped hand, pulled out one, offered it to John who refused, and lit it for himself.

  The man got back in the car. John didn't want him to leave. There was something pulling John to him.

  "Who was the other person like me?" John asked.

  The man regarded John as if it were he who was acting out of line and started to adjust his radio. "The channels in this town are crap," the man said.

  "You're being rude. Who were you talking about?"

  The man chuckled when John said rude and fiddled with the car radio some more. He pushed his cigarette out of the car and tapped ashes on John's feet.

  John f
elt anger rising. He knew what his mother had said, but it seemed like the right thing to do. He grabbed the cigarette and threw it into the lawn behind him; with his other hand, he grabbed the man by his collar. The man must have weighed two and a half times his weight, but John felt no fear running through his bones. In fact, he felt like he could do anything to this man.

  The man grinned and put up his hands. "Please, don't," he said in a whimpering voice, then broke out laughing.

  "You're crazy," John said.

  "Me?" the man said as if he was truly shocked and laughed even harder. When he was finished, he shook his head.

  John twisted the jacket even more.

  "Easy," the man said, some level of seriousness returning to his voice. "Christ, you really are your father's son."

  John pulled his hand away and felt dizzy. He leaned against the car door. "My father?"

  "You're just like him."

  "You knew him?"

  The man studied John for a second. "Yes, of course."

  "My father?" John repeated, not believing what was happening. "I was like him?"

  "You are."

  John fell backwards and landed on his ass on the sidewalk. His vision was darkening on the sides.

  "Easy kid."

  "You said are," John said. His voice sounded like it was coming from a chamber inside his head.

  "You really don't know, do you?"

  "My mother never talks about him."

  "She hasn't told you anything?" the man said, anger filling the ends of his words.

  John shook his head.

  "That bitch," the man said to himself. He shifted the car into gear and squealed off.

  John, energy returning to his muscles, jumped and sprinted after the car. He could hear the engine revving up. John ground his teeth and suddenly he was next to the car. He reached in and grabbed the man. The man was surprisingly pliable and the car