When Lydia arrived at school the next day, she still sported the gloves from yesterday. Her hands were bandaged underneath them. Dariela and Lydia had tested her strength through a gauntlet of trials, from throwing tires to ripping aluminum apart, from taking pictures of the end results to Lydia in action. Each test had been more excruciating than the last. This was due mainly to her battered hands and her aching bones demanding that she stop, since they were subjected to continuous harm with each trial. She had given in only when her arms were too sore to lift anything and her fingers refused to move at all. The damage to Lydia’s skin and bruised knuckles had been enough to convince Dariela that increased strength didn’t equal resistance to injury as well.
Now her hands were swollen and sensitive to any touch. Yet she couldn’t blame Dariela. Lydia had also desired to sate her curiosity of her limits. She did thank Dariela once more for lending her the gloves to hide the bruises and small cuts from her parents and from those at school. They had felt so wonderful to slip on that morning. Dariela had been right, though. The gloves were a little easier to move after she’d given them time to conform to her hands.
“You’re almost like a superhero, you know,” Dariela said after their detention was over.
“What?” Lydia picked up her backpack, awkwardly slipping it on with the thick gloves.
“Well, think about it,” Dariela said as they walked through the fading yellow halls toward their first class. “All of a sudden, you have this superhuman strength! The car yesterday and all that other stuff. You’re pretty much a superhero.”
“Really? Is that why my hands hurt and look like someone took a sledgehammer to them?” Lydia asked sarcastically, holding up the green gloves.
“Okay, so maybe not a superhero. But something else. Like some halfway hero. You’re on your way there,” Dariela said, correcting herself. “How are your hands anyway?”
“Fine,” Lydia said. A superhero? It was a ridiculous notion. But when Lydia thought back to her dream of flying, it became very appealing. Why couldn’t I have that? she wondered bitterly as she tightened her jacket. Her heavy backpack was doing its best to pull the jacket off of her. She was fearful of that, having decided to test out some “unsure” clothes that day. Lydia already knew the jeans were a definite no, since they dug into her waist.
Dariela may have been thrilled to know someone with strength like hers, but Lydia felt like a freak, unnatural, and out of place. She longed to look like any of the other normal girls she used to resemble, rather than some obsessed workout fanatic whose arms filled bulky jackets. So far, no one had noticed her predicament or her gloves, and she prayed it would stay that way.
Unfortunately, that was not to be. As they reached the hall with their classroom, Mark blocked their path. “Nice gloves,” he said, sniggering into his hand. “Going to a lumberjack competition? Or are your hands that delicate?”
“Get out of here, Mark,” Lydia said. “I’m not in the mood for your games.”
“Why are you even wearing these?” he asked, snatching at one of the gloves. Lydia yanked her hand away and walked around him. “Whoa, you need to lay off the cookies, Fatty,” he teased, pointing at her legs and rear. “Snap some buttons getting dressed today? Next thing you know, all of that will go to your hips.” Lydia’s face heated up and tears pricked her eyes, but she ignored him as Dariela pushed her along to their class.
Mark was persistent. He grabbed one of her gloves and yanked it off. The pain was excruciating. He’d inadvertently squeezed her fingers and it felt like the bones inside were being twisted and shoved into horrible knots.
Lydia rounded on him, her eyes blinking rapidly to hold back stinging tears. “Whoa, your hands are—” But he never had a chance to finish. She held him by the throat about six inches above the floor against the lockers. A few people stopped to watch, expecting a fight, but Dariela waved them on.
“Don’t do that again,” Lydia said, grabbing the glove back while still holding him. “It hurts.”
“No kidding,” he said, grinning and trying to look down at her hand. “Looks like you let a car run over them.” He pried at her grip, chuckling at the pained expression she was fighting back. “Hey, let go!” There was a noticeable tremor to his voice when he realized that her hold was firm.
“Not until you stop being a pain. You’re the reason I’m like this anyway!”
“Me?” Mark said, struggling. It was comical how his plump legs flailed wildly as she dangled him in the air. “That idiot,” he jerked his head at Dariela, “was the one who talked you into going into the storage room.” He reached out and called for his friends passing by. “Bruce! Rich!” The girls watched the pair keep walking, blending in with the crowd, never bothering to look in Mark’s direction.
“I’ll catch up with you two later,” he called out, laughing them off. To Lydia he said, “They must not have heard me. Sometimes I think they’re completely oblivious to everything.” He smiled a little too wide, but resorted to his frown when he pried at Lydia’s fingers again. “Anyway, you’re the one who followed her! It was your fault! I was only going along with you guys.”
“You pushed me into the boxes.”
“After you pushed me first! You’re both crazy. Useless, fat, wastes of spaces,” he jeered, hocking a wad of spit onto her face.
Ugh! Lydia, shocked and disgusted, loosened her grip a fraction.
“Now let me go!” Mark’s voice wheezed against her hand.
Her hand slackened enough for Mark to attempt to free himself. He pounded her fingers and bent them back, earning a shrill cry from her. Then he landed on his feet and laughed, holding his bouncing belly with both hands. Dariela tried to intervene and wipe away the slime from Lydia’s face, but Lydia held her back and cleaned it off on her glove.
Without warning, she punched Mark. Hard. He ricocheted off the lockers at an angle, leaving a deep cavity in one, and fell to the floor. Lydia’s fist stayed in the air. That must have broken a few fingers.
Lydia froze. She’d struck him! Without holding back, she had let loose at Mark all the frustration she’d accumulated over the years, as well as the fear of the past several days, with a devastating sock to his nose. This wasn’t her fault. Mark had goaded her. But when she saw Mark holding his face, she knew she’d messed up.
It was the pain in her hands. That was it. Or the fear of people finding out. The stress of it all. That was what caused her to lose her cool. But what if her actions were viewed from a teacher’s point of view? Especially Retter’s, who was sure to come down the hall soon, to find out why students weren’t showing up for her class. A circle of onlookers had already gathered, whispering and pointing at her hands. Noticing her and probably cracking jokes. Mark had provoked her, but all they had seen was her punch. It wasn’t fair.
Mark looked fine, with no trace of blood, not so much as a pink spot on his rosy skin. Lydia knew he’d play up the hit to an exaggerated degree anyway. It wasn’t fair. “Freak! Guess those chemicals made you crazy, too!” he chided.
Dariela touched her shoulder, but Lydia brushed her off and ran for the exit. She pushed people aside, her eyes blurring, her hand exposed to everyone. She no longer cared. All Lydia wanted to do was fly away from everything.
Halfway Heroes Page 11
