by Marilyn Kaye
She’d never seen him hanging about with other kids at school. She supposed that wasn’t so weird – after all, until a couple of months ago, Tracey didn’t hang out with anyone at school either. She’d been as much of a loner as Martin seemed to be. But there’d been good reasons for Tracey’s isolation.
Maybe Martin had reasons too, but maybe they were bad ones. Maybe right this minute he was on his way to meet Serena, or Clare the kidnapper, or some other person who was interested in gifted students for all the wrong reasons.
If so, Martin wasn’t in any rush to get there. He walked slowly, head down, shoulders slumped, dragging his feet.
As they walked, Tracey took the time to give Martin a long, hard look. She’d never paid much attention to him in class – he was so irritating, everyone tried to ignore him. But now that he was silent, she was able to actually see him – and she was mildly surprised by what she saw. Physically, he really wasn’t that awful.
Whenever she envisioned Martin – which wasn’t often – she always thought of him as being a puny kid, sort of a less-than-lifesize scarecrow. But she realized now that he’d been growing, and he was several inches taller than she was. He was thin, but not totally scrawny. His hair was still fair, but he couldn’t have had a haircut recently. The straight blond strands fell down his forehead and almost into his eyes. Which were very green – funny how she’d never noticed that before. If she hadn’t known him, she’d almost think he was kind of cute.
But she did know him – he was Martin Cooper, whiny and fussy and annoying. And possibly a traitor to his class.
On a leafy, residential street, he turned and made his way up the drive of a house. A plump fair-haired woman was on the front steps, and she looked anxious. When she spotted Martin, she hurried forward.
‘There you are, honey! You’re late, I was getting worried.’ She enveloped Martin in a tight hug.
Well, he was loved, Tracey thought. Clearly, he didn’t have the kind of problems Tracey used to have. But what was all this business about being late? OK, Martin had walked slowly, but he’d come directly home.
Mrs Cooper ushered her son into the house and Tracey followed close behind.
‘You know how I worry when you’re late,’ the woman said to Martin.
‘I’m not late,’ Martin protested weakly.
‘You’re usually here at three thirty-five,’ his mother said. She looked at her watch. ‘It’s three forty-two!’
Seven minutes late, Tracey thought. This lady was kind of obsessive. She looked around the living room they were walking through. Everything looked very clean and neat. There was a sofa, easy chairs, the usual stuff – the only things in the room that seemed a little odd were the pictures on the walls. They were all photos of Martin, from birth to his most recent school picture.
He was an only child, that much was obvious. In a few of the pictures, Martin was posing with his mother, but there was no sign of a father. Was Mrs Cooper a widow or divorced? Divorced, Tracey decided. Otherwise, there’d be some indication of the other person who’d helped to produce Martin.
Pleased with the conclusions she’d come to by way of observation, Tracey was beginning to think she might make a pretty good spy. She followed Martin and his mother into a large, country-style kitchen.
‘Wait till you see the snack I have for you today!’ Mrs Cooper announced. She lifted the lid off a cake tin. ‘Chocolate with butterscotch icing! What do you say to that?’
‘Thank you, Mom,’ Martin said automatically, but there wasn’t a lot of enthusiasm in his tone. He allowed his mother to lead him to a chair at the kitchen table and practically place him on it. Then she stepped back and gazed at him worriedly.
‘You’re looking a little pale, darling. Have you got a fever?’ She placed a hand on his forehead. Martin flinched, but he didn’t push the hand away. Finally, his mother removed it. ‘No, I don’t think so. But I want you to take it easy today, dear. No running around, all right? You know how sport tires you out. You’re just not suited to it.’
Good grief, Tracey thought. This woman wasn’t just a little obsessive, she was a nervous wreck.
Martin picked up the knife that lay next to the cake tin and started to cut a slice of cake. His mother squealed.
‘Honey, be careful! That’s a very sharp knife. Here, let me cut the cake for you. There’s milk in the refrigerator.’
Martin relinquished the knife to his mother, got up and went to the refrigerator. Back at the table, he looked at the unopened carton of milk for a few seconds, and then touched the cap.
‘I can’t get this open,’ he whined.
‘You didn’t even try!’ Tracey exclaimed, forgetting that no one could hear her.
‘I’ll do it for you,’ his mother said.
She treats him like a baby, Tracey realized. So that’s how he acts. This was confirmed to her when his mother unfolded a napkin and actually tucked it into his neckline, like a bib. And Martin let her.
While Martin ate, his mother hovered over him and kept up a non-stop stream of chatter. ‘Now, when you’ve finished with your snack, we’ll go to the supermarket. Unless you’re too tired, of course. But we’re almost out of the cookies you like so much. And maybe we can stop at the hair salon – your grandfather keeps telling me your hair is too long.’ She leaned over and brushed a lock off his forehead. ‘Though I think it looks sweet. I remember your first haircut, when you were two. I cried!’
Tracey was beginning to feel nauseous. This was too, too sickening.
When he finished his snack, Martin made no move to take his plate and glass off the table. Why should he? His mother automatically took them away and began washing them at the sink. Without even thanking her, Martin got up and went into the living room. Tracey followed him.
He plunked himself down on the sofa, picked up a remote control from the coffee table, and pointed it towards the TV. Tracey was surprised to see that he surfed the channels all by himself, and didn’t demand that his mother do it for him.
He let the screen rest on what looked like a rerun of an old series. After a few minutes of watching it with him, Tracey recognized it – ‘The Incredible Hulk’. That figured. Martin would appreciate the story of an ordinary man who could turn into a violent superhero.
The front door opened, and a man came in. Martin’s eyes didn’t leave the screen, but Tracey looked at the newcomer with interest. He seemed pretty old, with hair that was almost completely white and a lot of lines on his face. But he looked like he was in good shape, and when he spoke, his voice was strong.
‘Can’t you even say “hello” to your grandfather, boy?’
Martin’s lips formed the shape of ‘Hi’ but Tracey couldn’t hear anything. Mrs Cooper came into the room.
‘Hi, Dad. Martin, are you ready to go to the supermarket? Oh dear, you do look tired. Maybe you should stay at home. Dad, could you watch Martin while I do some shopping?’
‘Good grief, Linda,’ the man said. ‘He’s almost fourteen years old! He doesn’t need babysitting.’
The woman gazed at her son fondly. ‘He’ll always be my baby. Well, I’m off – back in an hour or so.’
Once she’d left, the man took the remote control and switched the TV off.
‘Hey, I was watching that,’ Martin protested.
‘It’s too nice outside to be watching television,’ his grandfather replied. ‘Let’s go kick a ball around in the back yard.’
‘I don’t want to go outside,’ Martin said.
‘C’mon, it’s good for you.’
‘I’m tired,’ Martin whined.
‘Don’t give me that nonsense,’ the man barked. ‘You’re too young to be tired.’
‘But Mom said—’
‘I don’t care what your mother said! Get your lazy butt off that couch and come outside with me!’
Martin blanched, and Tracey flinched. She could sort of understand the man’s frustration with Martin, but he could have been a little gentler in
his persuasion methods.
At least he’d scared Martin into getting up. Tracey followed them through the kitchen and out the back door. The grandfather jogged over to the ball lying on the grass, and kicked it in Martin’s direction. When it flew past him, Martin ducked and made no effort to go after it.
‘Kick it back!’ the old man ordered him.
Slowly, Martin ambled towards the ball.
‘Run!’ his grandfather yelled.
Martin may have picked up the pace a bit, but any increase in speed was imperceptible to Tracey. And when he reached the ball, he barely tapped it with his toe.
‘You call that a kick? Put some muscle into it!’
This time the ball actually moved a few feet. The man ran towards it, and gave it a fierce kick. The ball hit Martin in the stomach, and Martin let out an ear-shattering wail.
‘Ow, that hurt!’
Tracey couldn’t tell if Martin was really suffering or if he was just putting on one of his acts. In any case, it made no difference to the grandfather.
‘Stop complaining, you little brat! You’re a big baby. Grow up, you stupid child!’
Martin froze. The man continued with his tirade.
‘You know what? You’re pathetic! How did I end up with such a lousy grandchild? You make me sick!’
Tracey watched Martin in alarm. The boy was becoming flushed and his breathing had become so laboured she could hear it from where she was standing at the edge of the yard. Then his whole body began to tremble.
She knew what this meant. Martin’s gift was emerging, just as it always did when he was teased or taunted. Frantically, she turned to the grandfather. Was he aware of Martin’s ability? Did he know that any minute now Martin would be able to beat the man to a pulp?
And what should she do? How could she stop Martin, rescue the old man, put an end to this? Madame could control Martin with a sharp look, but Tracey wasn’t Madame. Besides, Martin wouldn’t even be able to see any sharp look Tracey could muster!
But to her amazement – and relief – Martin didn’t explode into a fury of super strength. She watched with interest as his face contorted into an expression of intense concentration. And after a moment, his complexion returned to its normal colour, his breathing calmed, and his body was still. Then he ran back into the house.
Now she was confused. Why hadn’t Martin attacked the man? Was he able to control his gift? She wished Jenna was there. She could have read Martin’s mind and explained why he was acting like this.
The back door had been left open, so Tracey didn’t have to wait for the grandfather to let her back inside. She hurried after Martin.
He wasn’t in the kitchen or the living room, so she went upstairs. In the hallway she could hear sobs coming from behind a closed door. Usually, Martin’s self-pitying tendencies annoyed her. This time, to her surprise, she found herself feeling sympathy for him.
As long as the door remained closed, however, there was nothing she could do about it. She couldn’t walk through walls. She’d just have to wait for Martin to come back out.
Fortunately, he didn’t seem to need much crying time. After a few minutes he emerged. He went into the bathroom, splashed some water on his face and came out. Tracey followed him down the stairs.
He went directly to the front door. His grandfather was in the living room and he bellowed, ‘Where do you think you’re going?’
Martin didn’t reply. He left the house, and Tracey left with him. He wasn’t dragging his feet this time. He was walking as if he had a purpose, some place to go. Even while invisible, Tracey could feel her heartbeat quicken. Was this it? Was Martin on his way to meet their enemies?
They were coming to a playground and this appeared to be Martin’s destination. Tracey looked around, wondering if she’d spot Serena, Clare, or any of the people she and other Gifted students had encountered in the past. But all she saw was the kind of people one would expect to find in a playground – some little kids with parents over by the see-saw and swings, and a group of teenage boys on the basketball court.
The latter group was the one Martin approached. He planted himself on the court just in front of the boy who held the ball. Like the other guys in the group, the player looked to be around sixteen or so. All the boys were bigger than Martin.
‘What do you want?’ the boy holding the ball asked.
‘I want to play with you guys,’ Martin said.
Oh no, Tracey thought. She didn’t have to be Emily to see what the immediate future held for Martin. The boy would tell him no. Beat it, kid. Get lost, jerk. Something like that. Martin would refuse, maybe try to take the ball. The other guys would jeer. And Martin’s inner superhero – or in his case, supermonster – would come out.
But the older boy just shrugged. ‘Sure. I need another guy on my team. Go take a position over there.’
Was she crazy, or was that disappointment she was seeing in Martin’s eyes? He scowled.
‘Forget it,’ he muttered, and walked off the court.
His next stop was a picnic table just a few yards away where a group of men were playing cards. A couple of them looked kind of rough and there was a bottle of cheap whisky on the table. Tracey got nervous.
Martin tapped one man on the shoulder. ‘I want to join your game.’
A grizzled face turned to him. ‘You play poker, kid? Sure, take a seat.’
Once again, Martin’s face fell. ‘Never mind.’ And he walked away.
Now Tracey understood. Martin didn’t want to play basketball or poker. He wanted to be teased, taunted, brushed aside. He wanted those older boys who played basketball, the men at the poker table, to mock him, make fun of him, laugh at him. Then his so-called ‘gift’ would be summoned. Martin had been looking for a way to be strong, to assert himself in the only way he knew how.
But then why did he resist the gift when it started to emerge in his back yard? OK, maybe he didn’t want to hurt a blood relative. This was interesting, she mused. It meant that Martin actually had some control of his gift – it seemed like he could stop his gift from taking him over, but he still couldn’t make it happen by himself – she knew how frustrating that must be for him because she was having a similar problem. It also meant he had feelings, that he wasn’t just this whiny wimp who didn’t care about anyone but himself. So there might be more to Martin than any of his classmates ever suspected.
But as she walked alongside him while he dragged himself slowly home, she was pretty sure that whatever else Martin might be, he wasn’t a spy.
CHAPTER FOUR
IN MOST OF HER classes, Jenna sat at the back of the room, where she wouldn’t be noticed and the teacher would be less likely to call on her. If she became bored – and this happened frequently – she could amuse herself by reading the minds of her classmates. Outside the Gifted class, she could benefit from the fact that no one knew what she could do, and no one could block her. In her last class, she’d been nicely entertained by a student’s memory of a family trip to New York City.
But this was her English class, one of the few classes where Jenna sat closer to the front and paid attention. She’d always been a book person, and in this class, they’d been given some good stuff to read. And Ms Day, the teacher, had a way of getting the students to talk about the literature they’d been assigned. Right now, they were reading Jane Eyre, and even though the language was old-fashioned, Jenna liked the heroine. For someone who’d had a crummy childhood, Jane was actually a pretty gutsy girl, and Jenna could relate to her. She was looking forward to discussing chapter four today.
But it was not to be. On this Tuesday, Ms Day was absent, and a substitute was taking her place. Mr Roth was a frequent substitute at Meadowbrook, and Jenna slumped back in her seat when she saw him at Ms Day’s desk. It was always the same when Roth took over a class. Jenna prepared herself for fifty minutes of utter boredom.
First, the substitute glanced at the lesson-plan book. ‘You’re supposed to discuss chapter four
of Jane Eyre today. Let’s see . . .’ he looked at the roster. ‘Johnson, Alex. Summarize chapter four.’
A boy responded. ‘Uh, I didn’t get a chance to read it.’
Roth scowled. ‘Kitchens, Laurie. You summarize chapter four.’
A girl squirmed in her seat. ‘Um, I did start reading it last night, but I – I fell asleep before I could finish it.’
Jenna, who rarely volunteered in class, was almost ready to raise her hand and offer a summary, but Mr Roth had apparently already given up.
‘Well, you can’t discuss it if you haven’t read it. So, you can all use this class time to read chapter four.’
The girl sitting next to Jenna raised her hand. ‘What if we’ve already read it?’
‘Then read it again,’ Roth stated. ‘Or read chapter five.’ With that, he opened his briefcase, took out a newspaper and unfolded it.
Students used the unexpected free time for a variety of purposes. Industrious ones started homework assignments. One girl began filing her nails, while a couple of boys put their heads on their desks and closed their eyes. Jenna had no desire to attack homework or sleep, so she scanned the minds of selected classmates for something interesting to entertain her.
. . . I’ll go to Gametown after school and see if the new Infernal Toxic Battleground Warriors game is in yet . . .
. . . I wish I had my iPod . . .
. . . Jane Eyre is boring. Why can’t we ever read anything good? Something with vampires . . .
Jenna uttered a silent groan. There wasn’t anyone in this class worth spying on . . .
But that brief thought led her to something actually worth contemplating – the spy in the Gifted class. Someone was taking the information learned in the class and passing it on. How else would people like Serena, Clare and Stuart Kelley know so much about them?
It had to be Amanda. Everyone else could be eliminated for one reason or another. Emily and Tracey were completely out of the question, of course. It couldn’t be Ken – if he could feel guilty about ignoring the voices in his head, he wasn’t the type to betray his classmates. And according to what Tracey had told them at lunch today, the guilty party wasn’t Martin.
