Shade appeared from behind Rory and shoved him none too gently aside.
“Beat it, jerks!” Shade called after them.
Shade turned back to Winston. “Please tell me you’re not going to use my…”
Then his words failed, too, and he gawked at Winston’s butt. His lips parted, but nothing came out except “uhhh.”
Winston looked down. In the spot where Steinhoff’s towel whip had snapped Winston, the blue was so intense that it was nearly white. From this center, it radiated outward in a fading pattern. The roughly circular glow was two or three inches in diameter and still growing.
Too shocked to think about the sting or his embarrassment, Winston tried to cover the area with his hand. The sapphire glow showed plainly around his palm and between his fingers. This was not like any injury he’d experienced before. Whatever caused his regular bruising had suddenly jumped to a terrifying new level.
“Winston,” breathed Shade, still dripping and buck naked. “Your butt is blue.”
The murmur of other boys climbed from whispers into audible amazement.
“I know!” exclaimed Winston. “I don’t—! It’s never—!”
Beyond Shade, he saw that Rory had returned with a cell phone and was fumbling with it, likely trying to turn on the camera app. Steinhoff elbowed Rory in the side, urging him to go faster.
“Can we talk about this later?” hissed Winston. “I could use your towel — and less attention!”
Half-coming out of his daze, Shade turned and saw the others watching. “Back off!” he said, waving his arms and stomping at them. In eighth grade, no boy argues with an angry, sopping-wet, buck-naked footballer. The crowd, including Rory and Steinhoff, quickly dispersed.
Winston had the combination right this time. He pulled the lock away and wrenched the bin open. Reaching inside, he yanked the towel out and threw it around his waist, sending a T-shirt and socks flying.
“Do not get your junk on the star,” said Shade.
Winston bit his lip and looked about, searching for anyone still trying to spy on him. He chanced another peek at his injury. The skin glowed brightly enough to cast a soft glow through the towel.
“What is that?” asked Shade.
“I don’t know!” whispered Winston. “You know that blue I get around cuts or whatever. But this—! I always thought it was bruising or something!”
“That’s not blood, Winston. That’s…”
Shade scanned from Winston’s butt up to his face. His eyes grew wider. “Oh, wow.”
“What?”
Shade absently grasped the hair above his ear. “Oh. Wow.”
“What?!”
Gradually, a grin spread across Shade’s features. He took another step closer to Winston. “It’s true. I knew it.”
“For the—” Winston wanted to scream at him. “You knew what?”
Shade pointed at the gray star, which happened to be covering the glowing miracle underneath. “Winston.” His voice dropped so low that Winston could barely hear him. “I always wondered, but this confirms it. That feeling thing you do with gadgets. Your math brain.”
“You’re in the same class,” Winston interrupted.
“Because of you — and you never study!” He ticked more points off on his fingers. “Your running speed. You never get sick.”
“Mom makes me take vitamins.”
“The way street lights turn off sometimes when you go under them.”
“No, that’s your—” Winston groped for the phrase and found it. “—subjective bias. That happens to everyone.”
“And those stripes in your hair. Dude. You’re not human. You’re like…an X-Men mutant.”
“I am not a mutant!”
“You are. Or if not, then…” His eyes widened with reverence. “Then my best friend is an alien. That is so…” He exhaled the word with ultimate pride. “…awesome!”
5
Finches Take Flight
Vice Principal Sengupta waited patiently behind his desk, hands folded before him, frameless glasses seeming to float before his deeply shadowed eyes. His dark but thin hair lay pasted in neat, sideways strands over his brown scalp. Two precisely aligned stacks of papers rested on his desk, both small, one on the left and one on the right, both equidistant from the closed notebook in the center. Unlike his colleagues, the vice principal had no decorations.
Sengupta was an Indian immigrant, and everyone knew that he took a dim view of lenient American discipline. Any kid who visited his office inevitably received the same lecture. “We never fought in school,” Sengupta would say in his thick Bengali accent. “We never ignored teachers. We always did our work. Why?” At this point, he would show his scar-laced knuckles and give a humorless but proud smile. “And do you know what? The rod worked. It made us respectful and responsible.”
And maybe a little crazy, Winston mused.
He sat in one of the two high-backed chairs before Sengupta’s desk, waiting. After everything else that had happened today, Winston couldn’t imagine what the vice principal might throw at him that could possibly be worse than what he’d already endured. Detention? A letter to his mom? He didn’t have to wait long to find out.
“I’m suspending you,” intoned Sengupta.
Winston’s jaw went slack. After a moment, he forced himself to take a shaky breath.
“I didn’t do anything wrong,” he said between clenched jaws.
“You struck another boy and made him nearly bite off a piece of his tongue.”
“Have you heard the things he says with that tongue?”
It was out before Winston had even consciously formed the thought, and hearing his own words took him aback. It sounded a lot like sass, as his mom would say, and one did not simply sass the vice principal.
Sengupta’s unreadable expression never changed. He only continued to stare at Winston, unflinching, the almost black skin around his eyes seeming to magnify the depth of his scrutiny.
“Your attempt at humor is ill-timed and inappropriate,” said the vice principal.
“Sorry.”
“Whether your blow was intentional or accidental is irrelevant. You injured a schoolmate whose mother happens to have been a school board member for the last four years and is one of our main volunteer fundraisers. Do you follow me?”
Winston did.
“You are a smart lad,” said Sengupta. “Sometimes too smart for your own good. That will change.” He unfolded his hands and balled them into fists, making the scars on the knuckles stand out clear and pale. “I am aware of your situation, Winston. You do not deserve expulsion. Suspension will suffice. That…and I am banning you from the fall robotics competition.”
“What?!” Winston nearly leapt from his chair. He gripped the edge of Sengupta’s desk. “You can’t do that!”
“Oh, I most certainly can.”
This time, words completely failed Winston, which was probably a good thing.
“Mr. Chase,” said the vice principal, “have you ever stopped to wonder why these fights and social unpleasantries keep happening to you?”
“Because most people suck?”
“Perhaps,” said Sengupta.
Winston leaned back slightly. He hadn’t expected any agreement.
“However,” continued the vice principal, “the fact is that everybody, as you say, sucks in some ways. And in many ways, they do not. However, you—” He pointed a finger at Winston. “—are so completely focused on your hobby that you are not learning this. You don’t even interact with your robotics group teammates.” He sighed. “You can view your suspension time either as a punishment or an opportunity for introspection and life. I suggest the latter. Shade is a good friend, but you will not find yourself either in his shadow or face-down in a machine forever. You must be ready for more than that.”
Winston had no reply. His face flushed with indignation. He wanted to say something to defend himself, anything that might push back against the unfairness and get Sengupta to cha
nge his mind. Nothing usable surfaced from his anger, though, and he felt his opportunity vanish into despair. He should have just taken the beating.
“It was a dozen on one in the gym,” he finally said.
“And it always will be,” said Sengupta. “Until you choose otherwise.” He took a deep breath and nodded once. “Mrs. Tagaloa is on her way to give you and her son a ride home. Please be waiting outside in the turnaround.”
“Wait. You’re suspending Shade, too?”
“Was he not also involved?”
Without another word, the vice principal dismissed Winston. He left the office clutching the straps on his backpack to hide his shaking hands. Standing at his locker, forehead resting on the cool metal, his fingers dialed in the lock combination automatically while his mind continued to churn.
Sengupta was totally wrong. Winston did things on his own because he didn’t fit anywhere else. No one else ever wanted him. And it was fine not to fit in. Being alone was how his family did things.
The competition! Winston thought as he slammed the padlock open.
How could he possibly not do the competition? While his classmates had blown their time at the beach or the mall or wherever, he’d spent the entire summer working to complete the Stadlerator 7000. Weeks and weeks at his workbench, sweating away without any air conditioning. Programming. Tweaking. Working his butt off.
And then this morning happened. Was it better that he wouldn’t have the chance to demonstrate his ability now? Or should he publicize it anyway, without the competition?
“Wiiin-stoooonnn!”
Above the hubbub of people filing into the halls and stashing their books in advance of lunch, Winston heard the nasal wail of June Martinez. He thumped his forehead once against the locker. This day just kept getting better and better.
Winston turned his head and saw June and Alyssa angling across the hall, seeming to pass effortlessly through the crowd. June led, of course. With her superhero-class, highlight-streaked hair dancing about her like heat radiation, June always seemed as if she’d just walked off a modeling session.
Behind her, Alyssa Bauman followed. Alyssa wore jeans and a black T-shirt reading, “I Am Really Enjoying This Conversation.” The more Winston tried to make eye contact with her, the more she appeared to look everywhere except at him.
“Wiiin-stonnn!” June hollered again as she came within too-close-to-ignore range. She was waving something at him — an old iPod. “Winston, could you do me a favor?”
Winston’s hand kept a grip on his locker door as he faced her.
She put the device in his other hand. Her breath smelled minty. “It’s dead,” she pouted. “I was listening to it this morning, then it died on the bus, even though the battery said full. I know it’s ancient, but…”
Two years of helping June with her math homework had not helped sway her best friend’s affections. Admiring the sarcasm on Alyssa’s shirt, the thought struck Winston that perhaps she remained cold toward him specifically because he helped June so much. Maybe she wanted someone who wasn’t so accommodating of June. She couldn’t possibly think that he liked June…could she?
“I should say no,” Winston muttered even as his fingers closed around the device. June started to ask why, apparently decided it was safer not to know the answer, and merely smiled at him, all white teeth and amazing dimples.
Winston snuck one more glimpse over June’s shoulder at Alyssa, who sighed while studying the blank wall above the lockers.
He felt the fingertips of his right hand begin to tingle. They did that sometimes, seemingly in anticipation. He ran his fingers over the device, not really seeing it. He tilted it from side to side, rocked it forward and back, closed his eyes and shook it, tapped it in various places, at first gently and then more firmly. Finally, Winston picked it up by the bottom edge and, with no warning, rapped the bottom of the iPod against his locker door.
Winston turned the player over in his hands one more time, then handed it back to June. “Loose connection.”
She snatched up the device and pressed its power button. The screen glowed to life and her face registered immense pleasure. In a single motion, she turned and pranced away. Three seconds later, she was invisible in the crowd, and Winston barely heard her call back the word “Thanks!” He realized that Alyssa was still standing in front of him, studying his hands and his face quizzically. He was so shocked that he almost didn’t register the words when she said, “You have a big head.”
He could feel his face glow with sudden warmth.
“I’m not sure what I think about the stripes,” she added. “Did you do that, or are they natural?”
“I…” His mouth suddenly forgot how to talk. “They…”
“It’s natural,” said Shade, appearing behind her. His brow wrinkled with concern, but Winston had expected worse.
“I told him he should dye it,” Shade mumbled.
Alyssa studied the white bands that started above his temples then swooped up and back until they met at the base of his skull. She seemed undecided. “They’re different. Maybe kind of cool.”
Winston thought he might have a coronary right there in front of his locker.
“How’d you fix June’s iPod?” she asked.
“Mag—” he started, prepared to make a joke of calling it magic. However, something in his half-paralyzed brain knew better than to start his first conversation with Alyssa Bauman with a lie. “I dunno. Just did.”
“I’ve seen you do that before.”
“You have?” The note of amazement in his voice was obvious even to him. He tried for a more confident tone. “I can feel how to do it.”
“Feel it? What does that mean?”
He realized he’d said too much. “I have a knack for electronics. Like a sixth sense. iPods are pretty simple, and I could sort of feel that the drive connection was loose.”
Alyssa seemed to weigh his words. “Uh huh. OK.” She started for the cafeteria and began melting into the crowd. “Tonight for math homework?” she asked.
Winston was sure he must have misheard her. “Huh?”
“At 8:00 on Skype,” she called, now invisible. “Don’t be late!”
***
Winston and Shade sat on the curb under the flagpole. Before them, a ghostly shadow of stars and stripes waved on the pavement, stirred by a faint breeze that cooled their faces. The school bell chimed, signaling the start of first lunch. At odd moments, they could smell baked bread and its mystery meat.
“Sorry,” Winston said. “I know you love wiener wraps.”
Shade shrugged and nudged Winston’s shoulder with his own. “It’s no big. I think we have frozen ones at home.”
Mrs. Tagaloa’s convertible white Lexus appeared at the crest of the hill, top down, as she turned into Shifford’s parking area.
“I don’t know why you’re not freaking out about getting suspended,” said Winston.
“Oh, I am,” said Shade. “But I’m trying to be supportive and not show it.”
Winston frowned and lowered his head.
“I’m kidding!” said Shade with another nudge. “OK, not really, but still. I’m only going to miss two football practices and one game, which is no worse than being sick. I’m way ahead on my homework, so it’s not the end of the world. And maybe it’ll help my popularity.”
“Doubtful,” said Winston. “At least as long as you hang out with me.”
He made the comment as a fact, not out of self-pity.
“Probably true,” said Shade as he rocked forward and stood up.
Winston stood beside him, both shouldering their bags as Mrs. Tagaloa pulled up, trunk thumping softly with dance music. She was a tiny woman, lucky to scratch five feet in sneakers, with chestnut hair that flowed to her waist. She wore large sunglasses, a bright blue tank top, matching blue cap, and a dazzling smile.
“Hi, boys! Climb in.”
They got into the back seat. Winston buckled himself and ran a hand over
the buttery-soft tan leather interior. Compared to their old Civic, the Lexus was like riding in a cloud.
Mrs. Tagaloa pulled away from the curb to head home.
“Are either of you hurt?” She sounded like she was asking whether they wanted cream with their tea.
“No, we’re fine, Mrs. Tagaloa,” said Winston.
“What about the other boy?”
“Steinhoff,” said Shade. “He bit part of his tongue off when Winston hit him.”
“Accidentally,” added Winston. “And he didn’t actually bite all the way through.”
“Well, I don’t approve of violence,” said Mrs. Tagaloa, “but I’m sure he had it coming. I had a pleasant chat with your vice principal.”
Both boys grimaced. Shade took a deep breath.
“OK, Mom. How bad is it?”
“Is what?”
“My punishment.”
Mrs. Tagaloa shrugged as she stopped for the intersection light. “I’m thinking about taking you clothes shopping with me.”
Shade couldn’t take it anymore. “Mom, this is serious. We’re suspended.”
“Oh, honey. This isn’t serious. Childbirth is serious.”
“Mom!”
“Well, it is.” The light changed, and she turned onto Denney Road. “You two have never been in trouble for anything worse than bringing Pop-Its to recess in third grade. I’m not worried. You did the right things for the right reasons, and now the school has to do what the school has to do. Who’s hungry?”
Shade changed mental gears in a heartbeat. “Starving,” he replied.
“Me, too,” his mom said. “I vote Burgerville. Yoga class makes me want onion rings.”
Mrs. Tagaloa was the most cheerful person Winston had ever met. How she could live with a grump like Mr. Tagaloa was anyone’s guess. No matter what, though, Winston knew where the discipline came from in that house, and Shade would be counting the minutes until the real enforcer came home. Mr. Tagaloa only had one boy to carry on his legacy, and the idea of that legacy getting suspended would not sit well, no matter what the circumstances.
Winston kept a $20 bill in his wallet for emergencies. He offered to pay for himself, but Mrs. Tagaloa waved his money aside.
Winston Chase- The Complete Trilogy Page 5
