by Sean Platt
I continue watching as if she’s on a well-lit stage and I’m alone in the darkened theater.
She looks up at me.
I quickly look down, grabbing my milk and taking a drink.
No, I wasn’t staring at you. Not at all. Nope, not me.
I focus on the last bites of my cookie as if I’d never eat another, waiting for a chance to look up again. Too soon and she may still be watching.
I count to sixty, using Mississippi to make it proper in my head. Then I look up.
But she’s not on the bench.
And I panic.
I need to see her again, and I don’t know why.
It’s like she’s some long lost friend I was searching for in a crowd, and now I’ve finally found her, only to lose her again.
I stand up to get a better view of the courtyard, my eyes scanning the little clusters, and people walking the cobblestone path.
No sign of her.
A girl speaks from behind. “Looking for someone?”
I jump, dropping my milk.
A hand reaches out, grabbing it fast enough to amaze me.
I turn and see her, the redheaded girl.
She smiles. “Hi.”
And I stare, dumbly, unable to form any words. Unable to think of anything other than how utterly beautiful she is.
But I can’t say that. Not to her!
She’s my height, slim, with skin like porcelain. Unlike most of the girls I’ve seen so far, she’s wearing a long blue cotton dress, to match a sky colored sweater. Her eyes are bright green, her lips full and pouty.
Pouty lips? When the hell have I ever noticed a girl’s pouty lips?
My heart is racing. My thoughts are a jumbled mess. And she’s staring at me.
I can’t move.
I’m standing here, speechless.
What the hell is going on?
Why is she staring at me?
Then I remember that she said Hi and that most normal humans expect a response.
“Hi!” I shout.
What the hell? Why am I shouting?
My heart is racing.
She laughs.
Is she laughing at me?
Oh, God. I must look like such a dork, like I’ve never talked to a girl before or something.
I have talked to girls. Many, in fact. No, I’ve never dated any, but I’ve had crushes on at least six, and never have I ever felt so paralyzed.
“You’re new here, right?” She offers her hand. “I’m Willow Fairchild.”
Willow Fairchild?
Her name sounds like a fairytale.
I reach out to shake her hand. Mine is trembling.
Why?
Our hands grasp.
Hers is so warm.
I squeeze her palm and pump, like I’m shaking hands with a friend’s father, rather than a girl.
“Ben. Ben Shepherd.”
“Nice to meet you, Ben.”
She looks down at my bench. “Can I sit with you?”
“Um, okay.”
I brush away stray crumbs, wondering why on earth she’s come over to sit with me. Did she see me staring? Is she here to tell me to stop or she’ll report me?
She slides out of her backpack, drops it softly on the ground beside the bench, then takes a seat.
I sit, about as far from her on the bench as possible, leaving about three feet between us.
She looks down at the space between us, then up at me. “I don’t bite.”
She laughs, and it’s beautiful music.
I still don’t know why she’s here.
“Sorry,” I say, scooting closer.
She looks down at the space between us again, now about a foot. “Woah, not so close, Romeo!”
My face burns as I scoot back over.
She laughs again.
Now I’m sure she’s probably some popular girl coming to rile the new kid.
I hate her.
She puts her hand on mine. “Relax, Ben. I’m just playing with you.”
Her eyes lock on mine, and it’s impossible to hate her.
Her hand is still on mine. Like, way too long.
I want to pull away, but I’m not sure what she’ll do. If she’ll take offense, or call it out and fake scold me.
This girl has me twisted and turned twelve ways from Tuesday.
Her hand is still on mine.
This is officially the longest any girl has ever touched me.
She’s still staring at me with eyes that bore into my soul.
“You’re cute when you’re nervous.”
“I’m not nervous,” I say, yanking my hand back.
“No, of course not,” she says, sarcastically.
“What’s your problem? Did you come over here just to mess with me?”
“No. Not just to mess with you.”
She’s smiling. I’m not sure if I love her smile or loathe it.
There’s something about her, a confidence that belies her appearance. I thought she was a quiet, artistic girl, maybe shy like me. Someone I might share some things in common with.
But she isn’t.
“Then why are you here?”
“Because if I didn’t come over, you would’ve just sat here on the bench staring at me forever.”
“Stare at you? Um, you must have me confused with someone else.”
I turn away like I’m going to get up and leave, but I’m only trying to hide my reddening face.
“What’s your power?”
“Power?” I turn back to her, hoping the redness has faded.
“You can tell me. I won’t tell anyone.”
“I don’t have powers. I’m not some superhero.”
“Okay,” she rolls her eyes. “What do you call whatever it is you have then?”
“Gifts.”
“Oh, excuse me.” She laughs. “Because gifts sound so much better than powers.”
Now I do want to get up.
I’ve never met a girl bully. And I don’t know how to handle her. It’s not like I’m going to tell her to fuck off or something.
I’ve never had a problem speaking up for myself when boys picked on me. In a way, I enjoyed proving them wrong. They thought they were toying with a weakling — they never counted on my being able to take care of myself.
But I won’t fight a girl.
Hell, I’m still not even sure she’s being mean. Maybe this is her way of flirting.
“If this is your way of flirting, you suck at it,” I say.
Her eyes widen.
And for a moment, I think that maybe I went too far.
Then her smile returns. But this time it’s different. A knowing smile, like now we’re speaking the same language.
“There’s the Ben Shepherd I was hoping to meet.”
“You say that like you’ve heard of me.”
“Not heard of so much as dreamed of.”
“You dreamed of me?”
“Many, many times.”
I’m not sure if she’s still hazing me. Her eyes are more serious than before.
“How many times?”
“Since I was seven. And I’m thirteen now.”
“You’ve been dreaming of me since you were seven?”
“It’s my gift. I see things.”
“What did you dream? Like you just saw me in your dreams, or you dreamed we were going to meet in the future?”
“You still haven’t told me your gift.”
I look around, to make sure that no one else is in earshot. I’m not sure why I’m so secretive. I’m in a school where everyone has a freaky ability. I guess old habits die hard.
“Sometimes I sense things that are going to happen.”
“Tell me more.”
I try to explain as best I can, and tell her how much I hate it because I never actually know what’s going to happen. “It’s such a useless gift!”
“Be glad you don’t know. It’s worse to know exactly what’s going to happen and not be able to
stop it.”
“So you dream the future?”
“Yes,” she said.
“And you dreamed of me?”
She nods.
“That we’d meet?”
“And much much more.”
“What does that mean?”
She smiles. “I can’t tell you.”
“Why not?”
“Maybe the same reason you didn’t tell me about your other gift?”
“What other gift?” I ask, knowing full well that I’m doing an awful job at pretending.
She stands then bends over to get her backpack. “Come and find me when you’re ready to be honest.”
“Sorry,” I say, “but I’m new here, and I’ve only just met you. I don’t know who I can trust.”
“You can trust me, Ben.”
I nod. “Do you know my other power?”
“I know of many other powers.”
“Many? I only know of two, maybe three.” The way I see it is I have three crappy powers: I have visions, I can sometimes pick up people’s thoughts, and apparently, I also have freakouts that can cause power outages.
“You’ll have many more than three,” she says with a knowing smile.
A beeping interrupts her.
She looks down at her right hand. “Ah, time to go.”
“When will I see you again?” I ask, like a desperate loser who can’t stand for this moment to end.
“Tomorrow. Same place. Same time.”
She unzips her bag and pulls out a big black art journal; I think the same one she was drawing in when I saw her across the courtyard.
“Here,” she says, handing it to me.
“What is it?”
“Some of my dreams,” she says, zipping her bag. “Goodbye, Ben Shepherd.”
“Goodbye, Willow Fairchild,” I say.
Once she’s out of sight, I sit back down on the bench and open the book to the first pages.
The very first page reads: FOR BEN.
A tingle thrills me as I turn the page.
And there, spread out over two pages, in charcoal, is a drawing of me as a six-year-old, sitting at my desk in first grade, crying because the light was hurting my eyes.
What the hell?
I turn the page, and this time it shows my father and me at my mother’s tombstone, placing flowers.
My heart is racing again.
Did she dream these moments?
What else has she seen?
I turn the pages and find more of my life. She drew the time I was looking for my cat who ran away and the time I beat up Jack Graves for making fun of my mom being dead. She drew the time my dad was in the special hospital with a gunshot wound and Aunt Trudy brought me to see him. The last filled-in page has a drawing of me in the fetal position crying on the cafeteria floor just before my third “gift” revealed itself.
I stare at the page as if it were a window into my past, wondering what else does this girl know about me, or my future?
The next few pages are blank, and I figure that’s it. But then, many pages later, I find one last drawing.
A girl is reaching up to touch a black, fuzzy star.
And though it makes no sense, I’m chilled to the bone.
* * * *
CHAPTER 5
Ben Shepherd Age 15
“Try again,” Mr. Kotke says, standing in front of my workstation, his eyes narrowing on me.
The computer lab is empty except for us. The lights are off, so I can better focus on the screen and the empty file folder which reads FILLME.
I try to ignore my teacher’s intense stare, made all the more severe by a mop of shock-white hair hanging over his eyes. He looks less like a mid-thirties teacher than some trendy fashion mogul or Parisian director, always in black pants and a black long-sleeve shirt. Today’s tie is orange, matching his glasses.
The tie always matches the glasses.
“Are you focusing?” he asks, frustrated.
“Yes,” I lie. The truth is, it’s hard to focus on the same thing for an hour straight every weekday for a month. I’m starting to doubt that I’m as capable as he thinks I am.
Perhaps my power is limited to telepathic communication with electronics. I can perform basic functions on computers, turn devices on and off. I can execute programs, basically, do anything I could do with my hands, a mouse and a keyboard, except I’m only using my mind.
But what he’s asking me to do now, I don’t even think it’s technically possible, let alone feasible for me.
“You just need to fill it with something.”
“I don’t know how!”
“Stop thinking of how, and get it done.”
“How do you do something if you don’t know how?”
“We’ve gone over this a hundred times, Ben. You’re getting caught up in your knowledge, and that will limit you. Don’t consider if it’s possible. Be like Nike and just do it.”
I laugh.
Kotke comes around to my side of the table and sits beside me.
Despite his eccentric style, he’s serious when he talks. “When you shut down your city’s power station did you know how to do it? Did you have a working knowledge of how to overload the grid or shut down the station?”
“No.”
“Right! You just did it.”
“I wasn’t trying to do it, though. I was reacting to a lot of pain, and it just happened.”
Kotke nods. “What about the things you can do now? You can turn on the lights when you enter a room without touching a thing, yet I’m guessing you don’t know how to bypass the switch. Correct?”
I sigh. “Correct.”
“So how do you do that?”
“I don’t. If I want the lights on. I think them on. But I don’t know how I do it.”
“Okay. Let’s pretend this computer is your girlfriend. You want to tell Willow a story. Go ahead. Tell her a story. Any story. But don’t speak. Think it instead.”
“I don’t have any stories.”
“Everyone has stories, Ben.”
I stare at the computer again, picturing myself talking to Willow.
She’s not really my girlfriend. I haven’t even kissed her. But I don’t correct Mr. Kotke. I’m not sure why, but I like people thinking that we’re going out, even though I never say that we are.
It’s a weird relationship. It’s like we’re dating in so many ways, but without any of the romance. We’re always hanging out. We call each other every night before going to bed in our dorms. And the rare weekends when we don’t go home are spent together. And she’s always hugging on me or cozying up next to me on the couch. She even says “love ‘ya” at the end of every call. It’s not “I love you,” but it must mean something. She’s not this close to anyone else.
And it’s not like she doesn’t know how I feel. I told Willow that I liked her six months into our friendship. But she said it’s best we don’t date because she’ll only break my heart.
I should move on. But whenever I try to spend time away from Willow, to give her some space, she comes around even more. It’s like she doesn’t want to date me while wanting to spend every waking moment together. And she doesn’t want me to date anyone else.
I think she wants to be with me, but something is stopping her.
What that something is, I don’t know.
I turn my attention to the computer screen.
Okay, you want a story, here’s your story.
I used to have a friend named Timmy. One of the nicest guys you would ever want to meet. Unfortunately, Timmy was also overweight, and that made him stick out.
And the last thing you want to do as a kid in middle school is stick out.
Sticking out is like begging to get picked on. You may as well wear a shirt that says, “Pick on me, I’m different.”
Timmy and I got along great.
I tried to give him some confidence. Told Timmy that he had to stick up for himself. I offered to teach him to fight. But Timmy w
asn’t a fighter. And he had zero interest in learning to defend himself.
Why? I’ll never know.
He was a kind soul who figured it was better to take a few hits than turn to violence. Probably because he was scared that fighting back would only lead to more violence.
I had to leave Timmy behind to come here, a school that he would’ve loved. A school for misfits.
Unfortunately, he wasn’t the “right kind” of a misfit.
I promised Timmy that even though I was leaving, I’d visit every weekend.
And I did — at first.
But soon Timmy and I stopped talking.
I don’t even know how it happened. Maybe it was because we no longer had much in common. I didn’t get to watch much TV or movies or even read comics anymore. Over time we drifted apart.
And on the rare occasions I did see him, Timmy seemed resentful that I got to leave our shitty little school in our shitty little town while he had to stay.
It became easier to ignore him than deal with the guilt trips. I don’t need to be made to feel bad every time we talk because “I’ve changed.”
So I stopped returning his calls.
Stopped visiting.
And then, about a year and a half after I left for The Academy for Talent and Distinction, I got the news. Timmy could no longer take the bullying and loneliness.
He killed himself.
And unlike his other guilt trips, this one will hurt forever.
How’s that for a story, Mr. Kotke?
I wipe the tears from my eyes and stand. “I need to use the restroom.”
I finish up, go to the closest restroom, wash my hands, then splash cold water on my face to snap myself out of my funk.
My watch says I have five minutes left before my next class. Good. Just enough time to find out that I failed yet again.
At least there won’t be enough time for another of these tests today.
I’m counting the minutes until I can head to lunch and meet Willow. She always knows how to get me out of these dark moods.
I return to his class and open the door to see Mr. Kotke sitting in my chair, smiling wide.
“What is it?”
“Come here!” he says pulling out the chair next to mine.
I sit.
He opens the folder that said FILLME.
Inside is a .wav file.
He presses play.
And, somehow, my voice says, “Okay, you want a story, here’s your story. I used to have a friend named Timmy …”
