Rise of Alpha (The Prodian Journey #1)

by Lorenz Font

  Madam Elizabeth pushed three yellow velvet bags across the table. “Each bag contains a deck of cards. Pick one, then shuffle that deck,” she said.

  Wary, I glanced at her before choosing the bag in the middle. I pulled the drawstring, took out the cards, and began to shuffle them. Her keen eyes watched me and she smiled when I handed her the deck.

  “Is this your first time receiving a tarot reading?”

  The small talk was unnecessary, but I played along.

  “Yeah.”

  She spread the colorful cards across the table in a single sweep. The cards fanned across the surface like fallen dominoes in a perfect arc. “So, what are you looking to see? Love, adventure … perhaps happiness?”

  “I do– don’t know,” I stammered. A jerk shot through my tight shoulders before I could stop it.

  Madame Elizabeth’s gaze met mine for a brief moment. Although her eyes were hidden behind red-tinted glasses, it was obvious she saw my discomfort, and it put me on the defensive. The woman was stunning in a disturbing way. It felt like she could see right through me, as if she knew my secrets.

  I studied her while she perused the cards. Her hair was tied in a loose bun on top of her head, and she wore a magician’s tunic, which reminded me of characters in League of Legends. I had the urge to roll my eyes when she began playing the part, momentarily closing her eyes and breathing deep. Hands splayed on the cards, she caressed each one before she collected the stack. Shuffling the cards once, she then laid a few back down on the table with quick and precise movements. With utmost concentration, she studied them, choosing one.

  She flipped the card for me to check. “What do you see?”

  Considering I had no idea what to look for, I stared at the card then began describing the picture. “I see a circle with four distinct colors on the edges.”

  Nodding, she dropped the card and looked up at me. This time, her thin, almost invisible brows furrowed. “With every curse comes a blessing,” she said.

  The moment she uttered those words, the hair at the back of my neck rose.

  What the hell?

  Freak with A Tic

  I stared at Madame Elizabeth, unable to form coherent words. It wasn’t as much what she said as the expression on her face. I could’ve sworn that the woman’s lips trembled. A violent tic rolled over my shoulders, and the sudden movement shattered the silence of the room. The table rattled when my hands gripped the edges and I tried to suppress the tic.

  “Are you okay?” Madame Elizabeth’s voice was barely a whisper, despite the calm demeanor she tried to project.

  The tics subsided within seconds, but my embarrassment lingered longer. When I opened my mouth to answer, nothing came out.

  “Is there anything I can do for you?”

  I shook my head. “I … explain to me what you just said.”

  Her statement bothered me, but I wasn’t about to admit it. I never believed in superstitions and old wives tales. My mother had come up with the most ridiculous ones over the years. Sitting too close to the television is bad for your eyes. Chocolate leads to acne. Sure, tell that to a teenager. And yet, the Madame’s proclamation struck me as serious. She lifted her sleeves, and her long, slender arms grazed the table, hovering over the cards as if summoning higher powers.

  “All I can see is that you are suffering. You have an affliction. You’re angry and frustrated, but as I said, I see a rainbow on the horizon.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “This is the wheel of fortune.” She held the card up for me to inspect. “When it appears, it heralds a new phase in the cycle of life. You can associate it with changes in your present situation. It could mean good luck or good fortune—however you want to interpret it. But as it is a turning wheel, it can bring the opposite of luck as well. Obstacles and unpleasant surprises often will be mixed in with the good.”

  I knew right then that I shouldn’t have gone to this tarot reading. There was nothing more disconcerting than being told that there was the possibility I’d go from fucked up to great, and then back to being fucked up again.

  Rising to my feet, I offered a tight smile. “Thanks for your time.”

  “Wait, don’t you want to hear the rest?”

  I shoved my hands in my pocket and shook my head. “I’ve wasted enough of your time already as it is. I’ll send one of my friends in.” I turned and walked away, feeling weird and suddenly out of sorts.

  “If you ever change your mind, you know where to find me,” she said just as I slid past the curtain that served as the border between profound insanity and reality.

  I found Mark and Darryl sitting on the small sofa. Both looked up at me.

  “So, how’d it go?” Darryl’s fingers were still busy punching text messages on his phone, even though his attention was directed at me.

  “It was good,” I replied, not willing to divulge how shaken I had been. Mark threw me a doubtful glance before walking into the lion’s den. I sat next to Darryl, still smarting from the unusual prediction.

  I snuck a glance in Shannon’s direction and was surprised to see her staring at me. I squirmed under the close scrutiny and lowered my eyes before pulling out my cell phone as a distraction.

  “Hey, Curly,” she called out.

  Darryl chuckled and nudged me. “Hey, the pretty girl is calling you,” he whispered.

  I balked. Talking to people, especially strangers, was never an easy thing for me to do. My social graces may have been on par with a caveman’s, and yet something inside me wouldn’t let me ignore Shannon. I got up and, with hesitant steps, made my way toward the counter. She watched my approach, a slight grin on her face.

  “Yeah?” I said, trying to sound nonchalant. I didn’t think I succeeded, since my voice came out in a squeak.

  “Weren’t you in some of my classes last year?”

  I nodded, not trusting myself to speak again for fear that I’d remind her why I was so infamous in school.

  “If you’re friends with Mark, how come I don’t see you during the football games?”

  Because I’m invisible? I wanted to say.

  Instead I said, “Oh, I work right after school,” as if my answer should explain everything. I smacked my head to suppress the tic coming due to the stressful situation, and I hated that my legs were about to collapse from under me.

  “Hey, are you okay? You look green.” Shannon had a worried look on her face. She reached over the counter and touched my forehead.

  If I was looking green before, now I was ready to pass out. A jolt like an electric current coursed through my body at her touch, and it wasn’t just from excitement. As embarrassing as it was, she was the first girl to touch me. Or the second, if you counted the girl who kept holding my hand back in first grade.

  “I-I’m okay,” I stammered. Then as if by some cruel decree of the tic gods, an embarrassing outburst blasted from of my mouth. “F-fuck!” I smacked my head again, another jerk reaction to blurting out my favorite word.

  A myriad of expressions crossed Shannon’s face. She turned red, maybe out of anger or possible mortification. I would never know, because like the wuss that I was, I fled the scene of the crime without gathering the evidence.

  “Brian!” she called to me just as I cleared the exit and joined the pedestrian traffic on Hollywood Boulevard.

  I kept running and covered the several blocks from the shop to the parking lot in mere minutes. My legs were aching by the time I stopped at Mark’s car to catch my breath. It didn’t take long for me to realize what had just transpired in there. I was hyperventilating. How pathetic was that?

  Shannon had been how I’d imagined her. Soft hands, beautiful face, and unreachable. She and I could never be. As expected, another round of spasms erupted from my shoulders, followed by a nice round of F-bombs. I braced myself for the barrage of uncontrollable and freakish jerking. It lasted for a few minutes until I was totally spent. I leaned against Mark’s car, exhausted and angry, wish
ing I’d never let Darryl talk me into coming and hoping Shannon would never have to witness my embarrassing display up close.

  By the time Monday morning rolled around, I had pushed the whole Friday night disaster to the back of my mind. I refused to dwell on the unfortunate meeting with Shannon. For all I knew, she had forgotten all about it.

  I decided to park my car a few blocks from school and walk the rest of the way. As usual, the front of the school was teeming with students swapping stories from their fun and eventful weekend. I ambled past them with my head bent low. I had no stories to share, except the botched tarot reading. School was already hell for me, and the kids were cruel, so I wasn’t about make it worse. At least it was my senior year. After it was over, I’d be well on my way to being alone. I preferred it that way—safer, saner, and less stressful.

  Since it was our second week back from summer vacation, it was easy to fall into the habit of fading in the background and trying to be invisible. My daily schedule consisted of five AP classes and an elective I’d chosen. Photography had always been my passion, and the class gave me a chance to enhance my skills and be a part of the yearbook team. Otherwise, my club choices and activities were quite limited. After all, there weren’t many things a freak could do, anyway.

  I slipped into my first class and parked my ass in the back of the room, behind the firing line in case my tics sprang into action. Pulling out my notes from Friday’s class, I buried my face in them while students piled into the classroom. Lost in my own world of symmetry and composition, I didn’t notice that someone had taken the empty seat next to mine until the scent of jasmine wafted through the air. My breath hitched, and I followed my nose to find Shannon staring down at me, smiling.

  “Hey, I didn’t know you’re taking this class, too,” she said in that sweet voice of hers.

  My mouth hung open while I looked up at her smiling face. What was with that smile, anyway? What had I done to deserve such torture? I stared at her, unsure if she was expecting an answer.

  “Curly?” she prompted.

  I’d take Curly any damn day over “Tic-boy” or “Freak.”

  “I-I’m on the yearbook committee,” I stammered, sounding like a total dork. “I was advised to ease up on my AP classes, so I had to take this one.” I mentally kicked myself when I realized what a show-off I must’ve sounded like. I added another quick question to wash off the nerdy picture I’d painted. “And you? What are you doing here?”

  “Oh, this is exciting. I’m on the yearbook committee, too.”

  That was where it got weird. Was it my mind playing tricks on me, or did the girl sound interested in talking to me?

  “I just came back from visiting my grandmother last Friday,” she added. “This is my first week of classes. I hope I didn’t miss much.”

  That must’ve been the reason why I hadn’t seen her on campus the prior week.

  “No, I don’t think so. You’ll be fine,” I said.

  She flipped the stray strands of hair off her face, and I caught a whiff of that incredible scent again. Oh man, this was going to be a long, long year.

  Mr. Peters, a bespectacled man in his late fifties, walked in, preventing any further conversation. His bowtie cradled his sagging chin, and his clothes were pure retro 1960s. The man spoke in a monotone guaranteed to put anyone to sleep. Nonetheless, to us who wanted to learn, he gave the most interesting lectures.

  He began his usual attendance, nodding as he checked each row until his eyes rested on Shannon. “Ms. McKesson, welcome to the class. I received the letter from your parents explaining your absence. I hope your grandmother is doing okay.”

  “She’s fine and resting,” Shannon replied.

  Mr. Peters turned around and picked up a piece of chalk and started scribbling on the board.

  For the rest of the hour, being the loser that I was, I immersed myself in everything Shannon. I inhaled hard, greedy to take in all that I could of her scent. Strange enough, my sense of smell had never been this sensitive before, but I wasn’t going to complain. I could breathe her in all day. Sneaking glances whenever the opportunity presented itself, I basked in my luck at having the chance to sit next to the prettiest girl in Los Angeles.

  “Mr. Morrison?” I looked up at Mr. Peters and realized that he was waiting for me to answer a question. The entire class was watching me. A few classmates snickered while I scrambled to recall what he’d asked. Drawing a blank, I stared at him.

  Instead of reprimanding me, he addressed the entire class. “I expect everyone to pay attention during class. This may be an elective, but it still has the same expectations as your required courses. I’m sure you’ve realized an F wouldn’t look good on your transcript.”

  Several kids snickered, and my face burned. Just like that, I blurted the most dreaded word. “Fuck!”

  I tried to mask it by covering my mouth, but it was too late. Everyone had heard me, including Mr. Peters.

  A rumble of laughter spread across the entire classroom, the most prominent being the devil himself, Kevin Masters, who was sitting right in front of me. He was the headmaster of all bullies, the star quarterback of Barrister’s football team, and Mr. Good-Looking himself.

  “Starting already, Morrison?” Kevin chided.

  Ignoring Kevin had worked for me in the past, so I said nothing. Mr. Peters cleared his throat before raising his hand to silence the room. Everyone knew about my problem. Brian Morrison was the freak-boy everyone laughed at. I prayed for the earth to open up and swallow me. Instead, I slid down on my chair and buried my face in a book.

  “Guys, I’m going to divide you into pairs. Whoever you’re partnered with will be your permanent collaborator for the rest of the year. Look to your right. That’s the person who will be stuck with you for the long haul.” He began passing out instruction sheets for our upcoming class project.

  I looked at the only thing to my right—the window—and wished I could jump out and run away.

  “I guess you’re stuck with me, Brian.” There went that melodious voice again.

  I mumbled a quick, “I guess so.”

  Like the brave person I wanted to appear, I stuck around and suppressed the urge to bolt before the class was over. Once the period bell sounded, though, I gathered my backpack from the floor and sprinted out of the room. There was no point in hanging around. Shannon and I had no business talking as if we were friends. I had one mission. Get out of there, fast.

  Slipping out the back exit the way I usually did when things got sticky with other kids, I ran to my car and started the engine. I drove away, creating a safe distance between me and the campus, intent on ditching the rest of my classes. The longer I stayed, the greater the risk of bumping into Shannon, and I wasn’t ready for that. I circled around the neighborhood until I found a commercial center and parked in the lot. To kill time, I blasted the radio and tried not to think of Shannon. Mark texted, wanting to know where I was and if I wanted to play L.O.L. after school. I didn’t bother responding. Besides, I had to meet my mom for my appointment with Dr. Singer.

  By the time I pulled into my driveway three hours later, I found my mother inside her car, waiting for me. I got in and gave her the customary peck on the cheek. She smiled and steered the sedan out onto the street. I didn’t say a word, eager to bury the memory of my recent incident in class.

  “Is everything okay?” she asked while she weaved through the early afternoon exodus on Western Avenue. “You’re quieter than usual.”

  “S’okay.” I shrugged and gazed out the windshield.

  Beverly Hills was about a thirty-minute drive, depending on the traffic. To block any more questions from my mother, I took out my ear buds, plugged them into my phone, and started the music. One good thing about my mom—she didn’t prod. She had always respected my space and was understanding of my need for it. We reached Dr. Singer’s office in forty minutes. In the waiting room, we sat next to each other without speaking. Mom engrossed herself in her paperba
ck, while I was busy trying to block the image of Shannon from my thoughts.

  After a few minutes’ wait, the receptionist called my name, and we were shown to a stark, white room with a view of a little garden outside. I sat on the exam table and focused on the pigeons clucking below the window. Dr. Singer walked in after a minute, a manila folder containing my treatment records tucked under his arm. He smiled and extended a hand to me.

  “Brian, it’s been ages since I last saw you. You look great.”

  I returned his handshake as firmly as I could and lifted the corner of my mouth in an attempt to smile. He turned to my mother and enveloped her in a hug. He was my father’s best friend and had been his dorm-mate during their undergrad years at Emory University.

  “How’s Gerry?” he asked while glancing at my records.

  “Gerald is buried up to his neck with work, as usual,” my mother said. While I was growing up, she’d chosen to stay home while my dad pursued his profession, but once I entered my junior year, she had taken a part-time job as a staff editor for the local paper that allowed her to work from home.

  I had a nagging suspicion Mom was keeping tabs on me, even if she never expressed concern about having a child who would never fit in. In her own way, she wanted to be available whenever I needed her. It felt like she wanted to protect me from life itself.

  “So, young man. How do you feel? There’s a new medication I want to discuss with you and your mother.”

  I gave him a brave smile, concealing my feelings behind a smirk while under his close scrutiny. He always saw right through me, which was disconcerting, yet I still strived to keep my emotions hidden.

  Without hesitation, I looked him straight in the eye and said, “I want to be taken off medication.”

  Mom jumped out of her chair, her face marked with worry. “Brian, why?” She touched my shoulder.

  I didn’t look at her when I answered. Instead, I kept my eyes on Dr. Singer. “I want to be taken off. The medicine might be controlling my depression, but the tic isn’t going anywhere. I would rather be off it. I’ll let you know if I can’t handle it.”