by Sarah Cross
Trench-coat boy is shuffling through some papers, glancing around with pale blue wide-open eyes, this overly serious nervous expression on his face.
“Are you sure you want to read this?”
“Of course I’m going to read it,” geek-to-goth girl says, standing up and pinning anarchy-symbol buttons all over her pants. Then she rolls her pants up to her knees to reveal pink-and-black striped tights. “That’s why we came here. There’s an eighty-seven percent chance that she’ll respond favorably this time.”
Anyway: so the open-mike thing starts, and the first person to bound up there is the geek-goth-punk-circus girl. Seriously, I don’t know what she’s supposed to be. Tack on a pirate patch and it might start to make sense.
No, it wouldn’t.
“Hi. I’m Darla Carmine,” she says, leaning into the mike, “and the poem I’m going to read is called, ‘More Than Meets the Eye.’”
Hmm. Maybe I judged this girl too harshly. I cross my arms over my chest, nod my tentative approval. This might be awesome. I hope it’s about Optimus Prime.
She reads, complete with dramatic pauses and Shakespearean gestures:There is more to me than meets the eye.
More than the girl you see when you walk by.
What is happening to me?
Are there others like me?
I am powerful, but I am afraid.
Will I be used? Abused?
I’m so confused.
Tonight I look around, and see that I am not alone.
WTF kind of poem was that? That was horrible! It’s worse than the limericks I wrote for our poetry unit in seventh grade. Plus, the whole time she was reading it, she kept looking at the angry floor-sweeping girl with these “meaningful” glances.
Wait—was that a lesbian-crush poem?
Hmm.
Then she says, “Thank you,” and takes her seat to the sound of polite applause.
The angry floor-sweeping girl snorts—she’s like right next to me, sweeping up stray pieces of tinsel. “That poem sucked,” she says.
To me? Uh . . . I look around. Either that or to the voices in her head.
“Word,” I say, giving her a we-agreed-on-something, that’s-a-basis-for-a-civil-friendship nod.
“Yours will probably be worse.”
Or not. “How many times do I have to tell you? I’m not here to read a poem—it’s my friend’s birthday.”
“Uhhh . . . your invisible friend?” She does this blink-blink, you’re-a-moron thing, then points at my mostly empty table.
“They’re coming,” I say. “They’re just late.” Like . . . twenty minutes late. People are hovering around my table; they keep asking if they can take the chairs and I have to shoo them away. Finally I whip out my cell and call Nate, because this is getting ridiculous.
“Dude, where are you?” I say when he picks up.
There’s music in the background, a girl’s laugh. A tinkly voice saying, “Is that him?”
“Av?” Nate laughs his life-of-the-party laugh. “We’re at Henry’s house. Where’re you?”
My mouth opens but no sound comes out.
2
EVERYTHING IN my BODY gets hot. No.
Not here. Please.
I try to breathe—not to look embarrassed, or off my game. To stay cool. Especially now that I have an audience. I’ve been using my extra-loud cell-phone voice, mostly for angry girl’s benefit, so she knows I’m not some loser.
But I am a loser. My friends—at least two of them, since I know Milo was in on this—lied to me. Tricked me. Because I’m that gullible. That stupid. That unimportant.
My hand trembles until it’s in a tight fist against my head. Nate’s voice is gone, the music is gone, replaced by the sound of plastic cracking, all the guts in my phone compacting, tiny pieces raining down on the table. Like insect parts.
I crushed my phone.
I take a deep breath. And then another one.
Lower my hand to the table, knock the pieces to the floor.
You don’t know what it’s like. You don’t want to know what it’s like.
I feel like I need to break something, and then another something, and then more somethings—and then myself. Like this feeling isn’t going to go away. Ever.
It isn’t hormones, it isn’t adrenaline—something’s wrong with me. I’ve got all this power, all this strength, all this aggression in this normal-looking body, and I feel like I can’t contain it, like I’m going to explode. And working out doesn’t help. Running doesn’t help. Flying sort of helps, because the push and pull to stay in the air is so intense—but that comes with its own dangers. Being caught. Apprehended. Poked, prodded, tested.
Exterminated.
I need to call Henry. He must think I’m the shadiest friend ever—and maybe that’s not far from the truth.
“Your battery died, right?”
My head snaps up.
It’s the blond girl from before—Sophie? She’s leaning her hip against my table, her smile brighter than the sparkly rhinestone charms dangling from her pink cell phone. “I hate when that happens. Do you need to borrow mine?”
“Yeah, I kind of . . . Thanks.”
“Just try to be careful,” she says—and winks. “This brand is really fragile.”
“Heh . . . um . . . I will.” I dial like the thing’s made of crystal, hold it like it’s a precious artifact. I think the whole place can hear me when I swallow, it’s so freaking loud in my ears.
At the table across from mine, Darla—the “poet”—is staring at me so hard that it looks like her eyes are going to pop out. There’s a big coffee puddle on the table in front of her; her lips and chin are wet with coffee dribbles—like her coffee just exploded out of her mouth like a geyser.
I’m hoping that’s a coincidence.
Henry answers on the fourth ring.
“It’s me,” I say. “My phone died.”
“You’re not pissed, are you?” He sounds uncomfortable. Behind him Nate calls out, Get over it!
“Pissed at him,” I say warily. Because—
There’s party giggling in the background.
Lots of:
Oh my God!
So he really believed . . .
That’s so mean!
Translation: That’s hilarious! I’m glad it wasn’t me!
“It was a joke, Av. No big deal, okay? We still want you here.” Fidgeting. “We just figured, uh . . . I mean, you’re always blowing us off anyway and it gets kind of tired. So . . . it was like payback.”
“You knew?” Something stabs me behind my eyes, and I squeeze them shut, thinking:
Lie to me, okay? I lie to you guys all the time; it’s not that hard. Freaking lie to me. I don’t want to know the truth.
“We still want you to come over. Just call your mom and get her to drive you.” And then Henry’s voice changes like everything’s forgiven, like we’re all friends again. ’Cause being sorry on your birthday? Yeah, I’m sure that sucks.
“It’s awesome, Av. Lacey’s cousins from Immaculate came and they are smoking hot—”
I hang up.
“You know . . . it’s your party, and you can cry if you want to.” The angry floor-sweeping girl plops down in the chair next to mine, stretches out her nicotine-fiend-skinny legs, and grabs my cupcake, biting into it before I have a chance to snap at her that I’m not crying.
And I’m not. I’m just allergic to some perfume that someone’s wearing; it’s burning my eyes and they’re watering. Crap like that happens, okay?
“Uh, that was mine,” I say. “It’s not like it just magically sprouted there so you could eat it.”
“I’m doing you a favor.” She shrugs. “I ate, like, four of them out of the case before. The frosting tastes like paste.” Her hair falls into her face, and she sweeps it out of the way with her fingertips.
When she pulls her hand back, her forehead is marred by four thin red scratches.
“People suck,” she says. �
�It’s a fact of life. And if they screw you over . . .” She narrows her eyes, more thoughtful than aggressive. “You’re probably bigger than they are, right?”
“Uh, mostly. Milo’s a heavyweight, but he doesn’t really—”
“Good. So you kick their asses. It’s like a public service. It teaches them that screwing people over is bad.”
“Right,” I say, trying not to stare at the tiny beads of blood that are now dotting her scratches. I almost ask her why she’s being not-hostile (“nice” might be pushing it), but figure I’ll ruin it if I do.
Her nose twitches; she plucks a piece of cat hair off her sleeve. “Anyway, I can’t sit here and console you all night—I’ll get fired. I have to stop that girl before she spews another gallon of coffee on the floor.”
“Wait!” I fumble for the wrapped present, dig it out from under my chair. “Do you like the Incredible Hulk? Because I don’t really need this anymore.”
“What?”
“It’s a shirt. Probably too big, but . . .”
“I’ll find a home for it.”
Her fingers dig into the package, nails raking up thin slivers of the wrapping paper. It swings loosely at her side as she heads over to harass Darla and her friends.
The blue-eyed guy, skin almost translucent, like a ghost’s, apologizes; he’s already sopping up the damage with a napkin. Darla manages a smile (hard to do in the presence of sweeping girl’s scowl) and says, “Hi! Catherine, right? What did you think of my—”
“Stop spitting your coffee out. This isn’t a zoo.” And then she walks away from them, disappears into a storage closet; comes back with a mop.
Sophie scoots out of her chair and squeezes past Catherine (is it Catherine?) and the other patrons carefully, like she doesn’t want to touch anyone. There’s glitter on her cheeks, and when the light hits her face a certain way, she sparkles.
“Everything okay?” she says.
“Could be better,” I say, handing her phone back. “My friend’s mom’s car broke down, so this party”—I gesture to the decorations—“is officially over.”
My breath catches; her skin is touching my skin, our hands united at the sides, two sets of fingers still closed around her phone. And, yeah, I’m touching a cute girl, so maybe it’s natural to feel out of sorts—but for a few brief moments I could swear there’s something holding us together. There’s this tugging sensation—like a Band-Aid pulling on my skin—and then the pressure eases off like it was never there, and she’s putting her phone away, smiling awkwardly, fumbling with the clasp on her purse.
“That’s too bad,” she says, words tumbling out in a rush. “Well, maybe next time, right?”
And then she spins away from me, her skirt flaring out; she hurries into the bathroom and slams the door.
Did I do something? I mean, I kind of got the impression that she didn’t want to be touched, but it’s not like I did it on purpose . . .
Trench-coat boy is burning a hole through me with his blue eyes. That “sensitive side” I saw before? Looks like it’s on hiatus.
I need to get out of here.
I gather up the party supplies and dump them in the trash, sling my coat over my shoulders, and exit the coffee shop, to the sudden sound of applause. I know it’s got nothing to do with me—it’s a poetry thing—but in a way, I feel like they’re applauding my decision to leave. Just call me hypersensitive. Or self-absorbed.
Outside, it’s mostly dark. Streetlamps light up this part of Main Street, but farther down, they’re either broken or nonexistent. Most of the shops down there are closed.
So of course that’s where I go.
I need to walk; I can’t stand still. The heat I felt earlier dissipated along with my anger. I’m cold again, almost shivering—but no matter how high I zip my coat up, how far I pull my hat down, I can’t warm up.
And I wonder if this is the trade-off. If my body might be devoting so much energy to making me tougher, more powerful, that it’s sapping strength from somewhere else. Maybe my brain, my heart—something—isn’t getting what it needs. Maybe it’s killing me from the inside out.
Morbid much? I try to think about something else—not myself—when it hits me: I need to apologize. Whatever I did that made Sophie freak out like that . . . she needs to know it wasn’t intentional. If that makes any difference at all.
I hike back up Main Street toward Roast, but stop before I get within full view of the streetlights. I hang back, sticking to the shadows, because Sophie and Darla and the trench-coat guy are outside. I feel weird approaching them all together; that guy seemed pretty pissed at me.
Sophie’s hopping from one foot to the other, her hands pulled into the sleeves of her sweatshirt. Darla’s pants are rolled back down, so she doesn’t look like a goth pirate anymore. And the guy? He’s still scanning the area with his psychotic blue eyes, chin tucked to his chest.
“I think you need makeup remover,” Sophie says. “That bathroom soap—”
“It’s all smeared,” Darla says. “And now my eyes are red. Crap. This is not going to go over well . . .”
“Just tell your dad it was a makeover gone wrong. Blame it on Nicholas.”
“Very funny,” the guy says. “And then he’ll ask my dad why I’m wearing eyeliner. No thanks.”
Darla sighs. “She wasn’t receptive at all. I got the feeling we were more, like, annoying her.”
“Speak for yourself,” Sophie says. “I had nothing to do with that poem.”
“Just because I’m the only one bold enough to take on the challenge—”
Sophie giggles. “Whooooa, simmer down there, Mr. Wayne.”
Even broody Nicholas manages a smile.
Darla sticks her tongue out. “Make fun of me all you want—but this is serious stuff. People like the Ice Queen—”
The what? I edge closer.
“God, do you have to call her that?” Sophie rolls her head back, like she’s looking up at the stars. “She has a name.”
Darla sniffs. “Bottom line, she’s a manipulator and a predator and she can’t be trusted. If she makes contact before we do—”
Then Nicholas speaks up: “That was him, wasn’t it? The guy you told us about.”
Huh?
Darla nods. “Shocked the hell out of me.”
“Yeah, but . . . it was kind of cool, right?” Sophie holds on to the lamppost with one hand, swings around it. Grins a big, beautiful grin. “I wish he would’ve done more.”
“No, you don’t,” Nicholas says firmly—like this is the last word on the matter. Whatever the matter is.
An SUV pulls up. Headlights shine on their squinting faces, illuminate the sidewalk in front of me. I press my back against the darkened building, hope those lights didn’t just give me away.
Darla hitches her backpack onto one shoulder. “You sure you don’t want a ride? It’s pretty late, Soph.”
“I’m fine, you guys. My mom’s just doing her running-late, workaholic thing. She’s not going to abandon me.” Sophie unzips her purse, pulls out a beat-up paperback, and shoos them toward the car with it. “She’ll be here in like, ten minutes or less. I promise.”
“Ohhh-kay,” Darla says, frowning a little as she climbs into the SUV, Nicholas right behind her. The driver beeps and Sophie waves good-bye.
And then they drive off, and she’s standing there alone, reading with one foot propped on the lamppost, a manga cracked open in her hands.
Every once in a while the door to Roast opens and a few people spill out—but mostly she’s alone, quietly flipping pages, paying next to no attention to what’s going on around her.
I keep taking a few steps closer and then wussing out, second-guessing myself. This bothers me, because I didn’t used to be so insecure. After last summer, when I lifted Mrs. Pearson’s car like it was nothing, saved her kid’s life, and became a local hero (and passed it all off as “adrenaline”), I was riding a wave of confidence I thought would last forever.
But that wave broke when I busted Mike Graves’s arm in a wrestling match.
It wasn’t the first strength malfunction I’d had, but it was the worst. It ended my time on the wrestling team and severed a tie between my friends and me. And I hurt someone. I heard—I felt—a bone crack.
It changed everything. Before, being “destructive” meant breaking our washer and dryer (oops) or kicking a hole in the garage wall after I accidentally dropped the car on my foot. I figured I’d get my strength under control eventually, and in the meantime the only pain I was causing was to my parents’ bank account. One day I’d be rich or famous and pay them back. Until then, it was their own fault for passing on their faulty genetic material, or letting me chew on uranium as a baby, or rescuing me from that spaceship in the backyard or whatever the hell happened.
’Cause if you’re wondering? Yeah, I know we haven’t been over that yet: I have NO idea why I’m like this.
Anyway.
As soon as I hurt Mike, it was like I constantly had to be careful, to keep my distance, to make sure it didn’t happen again. I was boring—no fun to hang out with because suddenly my friends were breakable. That meant no more play-fighting with Henry, or putting Milo in a headlock when he tried to fart on his cat—because what if I snapped his neck? What would I do then—kill myself, because I was such a menace to society? Because I’d paralyzed one of my friends? I don’t want to be that person.
Sophie pulls out her cell phone, thumbs a message to someone, bites her bottom lip. I want to go over to her. I have a perfectly valid excuse: I need to apologize, even if I still don’t know what I did. Maybe she’s really religious? Maybe that’s why the touching thing . . .
You know, just talking to her would be good, too—a happy ending to a so-far crappy night. Okay, I’m walking toward her, going over the options in my head. Trying to be cool, like my heart’s not beating a mile a minute, like I’m not going to slam my head directly into a brick wall if she shrieks and runs away from me.
