Supernormal

by Caitlen Rubino-Bradway

  “Hey, hey, hey!” It took Cam a second to realize that was real, now, and for him. A tall, lanky black boy in a red and white lifeguard T-shirt jogged up to him. His wide, white grin that could’ve gotten him work in toothpaste ads. “Camron, right?” Cam nodded and the boy held out a hand. “Danny Evans.”

  Cam shook his hand, feeling the formality snap into place even as he tried to fight it. “I appreciate you agreeing to show me around.”

  “Yeah, well, I should probably tell you up front, Meg paid me twenty bucks to show you around. She knows my mom. Meg knows everyone’s mom. Here, this way.” Danny grabbed Cam’s arm, hauled him up a ramp towards the boardwalk when Cam’s feet dug in for a second. He glanced back, but Meg’s Jeep was already driving away. He watched as it curved past a corner.

  Danny dragged him into a small restaurant at the end of the boardwalk, past all of the other shops and rides and flash. All the while keeping up a nonstop commentary, which, to Cam’s relief, did not include a word about when Cam stopped—BICYCLE WHEELS SPINNING, SQUEALING, HOW DID SHE STOP THIS THING, SHE WAS GOING TOO FAST—for a herd of bicyclists that would be here…tomorrow? Two days from now? Or darted over to catch a little boy who was climbing on the boardwalk railing before—SPINNING OVER THE RAIL, WORLD FLIPPING UPSIDE DOWN HEAD OVER FEET, LEG TWISTED AT AN ODD ANGLE. The kid elbowed him in the stomach and ran off.

  The restaurant was a tiny, squat, one-story building, painted in bold green and eyesore orange. A hand-painted sign read, simply: Paco’s Best Tacos. Inside, the tables were plastic, the plates were paper, and there was salsa music on the radio. It was crammed with people. Cam had to pause for a moment and close his eyes, letting the rush of images wash over him. The dizzying tangle of HEAT BLAZING UP FROM THE COOKTOP, FLAMES FLARING, SPITTING UP, SCORCHING THE CEILING—“JESUS, I TOLD YOU, NOT NOW”—LAUGHTER, BRIGHT AND WHEEZING—“WHAT’S YOUR PROBLEM”—SNEAKERS SQUEAKING ON THE FLOOR, HANDS PUSHING UP, SHOVING CHAIRS OVER. Cam closed his eyes and breathed slowly for a moment.

  There were two more waiting for them, a girl and a boy. Liz Bell had pink streaks in her pin-straight blonde hair, gray nail polish, and a smudged baseball jersey. She was, she told Cam, a counselor for the Sugar Beach Sandies, a Pee-Wee baseball program she’d worked at four summers in a row. “This is my last one, I swear,” she said, pressing a clump of napkins to a nasty scrape below her elbow.

  “Every summer’s your last one,” Tyler replied. Cam’s father would have dismissed him as a pretty boy, and he was; fine-boned and fine-featured, with a thatch of closely cropped dark hair. The skeptical expression appeared to be ingrained.

  “You’re like the back of a shampoo bottle,” Danny said, scooting into the seat next to her. “You know, rinse, repeat.” He smacked a kiss on her mouth, and another on her scrape. “Feel better?”

  Liz grinned and leaned into Danny. Cam glanced away.

  Tyler groaned. “Can we cut the cuddle-bear stuff and get the food now? I’m starving.”

  “Ignore him, he gets cranky when his blood sugar drops,” Liz said to Cam.

  “Yeah, and every other time,” Danny said, grabbing some fresh napkins. “Man, those five-year-olds are mean,” he said, swapping out the dirty ones. Cam stood and threw the bloody ones away, trying not to stumble over the CHAIR that hadn’t fallen yet.

  “Nah, it was the coach.” Liz smiled at Cam and explained, “It’s strictly a morning sports thing, so sometimes me and the other counselors grab a pick-up game after the kids head out to camp. Sometimes Coach Parker joins in.”

  Tyler snorted. “When he’s trying to show Liz up.”

  “Which never works,” Danny added with malicious glee. “Seriously, it’s kind of freaky how good she is,” he told Cam. “And it’s her third summer now, you’d think Coach Parker’d get the picture.”

  “Yeah, well, it doesn’t matter, because this summer is absolutely my last one,” Liz said, turning back to Cam. “I’m off to play Division I for UCLA in the fall.”

  “Yeah, right. You’re going to be back here next summer,” Tyler said. He rapped his knuckles on the table. “Right here. Bitching about this exact same thing. Hopefully with food.”

  Liz rolled her eyes, which were a frank, clear hazel. “I know. I can’t escape them. It’s like I swore some sort of blood oath.”

  “There is no turning back. You know that. You should never have gone through with the Joining.”

  “Nah, Duncan would’ve killed her if she tried to run,” Danny said. He saw Cam’s expression and added, “Video game.”

  Cam nodded, thinking, Heard of those. “I’ve never played.”

  “What, Dragon Age? It’s awesome.”

  “No, video games.”

  All three went silent. Tyler narrowed his eyes. “Seriously.”

  “Seriously.”

  “You’ve never played video games,” Tyler snapped. “What kind of freak are you?”

  Cam felt the formality that had started to fade settle in deeper. “My parents didn’t approve.”

  “Ignore him,” Liz told Cam. “It’s just that video games are kind of sacrosanct at his house. His mom and uncle are both game designers.”

  “His Uncle Randy,” Danny said. “Seriously, his name is Randy.”

  “Oh my god, you guys, as interesting as this all is, could we seriously get food now?” Tyler snapped. “It’s like North Korea over here.”

  Cam stood. “I’ll get it.”

  The line was long, and loud, and the restaurant was so crowded that Cam had to shut his eyes a couple times to keep from getting dizzy. He had to work his way back very carefully, balancing paper plates on his arms like a waitress.

  Danny helped him unload. “Here we go. We have nachos, we have taquitos, we have—I’m not sure what this is. No, wait, it’s a quesadilla. Might have meat in it, though, it’s the house special. We have beef tacos all around, except for the bean burrito for the crazy, hippie vegetarian. Here, Ty.” Danny shoved a plate under Tyler’s nose. “How ‘bout you work your mouth on this?”

  Tyler snickered around a mouthful of nachos. “That’s what she said.”

  Danny rolled his eyes. “So mature.”

  “We’re talking mature now? Who dressed up like a Disney character last Halloween?”

  “Okay, first of all, I am Flynn Rider—just like you’re Yzma and Liz is probably Helga, although we are still working that one out. And, secondly, I seem to recall someone organizing a Harry Potter rave when the last movie came out,” Danny retorted. “Who was that? Liz, do you happen to remember who that was?”

  Liz ignored them, cutting neat bites out of her quesadilla with her plastic utensils.

  Cam started in on the burrito, trying to focus on the beans and avocado and sour cream, and not the image that cut through his mind of the HANDS SLAMMING DOWN ON THE TABLE, the sharp, angry voice “SAY IT TO MY FACE,” or the way his head was swarming, the—

  BLOOD.

  The copper scent of it drifted up, cut through the smell of jalapenos and grease and filled his head until he could taste it. Cam glanced up, tried to swallow, but it caught in his throat.

  CHAIRS TIPPED OVER, SNEAKERS SCREECHING AGAINST THE FLOOR AS THE CROWD RAN, PANICKED, FIGHTING TO GET OUT.

  The restaurant was buzzing with the sounds of people and conversation. They were crowded around tables, laughing, talking. Waiting in line to place orders. A bulky guy two tables over shoved an entire taco in his mouth. Everything was normal, and that…wasn’t right…

  Cam took a breath and gave himself a moment to focus. There was so much here, so many would-be’s or may-be’s, all of them hinging on a hundred other might-be’s. It took him a moment to work his way back. To the—

  BLOOD. Thick and slick on the floor.

  What else?

  SNEAKERS. SNEAKERS RUNNING, THE RUBBER SOLES SQUEAKING ALONG THE TILE. PEOPLE SHOVING THROUGH THE DOORS.

  Cam set his food down and focused on that sound, the rubber screaming on the slick tiles, used it to
pull back on the image. PEOPLE, RUNNING TO THE DOOR. BOTTLENECKING, PUSHING, SHOVING, PANICKED. CELL PHONES. SCREAMS. “SOMEBODY HELP HIM!” BLOOD ON THE TILES.

  Stop. Stop—too much. Focus. He pulled back, and forced himself to focus.

  On a pale, blond, angular boy, with a large group three tables over. At the moment all of his blood seemed to be rushing into his face. He shoved himself up, the shriek of his chair lost in the buzz of conversation—which dipped, awkwardly, when the boy snapped, “What’s your problem? Are you stupid or something?”

  A girl next to him tugged on his arm. “He didn’t mean anything by it, Troy. It was just a joke.”

  “Yeah, right.” The boy slammed a fist down on the table, and conversation in the crowded restaurant dropped away in earnest. “Say that again. Say it to my face.”

  “Fucking Troy,” Tyler muttered. “Not again.” Danny started to stand. A beefy man with a grease-splattered apron began to push his way out from behind the counter.

  Cam closed his eyes. His vision was fuzzy, movements, bodies shifting back and forth with possible futures. Things got like that sometimes, when they weren’t certain. But Cam got pieces. The other one, the one doing the attacking, was…looked…

  BLONDE HAIR. SCARS. SUNGLASSES. BLOOD. BLOOD ON HER MOUTH. BLOOD DRIPPING DOWN HER CHIN.

  Cam jerked to his feet and scoured the restaurant. It was so crowded, and for one second everyone in the world had blonde hair. There was too much he couldn’t see, and people kept moving, snapping into place, into their futures, into that future. The beefy man was talking to the angry blond boy now, and any moment there would be SHOVING and one of the other boys at the table would try to get between them, and go CRASHING INTO—

  Cam leapt onto his chair, then on the table. Something squished underfoot. “Jesus, Cam, what the hell?” Danny sputtered, half laughing.

  There. In the back. Hunched at the very last table like an animal backed into a corner. Shaggy blonde hair. Curved scar hooking under her chin. Dark sunglasses. Body so tense it was a wonder she didn’t shatter, and she was arrowed into the blond boy, who was jabbing an angry finger at a smaller, thinner boy on the other side of the table. Cam noticed her hands, slowly clawing their way into fists.

  Cam thought he called out. He wasn’t sure. It was getting loud now, sound rushing back in as people started standing, edging their way to the door or heading over to the table to get in on it, and shouts of “Christ, Troy, why do you gotta be such an asshole?” and “You want I should call the Chief?”

  But Cam must’ve made some kind of noise, because her head snapped over, and she went still—so totally and completely still, Cam didn’t think it was humanly possible.

  He stared down those black sunglasses. She was slight, boney, but the violence in his vision prickled icy fear along his skin. “Don’t do it.” She wouldn’t be able to hear across the noise and space and people, he knew. Don’t. But he shook his head and tried to will the words into her head. Don’t do it.

  She stared at him, and for one second she seemed so alone. Alone and desperate. He thought, Oh, god, she’s going to, and braced himself—to run, jump off the table and tackle her, and in that second the future began to fade. He told himself he wasn’t going to do anything, but he knew better, he’d chosen to get involved now, even as his sight went blank—

  The girl wrenched away from the table, knifed her way through the crowd, and raced out of the restaurant.

  He couldn’t have been more than five seconds after her. Fear made him fast, but not fast enough, and by the time he stumbled out the door, she was gone.

  Ch. 4

  Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck—how the hell—how—goddammit—Ashley yanked open a drawer. Blindly threw clothes into a suitcase.

  She heard springs screech, and the screen door swat closed as Brody’s footsteps passed through the kitchen to the hall. The clatter of keys as Brody tossed them on the long hall table.

  “Ashley?”

  Ashley ignored him. She yanked the next drawer open—and the next. That toss mostly missed the suitcase, but the fuck if she cared. She just had to get the hell out of here, she didn’t need to make it pretty. Dresser empty, she headed to the closet. Ripped the door off. Ashley stared at the mangled wood in her hand, and then let it crash to the floor.

  Brody’s footsteps creaked along the old wooden floors, and the next second he was standing in the doorway. He did that on purpose. Let her hear him on purpose so she wouldn’t spook like a goddamn animal. His eyes flicked at the suitcase on the bed, then over to Ashley.

  “I’m going back,” Ashley said, grabbing a fistful of clothes. Jerked them so hard the closet rod snapped in half. Her clothes tumbled to the floor, hangers and all. “Fuck.” She dropped to her knees and started scraping up the pile of clothes—then stopped, her fingers fisting in a faded canvas jacket. “Danny?”

  “Tyler.”

  There were days when Brody’s voice got on Ashley’s nerves. All calm, in control, like he didn’t actually have to ask what happened ‘cause he already knew. Today, Ashley hated it.

  The jacket was still in her hands. She hurled it in her suitcase so hard the case toppled backwards off the bed.

  Fuck it, fuck it, fuck it. The rage of it ripped through her. She made herself turn back for more clothes. “I’m going back. I’m done. This isn’t working. So I’m going back.”

  “How?” Brody asked mildly. Which was a perfectly valid question, if Ashley let herself stop and consider it.

  “I’ll leave,” she said, jamming more clothes into the suitcase. “I’ll just walk out of town. They’re tracking me—they’ll come and find me and take me back.”

  “Ash.” When she didn’t stop, Brody took her arm and stopped her. Since Brody was just about the only one still able to do that, Ashley stopped. “Tell me what happened.”

  “You know—”

  “I know what Tyler told me. And now you’re going to tell me what happened.”

  The anger snuffed out, leaving her cold. “I was in Paco’s. Get used to people, acclimate myself, you know, like the doc says. And I—” Ashley paused. This was what she hated. ‘Cause he knew, or he’d at least guessed, and Brody’s guesses were scarily accurate. “There was this…guy. He was picking on this kid. Shouting, and he sounded…” Brody didn’t say anything. He sat there, and waited for her to say it. “Like Jase.”

  “The Troy kid,” Brody said.

  Ashley nodded. She’d seen him around before, she knew he looked, a little—but it was his voice. His voice was so much like Jase’s, and for a second she’d been back in the facility, Jase jabbing an angry finger in her face, What’s your damage, Garrett? Ashley shook her head, fighting against the acid, coppery taste rising in the back of her throat. “I was going to do it. I was. I wanted to.”

  “Did you?”

  “No.” She hurled the word at him.

  Brody the bastard had to drag every last bit out of her. “Why not?”

  Ashley squeezed her eyes shut. She could still see the boy’s face. It was stuck there, behind her eyes, like an image frozen onscreen. “This other boy. He saw me. He—knew what I was going to do.” She would never forget, never, the way he looked at her. She would have nightmares about it. “It was that obvious.”

  “Don’t do this.”

  “Fuck you, Brody.”

  “You’re getting better. It might not seem like it, but I promise you, you’re getting better. You will learn how to control this. I get that you’re scared—”

  “‘Scared?’”

  “—but this,” he nodded to her suitcase, “is not a decision you make when you’re upset.” He grabbed her wrist. “You go back, that’s it. It’s over. They will kill you.”

  “I don’t care!” She hated the cracks in her voice. Ashley sat down on the bed, air leaving her lungs in a harsh rush. “I don’t care,” she said again, calmer. “I can’t hurt anyone again.”

  “I won’t let that happen.”

  She twisted
a T-shirt over and over in her fingers, and didn’t look at him. “You weren’t there today. You can’t be there all the time. You let me go…wherever. You should lock me up and seal the door and put bars on the fucking windows—” Brody took the shirt out of her hands when it began to tear at the seams. “It has to end. I have to—I’m not working. I’m not getting better. I won’t. I won’t go back there, I won’t let them take me back there and pull me apart again. I won’t prove Proom right.”

  Brody gave her a long look. There was an edge of something in it, something hard and bitter. “I won’t let that happen.”

  “You know—” They both knew exactly what would happen if she went back, in working order. She’d be strapped to a gurney and given over to the doctors so they could dissect her down to atoms and figure out what worked and what didn’t and then, then, Proom would get the green light to round together another group of kids and start all over again.

  She wouldn’t let that happen. She would die instead.

  “I’m just so tired,” she said, and the ache in her chest pulled at the words.

  “I know,” he said.

  “It would be better, if I went.”

  “No,” he told her. “It wouldn’t.”

  Ashley didn’t say anything else. Not when Brody picked up his suitcase and took it away. Not when she heard Brody tuck it away in the hall closet. She sat on her bed until the sky went dark outside her window.

  “Rice or noodles?”

  “Noodles,” Cam said. It was evening. The sun was setting through the windows, and he was in Meg’s kitchen, with its whitewashed walls and red potholders. Meg was at the counter, chopping vegetables for stir-fry. Danny and the others had invited him out, but Cam wanted to come back. He’d wanted home, and this moment.