by Strand, Kai
Jeff dropped his smoking sandwich. He concentrated on a place deep down in his lungs and then gently blew a thin coat of ice onto his fingertips.
The three kids gawked.
“He’s a frickin’ freak!” Tears said. Disgust dripped from each word.
Cracker and Flame looked simultaneously horrified and nervous. The three kids backed away from the table as if Jeff were a cobra ready to strike. Finally Tears turned her back to him and the other two followed her out of the room.
Jeff let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. A cool sensation passed his lips and a layer of frost settled onto the sandwich in front of him.
“Great,” Jeff mumbled to himself. “Even in this circus act of a place, I’m still the freak show.”
Jeff dumped his scorched and frostbitten sandwich into the trash and grabbed another and scarfed it down on his way out of the cafeteria.
Chapter 10
Snores from the room next door rattled the walls all night long. Jeff barely slept and went to his first class crabby. It didn’t matter. It seemed to Jeff that all the S.V.’s were crabby. After all the hoopla to get him to the new school and yet he sat in normal, boring algebra. Jeff studied his schedule and groaned. Algebra was followed by history, and then social studies. He didn’t have any unusual classes until the afternoon.
As slow and boring as the morning was, Jeff mourned the loss of it when it was over. Taking a deep breath, Jeff followed a group of kids into the cafeteria, the single worst place to have to go on your first day at a new school. He plodded through the line dragging his tray along the metal countertop. He got a plate heaping with turkey, mashed potatoes and stuffing all smothered in steaming brown gravy. His stomach growled at the appetizing smell. Near the end of the line he grabbed a small bowl of applesauce and a big glass of milk. Then he turned and faced the room swarming with teenage super villains.
Why am I doing this? Each table seemed to overflow with kids. Jeff spied a table that was only half full. He bee lined for it and slid onto an empty seat before anyone had a chance to tell him no. He started eating right away and when the kids at the table realized he was there, it looked as if he’d been there a while. They grimaced at him, but didn’t tell him to beat it.
He stuffed his mouth full of turkey smothered with mashed potatoes and looked around the crowded room. Kids laughed with each other and glared at others. They greeted one another with smiles and handshakes and then sneered as soon as the kid turned his back. Jeff ate slowly and tried not to make direct eye contact. When the cafeteria was nearly deserted, he got up, tipped the bowl full of applesauce into his mouth and slurped it down. He dropped his tray in the return window on the way out of the room, feeling successful having made it through his first lunch hour unscathed.
He had a hard time finding his next class, Basic Abilities. It was in a completely different wing. The hallways were narrower. The walls were a utilitarian gray. The few doors he passed were heavy metal. Finally at the end of the hall a single doorway stood open with a small brown sign identifying it as the classroom he was looking for. Jeff paused in the doorway. A lack of lighting just inside the room left Jeff disoriented. The cavernous room sloped downward in stadium seating. Where the slope leveled out the room was brightly lit, lending a stage-like effect. Half a dozen kids milled around a large open space waiting for the teacher to begin the class. Jeff’s eyes adjusted to the darkness on his end of the room so he entered and walked down the sloping aisle toward the others, ignoring his churning stomach.
The teacher, identified on Jeff’s schedule as Sherlock, spotted Jeff approaching and nodded enthusiastically. Jeff almost turned around and left. It was the first nice welcome he’d received since he arrived and already it felt out of place and awkward.
“Ah, I’d heard we were getting someone new today. Terrific,” Sherlock said.
The students were bunched into a couple of groups, whispering about Jeff as he approached. Jeff half expected Sherlock to ask him to introduce himself and tell a little about what he’d done on his summer vacation. He was relieved when Sherlock got right to business.
“You guys know the drill. Go through the stations, carefully and purposefully, while I work with our new student.”
The kids paired up and moved off to different tables around the room.
Sherlock turned to Jeff. “You and I will begin determining your main abilities right away. Please don’t tell me anything that you know you can do. It is best if I discover it through testing.”
They walked over to the nearest unoccupied table. Sherlock picked up a shallow pan filled with sandy earth and held it at waist height between them. “Okay, kid, I want you to hold onto the side of the pan and close your eyes and keep them closed. Envision the pan that you are holding. Imagine its contents. Smell the dirt. Now imagine the dirt moving as if magnified to bunch up into a small ball. Then imagine a slightly smaller ball bunched up and rolled to perch atop the first. Last imagine a smaller ball still and imagine it on top of the stack of two. What have you got?”
“A dirt snowman,” Jeff said. He could see the image clear as day in his mind complete with the corncob pipe and button nose.
“Okay, you can open your eyes.” As soon as Jeff opened his eyes, Sherlock pulled the tray from him and set it back down on the table. Had Jeff imagined the dirt falling back into the pan?
“What was that supposed to do?” Jeff asked.
“That test was to see if you could manipulate elements.”
Jeff looked at the frown on Sherlock’s face. “I guess I failed, huh?”
“This isn’t a pass or fail kind of thing, kid.” Sherlock indicated that Jeff should follow him.
They went to a table recently vacated by a couple students. On the table was a bucket of water, a large bowl of water with a thermometer in it and a glass of water.
“This time I want you to put your finger into the glass of water,” Sherlock said.
“Which finger?”
“Any finger, but just one, please.” Once Jeff had done that, Sherlock asked him to close his eyes again. This time he asked Jeff to imagine the water in the glass was hot tub water.
Jeff was happy to do that. He heated his finger and the water heated up quickly. Too quickly. It bubbled and boiled over and then the glass burst. Jeff opened his eyes and watched the steaming water stream off the table onto the floor. Shards of glass were scattered on the table’s surface and on the surrounding floor.
“Sorry,” Jeff said.
Sherlock looked at Jeff with raised eyebrows. “You’re sorry?”
“Uh, yeah.” Jeff’s brow furrowed. “I didn’t mean to break the glass.”
“Oh, that’s fine.” Sherlock gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “Let’s go onto the next one and do the same thing.”
Jeff was encouraged that the medium-sized bowl was metal. At least he knew it wouldn’t shatter. The liquid inside was a gross yellowish-red color that looked a bit like blood. It smelled like antiseptic. He stuck his finger into it, closed his eyes and sent heat to his finger. This time he tried to regulate it, but he wasn’t too sure if he was doing it right or not.
“Stop now!” Sherlock’s cry startled Jeff. Jeff yanked his finger out and looked down at the roiling liquid that looked like the contents of a witch’s pot. Then he saw what had caused Sherlock’s outburst. The mercury in the thermometer was pegged at the highest possible temperature. Any further and the thermometer would likely burst.
Sherlock examined the large bucket thoughtfully, but then eyed the next table. He walked over to it and Jeff followed dutifully. An odd assortment of items sat on the table: a feather, a pencil, an ear of corn, a fist-sized rock and a large gourd. After the usual instruction to close his eyes, Sherlock stepped Jeff through the imagery of each item floating over the surface of the table. They repeated the process at each table. Jeff “imagined” things expanding and contracting, rolling and bouncing and even disappearing. It was tedious, especially since Sh
erlock kept emphasizing to do the tasks purposefully and carefully. As much as he wanted to find short cuts or plow through the different stages, Jeff laboriously stepped through each stage of imagery three different times at varying degrees.
Because his eyes were closed he didn’t know if he succeeded at anything beyond heating up the water. Sherlock remained discouragingly noncommittal about the results. Jeff asked after each table if he’d done what was asked, but Sherlock only replied with “Only you know if you imagined those things happening.” And wouldn’t comment further. Jeff eyed the kids around him to see if maybe they’d tell him or even give him a clue as to if he’d been able to do anything unusual. But they seemed to be concentrating on their own trials rather than him.
Sherlock tapped the eraser on the paper while considering the notes he had made in a file. He scratched his head with the eraser and twisted his mouth, deep in thought. Finally he folded the file closed and nodded to Jeff in conclusion. Turning his attention outward, Sherlock announced, “All right, time to clean up, then. Put the props in their proper places, please.”
The class groaned collectively. A red headed boy said, “It still isn’t funny, Sherlock.”
Seeing Jeff’s knit brow, Sherlock looked at him expectantly and emphasized, “Props in proper places?”
“Oh! Is that a…joke?” Jeff asked.
Sherlock’s expression crumpled into disappointment. “Nobody gets me.”
Three blasts issued announcing the conclusion of class. Jeff pulled his schedule out of his back pocket and unfolded the crumpled paper.
“Being a new student like the rest of us in this class,” a boy who looked like a mini-version of Sherlock said, “it goes without saying that your next class is S&S. You can walk with me if you want.”
“Uh, thanks.” Jeff confirmed that his next class was S&S in the gym. “What is S&S?”
“Speed and strength. Not my cup of tea at all.” The boy pushed his thick-framed glasses up his nose. “They call me Source, by the way. Most unfortunate that you came out of it without a moniker, today.”
“I have a name, you know. It’s Jeff, by the way.” The whole, “they call me” thing was starting to wear on Jeff’s nerves. Did anyone even remember their real names anymore?
“No one will use that name, though. Until your root ability shows itself, you’ll remain nameless,” Source said.
The kids walked in a loose group toward their next class. Jeff had so many questions and finally someone to ask, but he didn’t know where to start. “Do most people find their root ability in their first ability class?”
“Yeah. Those tests are geared to find it. They tap into the most basic abilities and kids always show a strength in a certain area that leads Sherlock to pursue more in that area. Obviously you didn’t show anything, since he made the circuit with you.” Source smirked. “I’ve never seen Sherlock so flummoxed.”
“What is your root strength? What does Source mean?”
“I can determine the source of abilities. I can help other S.V.’s develop their abilities further by helping them tap into the power of it.”
“Well, I have fire, why didn’t Sherlock pursue that? I thought fire was unusual. Wouldn’t that be my root ability?”
“Just because you have an ability doesn’t make it your root. Whatever you did with your fire wasn’t enough to encourage Sherlock to pursue it as a root.”
“Great,” Jeff mumbled. It seemed he wouldn’t even find a place within the freak show.
Two kids Jeff had heard referred to as Shake and Bake walked in front of him. They glanced at him over their shoulders, eyes glinting mischievously, and then Bake said something to Shake that made her scoff and shake her head. They shook hands and then laughed.
“What’s your problem?” Jeff asked loudly enough they would hear him.
“I was just betting you wouldn’t bust out of the circle until your 5th try,” Bake said.
Shake sneered. “I bet you wouldn’t bust out at all.”
“What are they talking about?” Jeff mumbled to Source.
“You’ll see. But no matter what happens, there is no possible way you’ll be worse than me.”
Source pushed through a set of double doors and Jeff found himself unexpectedly outside. A running track wrapped around a standard sized football field which currently had a series of free-standing walls of varying heights erected at one end. There were no bleachers, so Jeff could tell they didn’t hold spectator sports in this arena. Other than that, it would be a normal, open-air field—except that it was enclosed by large warehouse-like buildings on all sides.
“Well, this is unexpected,” Jeff said as he followed Source to the teacher standing in the middle of the field.
“Circle up,” the teacher, known simply as Coach, shouted. Pointing to Jeff, he said, “You, kid, come stand by me.”
“That doesn’t sound good,” Jeff mumbled.
“It’s kinda like initiation,” Source said. “On the positive side, maybe a root ability will be revealed here?”
Jeff considered the fact that he’d been able to run fast since he was young and his spirits were buoyed—somewhat.
“What do they call you, kid?” Coach asked Jeff.
“Nothing yet,” Jeff said through gritted teeth.
“Nothing?” Coach looked at Source for confirmation.
“Nope,” Source said.
“Huh, weird,” Coach muttered. “Are they sure you’re an S.V.?”
Jeff rolled his eyes and hissed, “Yes.”
“Well, get in the middle of the circle. We’re gonna play a game like Red Rover.”
Jeff spent the next ten minutes trying to bust through the line. He got close a couple times which seemed to make Coach happy, but in the end he couldn’t get out of the circle. He saw Bake slip a wad of money into Shake’s hand.
“Next, you’ll race the fastest kids in the class. Granted that isn’t saying much, this certainly isn’t the fastest class around.”
All the kids, except Source, grumbled.
“Pindrop and Mazer, line up with the newbie.”
Jeff lined up between the two kids at the start of a 100-meter track. Pindrop put some earplugs in her ears before she settled into the mark position. Mazer stared at the finish line the entire time. Jeff was nervous. He’d beaten every kid he ever ran against, but he’d never faced S.V.’s before. Though they were new to the academy too, they’d been there longer and received some sort of training. For all Jeff knew that would make all the difference in the world.
“On your mark,” Coach said. He raised a starter pistol in the air over his head. “Set.”
Jeff raised his hind quarters and leaned slightly forward on his toes. His thigh muscles were on alert, ready to spring when the pistol fired. Jeff even readied the smaller support muscles he’d used the day he was chased by the guy.
Bang!
Jeff was off before the pistol finished firing. His body moved like a well-tuned hemi engine, flowing from one movement to the next without needing prompting. The muscles in his back engaged to support the extreme motion of his buttocks. His calves were tight, his Achilles elastic. Everything flowed in perfect synchronicity. But Jeff only crossed the line two steps ahead of the other kids.
It took them a quarter of the track to slow down. Pindrop removed her earplugs and said to Jeff, “Decent running, boy.” She cocked her head and said, “Wow, you’re not even winded.”
“Are you listening to me?” Jeff asked.
“Yeah. Your heartbeat isn’t even elevated.” She turned and yelled, “Coach, he’s built for distance.”
“Okay then. Kid, I want you to run around the track at top speed as long as you can. Everyone else, calisthenics.”
More murmuring and grumbling issued from the kids. They went into the middle of the field and lined up in two straight lines. Coach followed them, looking back at Jeff over his shoulder. “What are you waiting for? Get running.”
Jeff knew he was a go
od runner. Yet he also knew how much it bored him. To occupy his mind while he ran, he sang songs in his head; high-energy songs of which he sped up the tempo. The cheesier, the better. He liked the oldies. “Eye of the Tiger,” “You Really Got Me,” “I’m A Believer” and “I Heard It Through The Grapevine” were some of his favorites. He’d cycled through all those songs when he heard people yelling at him. He ran so fast they were all just a blur so he slowed down in order to hear what they were saying.
Coach said, “Okay, kid. We don’t have all day. I get that you’re a distancer. Now let’s test height.”
Jeff jogged up to where the kids were bunched together in front of the walls. Jeff wasn’t very good at jumping and each wall was more difficult than the one before. He was disappointed to learn that they were expected to scale one right after the other like an obstacle course. He stood last in line, closely watching how each kid leapt the first wall. Every kid was able to jump at least to the top of the wall; most cleared it completely and disappeared onto the other side. Then they popped up over the next wall, some right onto the top. Others took one boosting step about ¾ of the way up as they vaulted. From where he stood, he couldn’t see what the third wall was like.
All too soon it was his turn. He ran and sprang at the first wall, but didn’t make it over. His fingers just barely found purchase on the top and he pulled himself up, straining his biceps and scraping his stomach on the sharp edge of the wall. The second wall was disastrous. His footing slipped just as he launched toward the wall and he ended up splayed flat against it, not even half way up. After sliding to a heap at the bottom, he reluctantly got up and took another running start.
Adrenaline and embarrassment gave him more spring than he expected and he flew over the top of the wall with his arms and legs flailing. He tried to tuck into a roll as he approached the ground, but didn’t tuck enough and landed on his back with a loud “ooof” as the air was pushed from his lungs. The chorus of laughter didn’t help.
