by Rob J. Quinn
I’m still not sure how I did it the first time, he thought. He’d been spinning the events from yesterday and last night around in his mind most of the day. His mom made a face when he asked if she had checked on him after he went to bed as if she hadn’t done it in years. She even teased him about what she always called his “silly habit” of turning the clock around when he couldn’t sleep. Apparently, nobody had any trouble sleeping or was up late enough to have been doing anything that would have made noise downstairs in the early morning hours either. He was at least relieved that the rush to get going in the morning had allowed him to ask the questions without anybody wondering too much about why he was asking.
Unfortunately, that was the only relief he got. He still didn’t have any answers. If Mom didn’t touch the clock, Red wondered, how did it get turned? And how did I knock Chuck down?
Mr. Francis walked past him as he entered the classroom from the hall, and the subject drifted from his mind. Red nodded as a way of saying hello when he made eye contact with Adam, sitting a few rows in front of him. Adam had been designated to use carbon paper under his notes in a couple classes that they shared to give Red a copy to help him get everything.
“Hey,” Adam said. “You have everything from social studies so far? We have our first test next Tuesday, I think.”
“Yeah, thanks,” Red said. “I keep forgetting to get my textbook out of my locker to read that chapter he keeps telling us to read for the test.”
“I know,” Adam said, putting his hand out in a gesture of confusion. “He never refers to the book in class, just lectures nonstop from his own notes, but that chapter is on the test?”
Red nodded in agreement. They both turned their attention to Tara, who hustled into the classroom as if she’d had to sprint just to make it on time. It was the same every day. She seemed to search through fifty things in her book bag before she found something to take notes on. Finally, she looked back the two seats and a row over to where Red sat. The room was arranged with the desks to the right of the door and lab stations to the left, which made Red feel like the entrance was in the middle of the room. Three weeks earlier, on the first day of class, Red had sat in the last row so he could easily park his power chair and get to a desk.
“Did he bother you again today?” she asked.
It was only mildly surprising that she was talking to him. She was like a different person when Chuck wasn’t around. Red always thought it was a little strange that she would begin a conversation as if they talked all the time, but he didn’t mind since she seemed more comfortable talking to him than most of the other girls in school.
He shook his head. “Didn’t see him,” Red said. “I usually only see him after lunch, and I left early to use the bathroom.”
“Well, I won’t be seeing him at all anymore,” she whispered. “We had a huge fight after I asked him why he’s always bothering you. He just flipped out, telling me I’m in love with the cripple, all this stuff.”
Red felt the wave stir. It was like a knee-jerk reaction to the word cripple. I’m not a goddamn cripple, he thought, the words thundering in his head. But he knew Tara was only repeating her idiot boyfriend so he didn’t say anything.
“I mean, he’s really not that bad,” she went on. “He just acts like a jerk sometimes. But then he said something about he always wanted to go with Alley anyway, and I was done.”
To be nice Red gave a half-hearted knowing nod. Even if he hadn’t been worried about talking in class, there wasn’t much to say. There didn’t seem to be much point in asking why sometimes seemed to be every time Red saw the guy. Besides, if the best she could say about him is that he’s ‘not that bad,’ why was she dating the jerk? And he could barely bring himself to think about the prospect of Chuck dating Alley. It made him want to throw up. He dismissed it from his mind, remembering Alley had already blown him off.
Mr. Francis quickly got into his lecture on genetics after the bell rang, and Red struggled to keep up taking notes. He looked over at Adam and was happy to see that he seemed to be getting everything down. Even if I need a magnifying glass to read his notes, Red thought, they save me plenty of times.
“So, can anyone give an example of genetics?” Francis asked.
Red was even more relieved knowing he would have time to write down a couple of notes as the teacher tried to pull an answer out of someone.
“Well, we have one right in the back of the room,” Francis said, gesturing toward him.
Red felt like every muscle in his body tensed up. No, he thought. He’s not doing this. He slowly glanced around to see Tara and others sneaking peeks at him. His heart began to race. Cold sweat seemed to splash over him. Making eye contact with Francis, he felt his head nod as if he were agreeing with him.
Francis continued the lecture, though Red could barely hear him, let alone focus on what he was saying. His entire body felt as though it was in full spasm. It was coming. Pushing through his mind, he felt it coming. He suddenly knew it was the same thing he’d felt the day before when Chuck had put his hand on his chest. A wave of energy was pushing. No, he thought. He saw dots in front of his eyes. No. Not here. Not now. He felt it pushing through him, beyond his control.
He closed his eyes and finally managed to lower his head. Francis was still talking. Maybe he hasn’t noticed, Red thought. He took a deep breath. The pushing eased.
The scumbag, Red thought. Did he just say that? Did I nod for God’s sake?
The wave was still there. He could feel it bob like the ocean beyond where the waves crest, where he’d only gone a couple times when he was younger and his father could carry him. It softly slapped against the sides of his head. Waiting. Waiting to be released. To be pushed from him.
Glancing up, he stole looks at other kids. Careful not to keep his eyes on anyone too long for fear of pushing them. They all peeked over at him, Francis the only one seemingly oblivious to the absurdity of his own words.
Finally, Red’s heart rate began to slow. He wiped a drop of sweat from his cheek. Why would he do that? Gathering himself, anger quickly settled in. Is he really that stupid?
Another deep breath came to him. He sat back in his desk chair and glared at Francis. The energy was still there, like a current softly slapping at the shore in his head. He felt the wave for the first time without fear or panic.
I even thought he was kind of cool, Red thought. I knew Donohue was a loser. The rest of the teachers are okay. But Francis seemed alright. Almost likeable. I can’t believe he just did that. I think his wife is even a physical therapist, he thought, vaguely remembering a mention from someone earlier in the year.
The wave splashed around harder, but he didn’t mind. He even liked it. You’re not even right, asshole, Red thought, staring at Francis. He wanted to scream it at him. His cerebral palsy, like most people who had it, was caused by a problem when he was being born. For him it was a lack of oxygen to the brain. That’s not genetic, you dope.
Francis turned to write on the blackboard.
I could put him through a wall right now, I bet, Red thought. He had a look of disgust for the man on his face that was clear for anyone who cared to see it. Saying the words as he wrote them, Francis began to scribble “What is genetics?” on the board. Red focused on the chalk in the teacher’s hand. He was crossing t’s and dotting i’s with a smack on the blackboard each time. Red wanted to shout at Francis as he dotted the second i, “You’re clueless! You don’t even know!” He felt the wave burst through him, pushing the energy across the room.
The chalk exploded as if on impact when it connected one last time with the blackboard. Francis’s head bobbed backwards. The class filled with a murmur of laughter. Momentarily flustered, the teacher looked down on the shelf of the blackboard for the broken piece of chalk, but there wasn’t one. He couldn’t find anything on the floor either, and his hand held nothing but chalk dust.
The students laughed a little louder as Francis looked around for the chal
k. He ignored them, grabbing another piece of chalk from further down the shelf and nervously adjusting his glasses.
Red looked down, pretending to take notes. His breath was short and choppy. He couldn’t believe it. He had felt the surge of the wave pushing out of him, saw the momentary darkness, the spots in front of his eyes. But he didn’t care. It was different this time. Not finding the words to explain how he had done it, he knew it was him. He had made the chalk explode. He had pushed Chuck down.
Letting the feeling of light-headedness pass as the wave receded, Red smiled. He let the wave splash around in his head.
It was his now.
Chapter 8
Red looked at the house again and rolled his eyes. He said he’d be right out, Red thought as he patted the Nerf football. After getting home from school, he didn’t bother to put his book bag in his room and asked his brother to have a catch the second he saw him. Red even went to get the Nerf from the basement, which Scott would usually do because it was easier for him to go up and down the steps, and convinced his mom that he hardly had any homework when she suggested he get some of it done before rushing outside.
He turned back to the open field and pretended to throw the ball toward the woods, which they once estimated was about seventy-five yards from the last line of trees in the front part of Mr. Taylor’s yard. He resisted the urge to see if he could reach the woods by pushing his throw with the wave. Red was almost convinced he could do it. In fact, he thought it would be easy. But he knew if Scott came out before he walked at least most of the distance to pick up the ball, his brother would wonder how he had thrown it so far. Instead, he tucked the ball under his arm and began to run for the imaginary end zone. Of course, he knew he was moving at about the rate of a semi-fast walk for his brother, but he staved off ghost tacklers with his perfectly timed stiff-arms.
Hearing the sound of rustling leaves from behind, he knew his brother was racing toward him. Scott loved to tease him by chasing him down from long distances. Red picked up his pace, running as fast as he could but knowing the desire to move quicker only made his muscles tighten up. He resisted the urge to look back at his brother, focusing instead on the field ahead of him.
Just once, Red thought as his heart began to race. He looked straight ahead, feeling that maybe he had lengthened his stride a hair. Scott’s laughter caught his ear, but he refused to give in. Just once I wanna beat him.
Feeling Scott behind him, Red looked back and stuck his arm out to hold him off for just another yard or two. Instead, the stiff-arm sent his brother to the ground. Red barely felt the wave receding. He didn’t care. He just kept running.
Twenty yards from the end zone, Scott came storming back more determined than ever to tackle his brother. This time he grabbed his arm when Red went to shove him off, but he was still pushed backwards. Red almost lost his balance from his brother’s grab but managed to stay on his feet. Trying to regain his momentum, Scott felt something knock his feet out from under him as he saw Red look back.
“Yeah!” Red exulted as he reached the area all the neighborhood kids knew as the end zone. He spiked the ball and threw his arms up in victory. “Yeah-ha-hah! Touchdown, baby!!”
Scott sat on the ground for a moment watching his brother dance around. He resisted his teenaged instincts to cry foul, knowing his brother didn’t get many opportunities to claim victory. But he knew there was something more than ego telling him that the touchdown run wasn’t just different because Red had been able to fend him off. His brother’s attempt to do the Ickey Shuffle actually made him laugh out loud. Getting off the ground, he slowly walked over to pick up the ball, which had rolled about ten yards away after Red had spiked it.
He waited for Red to finally end the celebration, and tossed him the ball. “I thought you might throw yourself a parade,” Scott said.
Red caught the ball with ease. “I was thinking about it,” he said.
“You waited so long to use that dance the guy who invented it doesn’t even play this year. I think he got hurt or something.”
“Whatever, dude. Touchdown!”
They both laughed. Red threw the ball back to him, focusing on the ball more than he ever did when they would have a catch.
Scott noticed that the ball reached him with a little more force than usual. He put a little more into his next throw and watched Red catch it with no problem.
“Nice,” Scott commented.
Red nodded. He knew it was there. The wave was bobbing again. No burst. No recession. He didn’t see stars or feel light-headed. It was just there. His to control. A sense of euphoria swept through him.
His next toss was a little stronger. Just focusing on the ball pushed it into his brother’s hands. The same method eased it back into his own hands on the return throw.
He threw the ball back even harder. Scott matched his effort.
He can tell, Red thought. He knows I can’t throw it this hard on my own.
Red’s catching ability baffled both of them. He caught it again, watching the ball into his hands as their father had always taught them but having it work like never before. He actually felt the need to resist throwing the ball as hard as he could. As he watched the ball into his hands again, he felt as though he was grabbing it before his hands ever felt the hard-spongy material of the ball. On the next toss from Scott, he realized what he was doing. He could slow the ball, almost imperceptibly, as it reached his hands. He was pushing against it just enough to slow the ball’s flight, making it easy to catch.
“I’m getting nervous,” Scott joked. “You’re not even using your body to catch it. All hands.”
Red just laughed.
Scott started running toward the house after his throw. “I’m gonna grab the Duke,” he said.
“I always have trouble with that one,” Red said. He didn’t bother adding that he could never grip the leather ball enough to throw it, since his brother was practically sprinting.
After watching Scott go into their back door, Red looked around at the open field. He squeezed the Nerf ball with both of his hands. As the muscles in his hands and forearms worked on the ball, he had a confidence, a strength, a feeling of power he’d never known. Looking for a target, he decided that the trees marking the limit of their football field were too close. Windows on the houses in front of him were too breakable. Glancing to his right, he saw the back of the firehouse that was nestled at the end of the street.
He could just barely make out the speed ball strike zone that was first painted on the station’s back wall long before they had ever moved into the neighborhood. The spray paint got at least one touch-up every summer. Most of the neighborhood kids had spent hours behind the firehouse on long summer days playing the variation of stick ball. Red was generally relegated to unofficial umpire on questionable strike calls because he couldn’t throw hard enough or swing quickly enough for the fast-pitch game.
Taking one last glance around, Red felt certain that he was alone. There were some cars parked in the back of the firehouse, but they were all empty as far as he could see. More trees lined the volunteers’ parking lot, but he had an angle on the spray-painted square strike zone.
He squeezed the ball one more time, focused on the red dot in the center of the square, cocked his arm, and stepped into a throw that felt like the best one of his life. Seeing the ball leave his hand, he pushed it with the wave. A split second later he hunched his shoulders and looked around again in shock after hearing the thud of the ball hitting the wall.
Red stopped at the trees between the end of the field and the beginning of the parking lot. He could see where the ball had hit. The red dot was gone, replaced by a gouge in the brick wall. Debris lay on the ground. Red took solace in the fact that the gash didn’t seem to go through the wall, though he quickly realized that fact probably wouldn’t appease his parents if they found out what he’d done.
“Heads up,” Scott yelled from behind.
Red whipped his head around to see
the Duke football hurtling toward him. At the last second he raised his hands to protect himself, knowing it was already too late to gather himself for a catch. Using the wave, he lightly pushed the ball back in Scott’s direction before it reached him.
