Unusual Events: A Short Story Collection

by Max Florschutz

  He nodded. Definitely. “Understand” was almost an understatement.

  “Anyway, a lot of that rolls over to Unusuals, sometimes,” Brother Vilaro said. “Some people can’t look past the one label to see what they’re actually doing in trying to apply it. And I’m not talking about churches here, either, just people in general. A lot of people do it, even those that claim they aren’t.” His large fingers tugged his phone from his pocket. “Crud. I need to go help with the kids. You good?”

  “Yeah,” Mark said, nodding. “I think so.” It’s what you do that matters. I almost feel bad for having to ask for help to point that out. It was an obvious answer, but with everything else going on … Well, he wasn’t too surprised that he’d felt the need to ask.

  “One question though,” he said as Brother Vilaro moved for the open door. “You came up with that pretty quickly.”

  “I can’t imagine why,” Brother Vilaro said with a grin. “My sister is an Unusual. Calls herself a wizard, but she’s just good at making a lot of pretty lights.”

  “Whoa, really?” Mark asked, his eyes wide. “A wizard?”

  Vilaro laughed. “Sure, you can call her that. She’s registered and everything.”

  “What does she do with it?”

  Vilaro laughed again as he took a step out into the hall. “She works at a day-care center and does light shows on the side for people. Nothing big. When it comes down to it, she’s not much different from anyone else.” He stopped, turning and giving Mark one last look.

  “And Mark?” he asked. “That’s what matters. Unusual or not. Good luck with your friend.”

  “Thanks.” Mark watched as Brother Vilaro walked away. Well, I guess that does answer one question. And now I kind of feel stupid for asking. He turned and headed for one of the occupied rooms.

  Now there was just one big question to ask. One that could only be answered with a single strip of paper.

  And as soon as he was home, he was going to ask it.

  * * *

  The strip of paper was still sitting on his chair where he’d left it two nights before, undisturbed by the events of the weekend. Mark picked it up between his thumb and forefinger, the texture feeling almost rough against his fingertips.

  This is it, he thought, taking a deep breath. Right now. We find out. Are you just sick? Or are you an Unusual? The paper seemed to be taunting him, too calm and sedate for the pounding he felt in his chest.

  He had to find out. Otherwise he was only making things worse. He needed to know.

  Reach down. He narrowed his eyes, fixing them on the slip of paper. Find that pressure deep inside of you. It was still there, was still a part of him. A feeling that was warm, like he’d swallowed a large mug full of hot chocolate, only this time it had somehow escaped his gut to end up elsewhere.

  Find that pressure, he thought, his eyes now barely open. Now give it a way out. A way to escape.

  The paper. Send it to the paper.

  He wasn’t sure how he was supposed to do that. The sites that he’d looked at had said the feeling was a little different for everybody. But they’d also said that it was instinctive, something that he would know was working.

  The pressure moved, jerking like something warm and hot had kicked at his insides. He could feel his breath coming in short, loud gasps, echoing around the room in time with his heart.

  Something was happening, though he wasn’t certain what. He could feel the pressure shifting, moving inside him like an alien thing, twisting and pushing out against the rest of his body as it fought for an outlet.

  The paper, he thought, his eyes narrowing so tightly the world seemed to be a thin, white line. The paper!

  And then it was gone, the pressure vanishing as if it had never existed in the first place, his heart hammering in an empty void. His arms started to shake, sweat beading across his brow as he stared at the trembling slip of paper.

  Nothing. The paper sat there. Impassive. Unmarked.

  And very much not on fire.

  He dropped the paper from his hands, watching as it fluttered down through the air, and then fell backwards onto the bed. It hadn’t worked.

  I’m not an Unusual. I’m just stressed. I’m just stressed! A smile began to work its way across his face. That’s all it is! Just stress!

  Stress he could deal with, survive with. Stress was just something external and internal, but something familiar, something he could find the root cause of. Not something completely … he wasn’t even sure how to think of it. Alien? Strange?

  Whatever, he thought as he stared up at the ceiling. It’s not my problem anymore. I’m not an Unusual. I’m just a regular kid. A regular kid who goes to high school, comes home, and tries to make … To make … His nose twitched as an acrid scent flooded his nostrils. Is that … smoke?

  He jerked upright so quickly his head began to spin, but he didn’t care. His eyes were fixed on the chair in front of his desk, locking onto the small slip of paper sitting atop the plastic seat.

  Or more accurately, the small pile of ash that was all that was left of it, surrounded by a patch of slightly scorched plastic.

  Oh … Mark thought as he watched a faint tendril of smoke wind its way towards the ceiling. The acrid scent he’d smelled was fading, but the meaning behind it had was clear. The sites had made that much very specific. Oh no.

  Magic.

  He was an Unusual.

  He stared at the small pile of ash for a moment longer, waiting to see if it would burst into flame once more, ruin his life even further by perhaps setting something else on fire, maybe the desk. When nothing happened, he sank back down onto the top of his bed.

  This is … this is insane. He closed his eyes, letting the rest of his room drift away until there was nothing but the bed underneath him. How can I be an Unusual? Why? He could feel his heart pounding away inside his chest, the sound mixing in his ears with the shaky, awkward rasp of his breath.

  There was only one thing to do now. He pushed himself up, panning his eyes across the room and fixing on something lying in the carpet near his closet. A small, white-and-black sphere wrapped in five- and six-sided shapes. One of a few he owned.

  An old soccer ball.

  He’d waited long enough. It was time to do some serious thinking.

  * * *

  Bam!

  Mark caught the soccer ball on the edge of his foot as it flew back at him, rolling his leg so the ball traveled up his knee rather than out across the field. It hung there for a moment, slowly spinning in the air before dropping back down in a soft, easy to manage motion. He swept his other leg up, switching feet as he kicked the ball once more.

  Bam! Once again the soccer ball slammed into the concrete wall like it had been fired from a cannon, bouncing back at him near head level. He butted it with his forehead, sending the ball bouncing back across the field. It wasn’t a real game, but it would have to do.

  I miss playing with the guys, he thought as he kicked the ball again, this time kneeing it into the air when it came back and juggling it for a few moments. Things had been simpler then. Get up, go to school. No need to worry about college. Soccer practice after school. Kick the ball around, play goalie, center … whatever the coach had told him to play.

  Bam! The ball bounced off of the concrete once more, the arc this time too wide for him to catch it without moving. He jogged across after it, watching as it rolled into a bunch of shrubs on the other side of the small field.

  The space wasn’t much, just a half-completed foundation and driveway that someone had started but never finished, but it was a place he could come and kick the ball around whenever things got really rough and he had some free time. And since it was Sunday afternoon and his homework was done, his parents had no qualms with him spending some time kicking the ball around. Especially since they knew it was how he unwound.

  Still, he thought as he picked his ball out of the brush and began dribbling it back across the field. It’s not even close
to playing with the guys. He neared the foundation wall and kicked again, sending the ball in a low, tight arc towards the concrete.

  Bam!

  But it’s what I’ve got.

  Bam!

  And it’ll have to do.

  He moved with the ball, letting his brain shut down as he focused on nothing but sending the ball back and forth between himself and the foundation, kick after kick directing the ball at the smallest patch of concrete he could find. After a while—he wasn’t sure how long—he mixed it up, switching off the kicks from one leg to the other, hopping with each kick and mixing things up. Then he started adding spin to the ball, trying to get it to bounce off of the concrete at strange angles, or to curve through the air.

  It wasn’t until he misjudged a kick and sent the ball spinning over the top of the foundation that he realized how hard he was panting. Months of not playing soccer, he thought as he wiped his hand across his forehead. Despite the chill, he’d still developed a thick sheen of sweat; his clothes were practically wet with it. You’ve gotten out of shape.

  He let out a sigh as he walked around the edge of the foundation. Why can’t everything just go back to the way it was?

  He knew the answer. Life wasn’t like that, no matter how unfair it seemed. He couldn’t go back to Arizona. He couldn’t go hang out with his friends again. He couldn’t go back to a school where he wasn’t public enemy number one on everyone’s list.

  And he definitely couldn’t go back to being normal.

  He kicked the ball up into his hands, giving it a quick spin in his palms. It just wasn’t fair.

  Then again, he knew what either of his parents would say if he mentioned that. “Life often isn’t.” A favorite phrase of theirs.

  It didn’t make him feel any better at the moment, though.

  What are they going to think when I tell them anyway? He gave the soccer ball another idle spin as he walked back toward the far side of the foundation. And how am I going to do it, anyway? ‘Hey, Mom and Dad? I can set fire to things with my mind, and I’m totally one of those weird people you hear about on the news sometimes. Want to call the cops on me?’

  The last bit was an exaggeration, and he knew it, but at the same time, he couldn’t ever recall his parents talking about any Unusuals they knew. What if they weren’t fans?

  No, he thought with a shake of his head. That’s ridiculous.

  Right?

  He tossed the ball over his shoulder and kicked it with his heel, sending it flying into the concrete once more while he turned. Of course, he thought as the ball came skipping back at him along the ground. They’re Mom and Dad. They’re going to be okay with it. And if they aren’t … well … They’ll just have to be, right?

  What if they want me to register with the NSAU, though? The soccer ball arced through the air, picking up more and more speed as he kicked it harder and harder, stepping back with each thrust of his foot. Then the whole school would find out. They hate me already. Being able to set things on fire …

  He kicked the ball harder. The pressure beneath his stomach was back, the warm feeling faint but rising. It’s just not fair! He kicked the ball again, the sound of it slamming off the concrete ringing across the small field. I didn’t want any of this! Another kick. Why can’t I just go back to the way things—!

  “Mark?”

  The ball skipped off of his foot, bouncing across the field until it hit a tree on the far side.

  “Dad?”

  “You all right?” His dad was walking across the clearing, eyeing the ball with tired-looking eyes as it bounced away. “You looked a little … intense.”

  “Oh.” He probably had. “Just practicing, Dad.”

  “On a Sunday?”

  He had him there. “And thinking.”

  “You’ve been doing a lot of that lately,” his dad said with a smile as he came to a stop. “Getting anywhere with it?”

  “I don’t know,” Mark said, shaking his head. “Maybe? Why’d you come out here?”

  “Because your mom got worried after the second hour you were gone,” his dad said, jerking his head in the direction he had come from. “So she wanted me to check on you, make sure you were still okay.”

  “Oh. Okay.” Has it really been that long? It didn’t feel like it. “Sorry. I lost track of time.”

  “All the thinking, right?” his dad asked as he walked across the field and dug into one of the bushes. A moment later he emerged with the soccer ball held in his hands. “And you’re not getting anywhere with it; you’ve been out here how long?”

  “I get it, Dad,” he said. His father tossed the ball to him. “It’s not working.”

  “Yep.” His dad nodded. “So … want to talk about it?”

  Mark paused. “You know … I don’t know.”

  “Well, you’ve been pretty quiet since we talked on Saturday …”

  “I know.”

  “And if you’re not getting anywhere on your own … Maybe your mom and I can help.”

  “I know, Dad,” he said, repeating his words.

  “You don’t sound like it, though.” His father shook his head. “Maybe that’s part of the problem?”

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “Well,” his dad said walking over to the foundation and sitting down on one of the lower parts. “You’ve been thinking about this for the past few days, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you haven’t told either of us, despite the fact that we’re your parents, and we love you.”

  “It sounds bad when you put it that way.”

  His dad smiled. “Hey, I was your age once, too. I remember being nervous about stuff. It happens. But …” The smile faded a bit. “Something that you wouldn’t talk to your mother or your old man about it—”

  “Dad, nobody talks like that anymore.”

  “—well, then,” his dad said, ignoring his comment. “That’s got to be kind of serious.”

  “Dad, it’s … It’s just complicated …”

  “I wasn’t done yet,” his dad said. “I know school has been rough since you moved here …”

  “Dad … that’s not it.”

  “And you’ve missed your friends.”

  “Dad …” He could feel the pressure starting again, swelling and rising inside of him. “It’s not just—”

  “And they don’t have a soccer team here,” his dad said. “And no one wants to start one either.”

  “Dad … !” The pressure was rising. He could feel it pushing against his body now, fighting for an outlet.

  No, no no no no no! Not here! Not now! What if I accidently set him on fire!? Or the field!?

  “And then there’s the fact that everyone in the school hates you just because you’re Christian—talk about a modern ‘tolerant’ world, huh?”

  It was boiling up inside him, raging like something that wanted out. No! Don’t let him find out!

  “And then to top it all off,” his dad said, apparently oblivious to what was going on. “You come down with a stress disorder—”

  Come on! Mark thought, pressing the soccer ball in his hands. Don’t let it out! He can’t know!

  “—and then to just put a cherry on that, you find out that you’re an Unusual.”

  Wait. What?

  “Careful, Mark,” his dad said. “You keep your mouth open like that, you’re bound to eat something you don’t want to. There are some odd birds around here.”

  “You …” The pressure was gone, completely lost. “You knew!?”

  “Well, not until right this second,” his dad said, shrugging. “But yeah. Your mom and I both know.”

  “But … I …” He shook his head. “How!? And you couldn’t say anything earlier?”

  “Well, don’t give us too much credit,” his father said with a shrug. “We didn’t guess about it until last night when we Googled your symptoms after the talk you and I had. And even then we weren’t certain—”

  “Oh.”
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  “—until we snuck into your room after you left and we found the ashes on your chair.”

  “Oh …”

  “Hey, relax,” his dad said. “If we hadn’t suspected, your mom probably would have thought you were trying to smoke something or something like that.”

  A new feeling of panic was setting in, a mixed sense of relief and terror that was making his legs shake like trees in a stiff wind. They knew. They already knew. He let out a long, shaky breath he was sure his dad couldn’t miss.

  They knew. And they hadn’t said anything.

  Part of him wanted to be mad. To shout out and ask why they hadn’t said anything, given him any clues whatsoever. But before he could even open his mouth, he knew why.

  They hadn’t known. Just like him. And if his dad was here …

  “So you saw what I did to that piece of paper, huh?” he asked. There was a slight quiver in his voice, but if his dad was alarmed by it, he didn’t show it.

  “We did,” came the reply instead, his father giving him a small smile. “Are your mom and I correct in guessing that was you finding out?”

  He nodded, his throat tight and hot. He settled for crossing the short space between them and dropping down next to his father on the wall of the foundation. The concrete pressed up against his damp clothes, cool and soothing for the moment.

  “I tried the test after church,” Mark said, staring down at his ball. “At first I thought it hadn’t worked, but then …”

  “How big a slip?” his dad asked.

  Mark looked up at him in surprise. “Does it matter?” he asked, his voice feeling like it was cracking.

  His father shrugged, leaning back. “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe? I was just curious.” He shook his head as he leaned forward again, looking Mark right in the eyes. “And then you came over here to think about it.”

  “Yeah,” Mark said, giving the soccer ball an idle flick and watching the shapes on the surface spin by as the ball rubbed against his palms. “Some good it did.”

  “Well … What’d you think about?”

  “Mostly?” He tore his eyes away from the ball for just a moment, shooting his father a quick glance before letting the gentle spins of the soccer ball pull him back. “Mostly about how much I wish everything would go back to the way it was.”