I turn and face the swings.
I need to launch myself.
I brush wood chips off my knees and storm across the playground, my jaw set. I sit on a swing and pump my legs, pulling hard on the chains, climbing higher. In a minute, I’m soaring so high that I hang in midair for a split second before the chains go slack and the swing starts to drop again.
I’m breathing fast now, my chest squeezing tight. I’ve never jumped from this high. The air swishes in my face, then against my back. The Ring presses into my chest, then lifts away. I take a deep breath, pull the swing to the tippy top—
“Cookie cupcake blastoff!”
I arc through the air like I weigh nothing at all, soaring, the wind whistling by.
I’m flying!
THUD!
Pain shoots up my knees as I smack against the ground and tumble forward, slamming my elbow and landing on my shoulder, hard.
“Meena!”
I can’t breathe… I clutch my elbow and roll onto my back.
“Oh my gosh, are you okay?”
Sofía is above me. I try pushing off the ground, but pain zings up my whole arm. “I’m fine,” I say, gasping for air.
“What happened?”
“I fell off the swing.”
She drops her backpack and kneels down beside me. “Can you get up?”
I roll onto my side and moan, pulling my knees to my chest.
Sofía springs to her feet. “I’m getting help.”
“No!” I force myself to sit up. My whole body feels like it’s exploding. “I’m fine,” I say through gritted teeth. I squeeze my eyes shut, my shoulder throbbing.
Sofía kneels again. “You must have spaced out,” she says.
“What?” My eyes flick back open.
“That must be why you let go.”
I can’t believe my ears. “That’s what you think?”
“Well, do you remember anything?”
“Of course I remember,” I snap. “I just lost my grip. I don’t have seizures anymore.”
Sofía sits back on her knees. “What do you mean, you don’t have them?”
I pull the Ring out of my shirt. “This keeps me safe. That’s why I found it!”
She stares at me.
“What?” I say, getting annoyed.
She looks at the swing, still swaying in the air, then back at me. “You didn’t fall,” she says quietly. “You jumped.”
I stand up, wincing, my knees screaming at me.
“Why would you do that?” she demands.
I try to brush the wood chips off my legs, but my hands are scraped up and stinging. “I wanted to see if I could fly,” I mutter.
Sofía throws back her head and groans.
“What? Maybe I can!”
She glares at me. “Did you?”
I tug my shirt into place. “Just because I didn’t, doesn’t mean I can’t.”
Sofía crosses her arms. “You can’t.”
“You don’t know what I can do,” I hiss. “I saved that girl from a speeding van, didn’t I?”
“You said it was barely moving.”
“I mind-controlled Rosie.”
“She does whatever you want anyway.”
I hold up the Ring again. “I wasn’t wearing this when I had seizures! You think that’s a coincidence?”
She throws up her arms. “Yes!”
“No,” I say, shaking my head, my voice getting higher. “The Ring is my talisman. It gives me powers.”
Sofía’s eyes are wild. “You don’t have any powers, Meena.”
I stagger backward. I feel like I’m alone on a crumbling island, sinking into the lake of fire, watching Sofía fly off without me.
It’s only then, with the gap widening between us, that a new idea begins to dawn.
“You’re jealous,” I breathe.
She doesn’t answer. She just sways silently before finally whispering, “Maybe.”
That’s it! My chest swells. “You’re jealous that I have superpowers and you don’t.”
She takes a step back. “I’m not jealous of that!”
“Then what?”
She rears up on me. “I get to see my cousins once a year,” she says. “I don’t have family in town. I don’t have a sister. But you… Eli and Rosie are like built-in friends, and you don’t appreciate them. Sometimes you aren’t even nice to them.”
“That’s not true,” I say. “I use my powers to help them.”
She puts her hands on her hips. “How?”
“I made Rosie pick—” I stop. “I got Eli to—” I stop again.
I wanted to save them. Both of them. I tried to save them.
Didn’t I?
Flames seem to ignite in the pit of my stomach then. They rise up my throat, spread to my fingertips, and radiate through the ends of my hair. “You don’t believe me,” I say, clenching my jaw. “But you will.”
I push past her and run for the monkey bars.
“What are you doing?” she calls.
I start climbing the ladder, imagining my whole body blazing like Firestar. “I’ll show you,” I yell over my shoulder. “When I fly off the top, you’ll believe me then!”
“Meena, no!”
I reach for the next rung, but I feel a tug on my ankle. I try to kick free, but Sofía is hanging on with her whole body. My fingers slip from the rung, one by one, until I lose my grip, and she pulls me down.
She wraps her arms around me from behind. I try to break away—to shoot acid out my pores or lasers out my eyes or to turn my body into a ball of fire, too hot for Sofía to hold—but nothing works.
Finally, I stop kicking and screaming and slump in her grip.
Sofía circles around in front of me. She grabs hold of my sleeves, leans in close, and tries to look me in the eye. “Meena,” she says.
I yank free and run.
15
I’m sore all over when I wake up Saturday morning.
My shoulder aches when I roll over. My hands sting when I sit up and clutch the edge of my bed.
I heave an achy sigh and touch my friendship bracelet, walking my fingers over it so the beads spin slowly around my wrist, one color at a time. I pinch the one and only yellow bead and roll it between my fingers.
Sofía doesn’t believe me. She still doesn’t. I couldn’t even convince my best friend. If she still is my best friend, I mean.
I turn and look at the paint card that’s taped to the wall—that bluish purple, bright as a jewel, the only proof I have left.
Easing myself up, I test out my ankle and hobble past Rosie’s empty bed. I peel the paint card off the wall and take it to my workshop. I breathe Magic Mist onto the window and draw a circle with beams shining out from it.
I make a wish. And even though it’s brand-new, I feel like it’s the wish I’ve been making all along.
I want to be better. I don’t have to be better than anyone else. Just better than I was. Better than I am. I close my eyes, clutching the paint card.
Please.
* * *
The door of the hardware store swishes open, but I don’t bother waving my arms to make it look like I’m controlling it.
Everybody knows it’s automatic.
I step inside and inhale the smell of mulch and motor oil. Rosie runs to the coin machines, plugs one with a quarter, and turns the crank. A gumball ka-chunks down the chute. She does it again, then opens the flap and catches both gumballs in her hand.
“Which color do you want?” she asks, holding them out to me.
I didn’t even mind-control her.
I take the blue one and bite through the hard shell. It’s almost the size of a golfball, but when it breaks up in my mouth, it turns into a tiny sliver of gum. If she kept them both, she’d still have barely enough to chew. Why would she give one to me?
“I’m going to ask about renting a tiller,” Mom says. “Rosie, do you want to come with me or stay with Meena?”
“Stay with M
eena.”
I sigh. “Can I use your phone to take pictures again?”
Mom hands it to me. “I’ll come find you in a few minutes.”
Rosie trails after me while I wander through the side aisles. I take a close-up of a tape measure that snaps back when you let it go. I use a color filter on a pair of magnifying eyeglasses that look like spy gear. I get a good panoramic of the industrial-size bottles of You-Must-Be-Crazy Glue, but my heart isn’t really in it. My brain is itchy, thinking about the purple card, and it isn’t long before I stick Mom’s phone in my pocket and lead Rosie to the paint department.
Standing in front of the color display, I feel a smile coming on—the first one I’ve had all day. Maybe my superpowers aren’t big and exciting, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t real. Some of Dad’s comic book heroes aren’t so great either. Green Lantern is allergic to yellow. (Pink I could understand, but yellow?) Iron Man is nothing but a smart guy with fancy equipment, as far as I can tell. There’s even a hero named Hindsight who can’t do anything but regret.
I mean, regret? What good is that?
So if my only power is mind control, you know what? That’s good enough for me.
It still makes me original. And it gets me a purple bedroom, too.
I take the paint card out of my pocket and show it to Rosie. “Are you ready?” I ask.
She starts bouncing on her toes. “Yeah.”
I thrust my fist in the air. “To the paint counter!”
When we march up, the guy in the red apron has his back to us. I nod at Rosie and give her a little push. “Excuse me,” she says.
The guy turns around, but he doesn’t see us until Rosie sticks up her hand and waves. “Well, hello there, little lady,” he says, leaning all the way over the counter.
“I’m not a lady,” she says. “I’m a kid.”
He smiles. “How can I help you?”
“I want this one,” Rosie says, pointing. “It’s for our room.”
I glance at the card. She’s pointing to the lightest color on the square—the one that’s practically white.
“You mean this one.” I put my finger on the bright bluish-purple strip at the other end of the card.
Rosie frowns at me. “Nuh-uh,” she says. “This one.” She taps the whitish square.
I let out a huffy breath. “That’s not what you picked, Rosie.”
“Yes, it is,” she says, her voice getting higher. “It’s the one you showed me.” She flips over the card and follows the words with her finger. “Summer Mist.”
My stomach goes cold. My heart starts to beat faster. “I didn’t show you Summer Mist.” I lean over and read the name. “I showed you Storm Cloud.” I flip the card and point. “This one.”
The guy in the red apron looks back and forth between us.
“That’s the one you want,” I say.
“No, it isn’t,” she whimpers.
“Rosie…” I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Concentrate… I need to concentrate. When I look at her again, I make my voice super calm. Slow. Hypnotic, even. “You don’t want Summer Mist. It’s barely even a color.”
She pulls her eyebrows together. “I like it,” she says.
I grab the card and point to the right square. “This is the color you want. It’s like royal robes and starry skies and those grape icy drinks Mom won’t let us buy at the pool. You don’t want the room to just blend in with the rest of the house. You want something that stands out—something original.” I thrust the strip back at her.
Rosie’s bottom lip starts to quiver. “Mom said I get to pick. She said it’s my turn.”
I pat her back. “You do get to pick,” I say. “I’m just helping you pick the right one.”
For a long time, she stares at the card in her hand.
Finally, Mom comes up from behind us, a package of paint rollers tucked under her arm. “All set?” she asks.
Rosie nods without looking up.
Mom turns to the man behind the counter. “We’ll take a gallon of your store brand in eggshell.”
He looks from Mom to Rosie to me, then back again. “Which color?” he asks.
The card trembles in Rosie’s hand. I hold my breath, zero in on the bright bluish-purple square. WHOOSH. This one.
Rosie hesitates. Her shoulders slump. “This one,” she says.
She holds up the card and points to Storm Cloud.
BAM! My heart soars. I almost whoop. I wish Sofía were here to see this!
Mom leans in closer. “Which one?”
Rosie hands Mom the card and taps the strip. Then she turns, scuffs her feet across the floor, and sits cross-legged under the paint chip display.
Mom turns to me, her eyes blazing. “Rosie didn’t pick this.”
“Of course she did,” I say, smirking.
“She doesn’t like bright colors.”
I snort. “Well, she’s wrong.”
“She is not, Meena! She likes what she likes. She’s her own person, not one of your projects.”
I cross my arms. “You think I made her pick something she doesn’t want?”
Mom crosses her arms right back. “That’s exactly what I think.”
And I can’t help it. I want to jump for joy. Because I do have powers! I knew it!
Mom turns to the man. “I’m sorry for the trouble. Nothing today.”
I drop my arms at my sides. “What?”
“If Rosie really wants this color,” Mom says, “she’ll still want it tomorrow.”
“Fine! Wait as long as you want,” I say, turning on my heel. “Her mind is made up.”
I know, because I made it up for her.
I stomp down the main aisle, kick the tire of a clearance snowblower, and slam the lid of a shiny new grill. When I hear someone ask, “Can I help you?” I stalk off in the other direction.
I’m not the one who needs help!
I storm past lightbulbs and hinges and faucets, past light switches and electrical tape, past clear drawers full of different-size nails and screws and bolts—
I stop.
For a long minute, I stand there frozen, staring straight ahead, not breathing, not looking to the side, wanting to undo what I just saw.
Then slowly, very slowly, I turn my head.
There, next to drawers full of wood screws and hexagonal nuts and crisscross bolts, is a small, clear bin with a black-and-white label.
Rainbow washers, it says.
My hand shakes as I reach over, pull it open, and plunge my fingers inside. The cold metal bits clink against one another. I scoop up a handful and stare down at them.
My Ring. My Rainbow Ring. The source of my powers. The thing that makes me different from everyone.
The whole drawer is full of them. Hundreds of them.
They’re forty-five cents each.
I fling them at the floor.
They bounce and ping against the concrete as I run down the main aisle, past the machines of hollow gumballs, past the swishing doors that open by themselves, away from all those identical rings making all the same ordinary plinks behind me.
16
I slam the door to my workshop, take off my Rainbow Ring, and hurl it against the wall.
It hits my superhero poster—the hollow figure surrounded by rainbow beams. I tear it down and crumple it. I’m never drawing a suit on this thing. Never! What’s the point? There’s nobody there!
I don’t need a cape, because I can’t fly. I don’t need goggles or boots, because I don’t have X-ray vision or super speed. I can’t control anyone with my mind, either. And it’s not because of my medicine.
It’s because I’m not a superhero.
I kick my helmet across the rug, tie my cape into knots, and slingshot my mask against the door. When I drop to my knees, Mom’s phone slips out of my back pocket and thumps against the floor.
I stare at it for a few seconds then grab it and flick on the screen.
It only takes a minute to find what I
’m looking for. Some of the videos have titles like “What to do in case of a seizure.” Others are posted with people’s names, like “Tyrone having a seizure.” I press the one at the top.
It’s a teenage girl, her hair in a ponytail. She’s lying on the floor, her arms and legs paddling the air, like she’s trying to run away. She looks scared, her eyes wide open, like she can’t believe what’s happening to her.
She makes a strangled sound in the back of her throat.
Is she choking?
I sit up on my knees, my heart racing. Isn’t anybody going to help her? Someone offscreen puts a hand on her shoulder, holding her on her side, but they don’t do anything else. They just sit there, watching.
Why doesn’t somebody stop her? Why are they still recording this?
The girl growls next, her head back, her mouth open. Her eyes keep staring, but her face is twitching now, her arms still pumping, like one of those motorized Halloween zombies.
Finally, her arms and legs slow down. Her eyes close. The person next to her rubs the girl’s arm, the way you’d pet a dog. She lies still then, breathing deeply, like she’s gone to sleep on the floor.
The video stops.
My breath catches in my chest, and I realize I’m crying. I let out a sob and curl up on the floor, clutching the phone tight. Even when I squeeze my eyes shut, I can’t stop picturing myself in the video, arms flailing, face frozen in fear.
“Meena?”
Mom! She’s opening the door. I sit up and tuck the phone under me.
“Do you still have my—” She stops when she sees. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” I say, smearing away tears.
She pulls the door closed and sits in front of me. “Is this about the paint?”
I swallow and shake my head.
“What, then?”
Her phone pings.
I stiffen. Mom tilts her head at me, her eyebrows drawing together. She holds out her hand.
Slowly, I reach under my leg and give her the phone.
She swipes it on. I see the faint glow of the screen reflected in her eyes before she blinks fast and looks right at me.
I tuck my chin into my chest and hug my legs. I hear the video play again. When the girl starts making that choking sound, I put my arms over my ears, pressing my forehead to my knees, making myself into a tight little ball until I think it must be over. When I peek again, Mom is biting her lip. She lowers the phone.
Never Fear, Meena's Here! Page 9
