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  So, my thought about the teachers is just as much a fear for the safety of these girls—Trista’s pawns—as it is for Abby and me. I’ve tried so hard to stay ‘normal’. That’s why I don’t make the top grades, win top honors, because I don’t want anyone to see me too closely. When I realized what I could do, it scared the hell out of me. And making things explode or fly through the air are only a couple of the talents I possess. There is a whole list of freaky things I can do. That’s a huge responsibility. One bad thought, one slip of my control, and someone could be dead. It’s a talent I wish I didn’t possess.

  Even Abby doesn’t know any of this; no one except Aunt Charlotte knows.

  I glance behind me at the girl stationed there, practically standing on top of me. She is massive with spiky hair and so many piercings that she’s probably setting off metal detectors fifty miles away. She puts her hands on my shoulders, grounding me to the spot. This chick is definitely not dime squad material like the two girls in our seats. They may be doing this to join the in-crowd, but big mama is not, and I wonder why the dime squad has taken to hiring a hit man/girl.

  Totally unaware of what is happening behind us, Abby just keeps running her mouth.

  “I said get up!” I put my hand on Abby’s upper arm because I know this is going to be more than a simple prank. That I’m not afraid of; I can handle the vandalized locker, the ugly names. I can even handle when they steal my clothes during PE. But this… this is going to be bad.

  Chapter Three

  OKAY, I’M THINKING maybe I can defuse this thing and not appear like a total chicken, but when the blonde stands and pours her energy drink right over Abby’s head, I know how wrong I am. I tighten my grip on Abby’s arm at the same time she lunges for the girl, and total chaos ensues.

  The blonde and her pal jump up and run around the table toward the safety of the dime squad. I yank Abby to my chest to keep her from following them while Goliath girl spins me and a damp, squirming Abby around to stare into her pin-cushion face. She leans right down into my face, less than an inch from actually touching her lip hoop to my forehead.

  I feel her rancid breath on my face, and judging by the smell, she must have had the beans.

  “Trista wants to make sure Two-Ton Thompson didn’t talk you into prom committee.”

  “What? How do you…” Wow, news did travel fast around here. “No, you can tell your ‘boss’ that I’m not joining the committee.” I can’t believe I am saying this to monster girl without cowering under the table.

  I also can’t believe the nerve of Trista! What did she promise this behemoth to play her enforcer? I thought the dime squad was harmless, annoying, but harmless. Now, they seem a bigger threat. Could she have paid this girl to threaten me? Probably, since it’s unlikely that Trista would be able to do anything for her. In this moment, I realize how far Trista and her crew will go to get what they want and just how far-reaching her control truly is. If she would stoop to physical violence, what else would she be willing to do?

  “Good because I’d hate to waste any more of my lunch on messin’ up your face.” Then she pushes me, and since I still have a grip on Abby, we both fall hard on our butts right there in front of the entire school.

  The cafeteria erupts into laughter. As I look around, I see a few non-laughing faces, mostly on those kids who probably suffer Trista’s humor just like me and surprisingly on a few of the faces at the jock table. I can feel my anger building like lava being forced to the surface while I suffer the humiliation.

  Got to calm down. I take a deep breath and close my eyes. Calm down. Deep breath. I try to think of peaceful images: a beach, a mountain stream, Trista’s head on a spear—okay, that’s not helpful, and this is not working. Then I hear Abby whimper and open my eyes to see her cradling her left wrist close to her chest.

  “You okay?” I ask, trying not to see her chin tremble or the tears filling her eyes.

  “My wrist.” She squeezes the words out between lips she’s trying to keep tightly closed so that she won’t break down. “I must have fallen on it. I think it might be broken.” Her eyes convey clearly what she’s about to do.

  “Don’t you cry in front of them,” I whisper.

  “Ah is wittle Abby Wabby gonna cry?” Sasquatch girl rubs her fists over her eyes to mimic a baby. She bends down closer to Abby.

  When Abby drops her head and a single tear splashes on her injured wrist, the volcano erupts. I feel a tingle in my feet and hands. The tingle moves quickly up my legs and arms. When it reaches my chest, the tingle becomes a burst. I squeeze my eyes closed again, this time as tightly as possible, trying to push the feeling back down because I know what’s going to happen. I’m struggling, and I’m failing.

  Behind my eyelids I actually see a tiny light like a dot at the end of a long tunnel. It grows, becoming larger and larger, and I envision a freight train speeding down a track. The light grows until it bursts like an exploding star.

  I open my eyes, and everything looks different, like tunnel vision only around the edges there is bright, white light, and locking on my target, I realize I have lost control.

  “Hey, look,” our tormentor teases, rising and looking around at everyone. “She’s so fat she probably broke her wrist by sitting on it! Little piggy, I think I might just smack you around for the hell of it!”

  When she bends back down and grabs Abby’s shoulder, I clinch her forearm. I feel my strength. I look down at my arm. My whole body is covered in goose bumps, and the tiny hairs on the back of my neck are standing up. If I were to look in a mirror right now, I know my eyes would be losing their usual gray color, becoming completely colorless around the black pupils, and glowing like a nightlight. This girl is a good seven or eight inches taller than me and has biceps a linebacker would envy, but at this moment, none of that matters.

  Her look of amusement flashes to one of anger, then confusion. I release Abby and slowly stand, maintaining my hold on the girl. Gripping her arm hard, I push her back several steps. Just like a scene from one of those cheesy ‘80s high school movies, silence descends in a wave across the cafeteria.

  But this girl doesn’t realize yet that she should give up this fight she’s about to lose. “You little bitch! I’m gonna—hey! What are you doin’ to my arm?”

  She wraps her free hand over my own since I’m still clutching her arm like a vise. Her whole body starts to shake, and she falls to her knees gripping my hand and trying to pry my fingers off. I can feel her jagged nails raking my hand and forearm, but I know nothing can break the contact until I choose to break it. My mind is screaming to let go while there is still time to salvage this situation, to keep anyone from seeing my eyes, to keep this girl from being seriously hurt, and to keep from appearing as anything other than a typical student in this school. But my body, my hand, refuse to listen.

  “Stop! What are you doin’ to me?” On her face is a look of both panic and pain. I maintain eye contact with her; I can’t do otherwise. For these few seconds, we are totally connected. I can actually hear her thoughts and see into her mind, and she’s afraid, very afraid. This girl has never been truly afraid until now. She is petrified, more of her failure to intimidate me than of the actual pain she is feeling. I can feel her fear in every cell of my body, and though it scares me to admit it, I think I like knowing she is scared of me. This is a power I haven’t let myself experience in so long, and it feels exhilarating. There will be repercussions, but right now, I don’t care!

  I am standing between her and the majority of the gawking student body. I lean down into her face, just as she had done to me earlier, and force her arm to bend so that it is between my body and hers.

  “Your eyes… what the hell are you?” Her arm is beginning to smoke slightly beneath my fingers, and I can smell burning hair. I jerk her right into my chest, as though she weighs nothing, crushing her arm and the smoking skin between us. I put my mouth close to her ear.

  “Haven’t you heard? I don’t play
well with others,” I whisper, and my voice sounds strange, stretched tight like a rubber band. Finally, my brain takes control again, and I release her, pushing her away from me. She lands on her back and quickly sits up. She clasps her wrist to her chest, now in the same position as Abby.

  The girl lets go of her wrist to assess her injury, and I see dark red marks shaped like my fingers, maybe even a blister or two around the edges. I look at my own hand where, in the center, a jagged line glows blue, snaking down my palm like lightning. I squeeze my hand and eyes closed, and when I look again, the mark is gone, my palm my own again. Then I turn to face the aftermath.

  Chapter Four

  THE MAN ACROSS FROMME holds the fate of the remainder of my junior year in his hands. Mr. Sailers sighs heavily and looks at me as he takes off his glasses and tosses them atop the open file with my name emblazoned across the tab in his scrawling hand writing. He rubs his balding head and looks up at the ceiling.

  “Vivian, you promised me on”—he pauses to glance down at what I assume is my ever-growing punishment record—“December 10th, that you would not be setting foot inside this office again this school year.” He leans back in his leather chair and folds his hands across his stomach.

  “I know, sir, but really it’s not my fault.” I try for a regretful tone, widening my eyes in my best imitation of a cartoon puppy dog. I try for the trembling lip without success.

  “Not your fault! Betty Sanders left here with what appeared to be burns on her arm after you assaulted her in a cafeteria full of people!”

  “The giant man-girl’s name is Betty? Really?” I don’t realize I’ve spoken this aloud until I see the shade of red that is Mr. S’s face become even darker, and he sits up so quickly he nearly knocks over the cup of coffee sitting near the edge of his desk. I’m pretty sure his head is going to combust any second now.

  “Sorry, sir. Look I’m really sorry about”—I nearly choke on the snicker bubbling up at saying the name—“Betty’s arm, but really how could I have possibly done that? Yes, we argued, and yes, I grabbed her, but only after she pushed both Abby and me. It was self-defense all the way.”

  The part about being sorry is only partially true. I am sorry about her arm but only because people will ask questions I can’t and won’t answer. I don’t give two shits about Big Betty’s injury, but of course I can’t tell him that.

  It briefly enters my brain that I should try harder to cry. This offense might require I squeeze out a few tears to keep from getting a major punishment. So, I conjure up as many sad images as possible in a twenty-second time spam, but I just can’t do it. I’m not sad about what I did. It feels pretty damn good, truth be told.

  “I understand that,” he continues while I’m still trying to muster up some moisture, “and Betty will also be punished when she returns, but right now we’re discussing you, Vivian.” He pauses and perches his glasses close to the end of his nose, tilting his head up to read through them.

  “You have such an exemplary academic record. I just don’t understand. Help me understand, Vivian.” He sighs and taps on the page in front of him.

  The way he keeps saying my name reminds me of how TV attorneys badger a witness, and I want so badly to say ‘I object’ or something legal-sounding like that. Instead I offer the only explanation possible. “Mr. Sailers, I am not a troublemaker. Trouble in the form of the dime sq—uh, I mean Trista Parmer and her friends, always finds me.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard all of this before—how these girls harass and bully you and how you and Abby Johnson are the victims, and I’ve told you to bring me proof.” He pauses, sighs again and continues, “But you have yet to do so.”

  “They’re sneaky, Mr. S! It’s always he said/she said, no physical evidence to tie them to the harassment.” Now who sounds like a lawyer?

  “Well, the ‘evidence’ this time is very clear; while you maintain that Trista somehow bribed Betty to fight you, Betty says otherwise.”

  Betty the Behemoth had told Sailers I’d provoked her when she defended her ‘friends’ who were inadvertently sitting in our usual seats. Her friends? Right! All of that tattooed giant’s friends are either on parole or in jail. I’m 100% sure she would rather kill and devour those girls sitting in our seats than befriend them.

  “Ok.” It’s my turn to sigh. “I give up, Mr. S. What’s it going to be this time? Detention? Sweeping the halls again? Or my personal favorite, a warning to ‘never do this again or else’?” I’m really hoping for the last one, but I’m thinking that’s probably not happening this time. I give him my sweet-girl smile and blink my eyes all innocent (curses, still no tears!), cross my hands in my lap, and pray those famous ‘I will save this kid’ teacher feelings kick in and make Mr. Sailers have mercy. Yeah, those same feelings I was bitchin’ about earlier—those are the ones I need right now.

  Mr. S gets up from his desk and walks toward the big window facing the parking lot. Uh oh, he’s never done that before. He turns his back to me and stares out the window for a minute or so, just long enough to have me sweating and nervous. I stare at the back of his yellow dress shirt while he rubs his chin. My stomach suddenly doesn’t feel so hot. He turns toward me.

  “Vivian, normally I would suspend you three days for fighting, but in light of your outstanding grades, I have a better idea. We have some students in need of tutoring. All of these boys are athletes in jeopardy of losing eligibility. I thought I’d found tutors for all of them, but Coach Wilson informed me of a last-minute addition just this morning. You may choose. A three day suspension with zeroes in all your classwork for those three days or tutoring sessions until this boy’s English average is a ‘B’ or better, however long that may take.”

  I inhale sharply and stare out the same window Mr. S had earlier. The bell is ringing, and I watch the kids trickle out to their cars. “So, let me make sure I understand. If I choose option B, I am this kid’s tutor indefinitely?”

  “No, just until his average is a ‘B’.”

  “But that could take the rest of the year if he’s a dumb ass! Sorry, sir, I mean if he’s not motivated and giving his best effort.”

  He clears his throat and straightens his shoulders, and I’m really surprised when he doesn’t yell at me for my bad language. He rubs his chin again in an effort to hide his smile. Guess it’s kinda minor in comparison to almost igniting a girl, huh?

  “Those are your choices, Miss Cartwright. Decide now.”

  Let’s see… hmm… three days of zeroes would mean lower grades which could mean no chance at a scholarship next year and therefore no chance to escape this town. Or God knows how many after-school sessions with some stupid jock who barely knows the alphabet song and who will probably (correction, most definitely) make fun of me in front of his big shot jock friends and the dime squad since a lot of those guys date Trista’s gang.

  What’s that old saying about a rock and a hard place? I think I finally understand it.

  Chapter Five

  BEFORE I CAN SHUT the office door behind me, Abby’s bouncing in front of my face. I was hoping she’d already left campus without me but no such luck. Her wrist is wrapped in an Ace bandage, but other than that, she looks fine, and I stare at her still-damp baby doll shirt and sparkly jeans, wondering how she can still manage to look cute after the drama at lunch. In my black t-shirt and torn jeans, I look the part of a delinquent. She raises her brows until they almost disappear beneath her hair. Her eyes are wide behind her glasses.

  “Well?” she whispers fiercely, looking in both directions down the already deserted hall. She grabs my hand and tugs me close even though it is apparent that we are the only losers left in the hallway twenty minutes after the final bell of the day. I don’t know if she’s asking about my punishment or Big Betty’s injury; either is more than I want to discuss right now. But I’m really hoping it’s the first one.

  “Looks like your arm’s not broken after all.” I make an attempt at light-hearted good humor. “You feelin
g okay?” I’m deliberately ignoring her question, hoping to stall since I really haven’t had a chance to think of a believable lie. I know Abby saw that girl’s extra crispy wrist, and I have no idea what to tell her.

  The truth is not an option. She’ll think I’m completely insane, and she’s the only friend I have. I can’t lose Abby. I just can’t get through every day without her. I’ll do what I have to do to keep Abby in the dark even if that means resorting to something I haven’t done in a long time and promised myself I would never do again.

  “You know very well what I’m talking about! V, what happened? How did you do that to Betty Sanders?” Great, I have to explain the harder of the two. So much for hoping to get by easy.

  “Am I like the only person in school who didn’t know that girl’s name?” I ask, still avoiding.

  “Viv! Stop trying to get me off topic! You fried Betty’s arm. It was like… red and kinda bubbly.” She shutters and screws up her face. “Gross!”

  “I didn’t do anything to her arm except maybe bruise it, and I seriously doubt that. Did you see the size of her arm? I’d have to be on the weight lifting team to hurt her.” I shrug, trying for nonchalance. I walk away, turning my back to her. But she follows me as I walk to my locker and drag out the books I’ll need for homework.

  “Hello, Viv! I was there. Up close and personal, remember? No one else was close enough to see it or smell it”—she wrinkles her nose, which pushes her glasses up at the same time—“but I was there. Her arm was like smoking, and when you let her go, it wasn’t normal.” She shakes her head and puts her hand on top on my books.

  I hate that word. I’ve fought to be that very thing my entire life. I know it will never happen, but I have to keep trying. I’m going to have to do some serious damage control. I just hope I only have to do it once, well, maybe twice depending on how much info Betty shares when she returns. I’m kind of counting on Betty’s tough girl attitude to keep her from sharing too many details. Then again, that same attitude may keep her on my case for the rest of the year.