Too close, and far too familiar.
“Are you listening to me?” his father yelled.
Martin turned his attention back to his screaming parent. “Sure. It’s my hobby. I love hearing you shout. I’m happy any time I can see your tonsils. Just like you’re happy when your boss yells at you for messing up.”
I gotta get out of here,
he thought as the angry lecture resumed.
WILLIS DOBBS —“ FLINCH ” to his friends—paused in the middle of a sentence as the name flickered into his mind.
Trash.
Eddie’s nickname at Edgeview. Flinch lowered the microphone and stared at the ancient tape recorder in front of him, watching the cassette reels turning.
“How can I be funny now?” he said out loud. He swallowed against the lump that swelled in his throat.
It still hurts.
But the best comedy sprang from tragedy. He knew that. He took a deep breath, and continued practicing.
DENNIS “CHEATER” WOO had been staring in the mirror, trying to work on his bluffing face, when the name hit him hard.
Trash.
Cheater was used to thoughts invading his head—both his own and those of other people. Just the simple act of looking at a mirror filled his mind with everything from the basic principles of optics to trivia about
Through the Looking Glass.
But he wasn’t used to thoughts arriving with the force of spoken words. He dropped the cards and blinked hard as he remembered his lost friend.
Trash.
It had all been so horrible. So senseless. So … stupid.
This was a dangerous world, full of violence and anger. He’d been inside far too many minds, and heard far too many angry thoughts, to believe otherwise.
Maybe I shouldn’t go to the game.
He didn’t know these kids. But he had to go. He had to prove he was the best.
PHILIP “TORCHIE” GRIEG was usually happy. Today, a rare frown crossed his lips. He paused in mid squeeze, letting the note from the accordion die in the air as he thought about his old friend.
Trash.
Across the road, a stray dog stared at him, as if startled by the sudden silence.
“It’s okay, pooch,” he told it. He sighed, checked the drygrass around him to make sure he hadn’t accidentally set it on fire, then played a sad song.
THE VOICE WAS nearly lost among all the others. Dominic “Lucky” Calabrizi only noticed it because it was different. More urgent. More connected, somehow, to his life. Not hollow and masked by the medicated numbness that swaddled him like ten miles of bandages. Another voice was the last thing he needed. Even worse, this voice carried sad memories.
Trash.
He clamped his hands over his ears. It didn’t help.
medicine dropper
THERE WAS NO way I was going to swallow any more medicine. If my power was working, I could fling the chair at the guy and make a run for it, but I didn’t know how many people were here, and I definitely didn’t want to get shot in the back as I was racing down the hall.
I needed to get rid of him without raising any alarms. I had an idea, but my timing needed to be perfect. That wouldn’t be easy, since I still felt like someone had whacked my head a couple times with a two-by-four.
As the guy stepped toward me, I pushed his toe down just the slightest bit so it caught the floor. It worked. When he stumbled forward, I tugged at the tray. Again, just the slightest bit. It all had to seem like an accident. When he tried to catch his balance and grab the medicine, I slid the cup toward his fingers. He swore as the cup bounced from his grip. The liquid spilled over the tray. A drop splashed on my lip. I licked it without thinking, then braced myself for the bitterness.
That was weird … it tasted like water.
Cursing, the man wiped his hand on his pants andstomped toward the door. He pushed his palm against the plate and stepped out. There was no click from the bolt when the door closed behind him. I hoped he was annoyed enough that he didn’t notice.
I kept my concentration on the bolt as I walked to the door. It was easier to hold it back
Christopher Leppek, Emanuel Isler