Edgewood Series: Books 1 - 3 (17 page)

“Let’s just go, Russ,” he said, still trying to make everything okay. “I don’t mind that he took advantage of me.”

I shushed him. “Let me handle this.”

A dark-haired man with excessively long sideburns came through the curtain. He was about forty or so, with a beer gut covered by a large T-shirt with the Flash logo across the front. His name tag identified him as Kevin Adams, owner of Power House Comics. I’d seen him in here many times before, but didn’t really know him. “Sorry about that,” he said, brushing his hands together. “What can I help you gentlemen with?”

“I’d like to talk to Mr. Specter,” I said, my hand resting on Frank’s fidgety arm.

“You just missed him,” he said, a bit too cheerfully as far as I was concerned. “Finished working and headed out about ten minutes ago.”

“Do you know where he went?” I glanced down at my nephew, who seemed relieved that there wouldn’t be a showdown after all.

Kevin Adams shrugged. “If I had to guess, I’d say he went home. Is there something I can help you with?”

“No, that’s okay,” I said.

As we walked out of the store, Frank said, “Well, I guess that’s it then. I’ll just keep the money.”

“You can keep the money,” I said, “but this isn’t over. I’ll see Mr. Specter in school tomorrow and I’ll talk to him then.”

Mondays tend to be long anyway, since they start off the school week, but this one was the worst. I had science class last hour, and since I’d decided to talk to Mr. Specter afterward, the whole day felt like a countdown. At lunch I saw Mallory across the cafeteria, but I couldn’t catch her eye. I hadn’t yet filled her in on the stone issue, since I no longer trusted phones or computers. Without them, communication was limited to notes and face-to-face contact, which really sucked. Now I knew how people felt during the Dark Ages. I probably wouldn’t be able to talk to her until science class or after school.

At lunchtime I sat with Mick, Justin and his girlfriend, and a few of her friends. The number of kids at our table had grown over time (freshman year it had just been the three of us), but I didn’t feel like I really knew any of the new ones all that well. Mostly I listened, which served me well today, because I had a lot on my mind.

The day before, after I’d called my dad to pick us up from the strip mall, Frank and I had waited outside of the custard shop. He leaned against the side of the building and cracked open one of his new comic books, eager to get started. I knew the feeling of having a brand-new story and wanting to get at it right away. I also was glad not to have to talk anymore, so I didn’t take it personally.

While I lingered on the sidewalk, I happened to glance into the frozen custard shop and saw that the closest table to the window was occupied by an uptight-looking middle-aged woman sitting across from what looked like a teenager in a sweatshirt with the hood up. The woman didn’t look happy. She had a scowl on her face, and from the way she jabbed her finger toward her kid, she was pissed about something. I watched the whole thing out of the corner of my eye, feeling sorry for whoever was on the receiving end of the verbal abuse. If that were me, I’d hide under my hoodie too.

When the woman got up from the table, the teenager finally raised her head, and when I caught a glimpse of her face, I saw, with a shock, that it was Nadia. She recognized me at the same moment, and a look of understanding passed between us. The angry woman, I realized, had to be the mother who never let her out of her sight.

Nadia nodded and then slowly raised a hand and pressed it to the window, first her palm and then her outstretched fingers. From my side I could tell exactly where the flesh made contact with the glass. Like handprints made in kindergarten, the impression showed the surface of her hand in perfect clarity. I saw the bands dividing each knuckle and the swoop of a lifeline across her palm. Without even thinking, I put my hand on the other side and we connected through the glass, my hand covering her much smaller one. It was a show of solidarity, a sign we had a secret between us.

Nadia smiled, the first time I’d ever seen her do so. At the same moment, she lifted her chin and pushed her hood back slightly. It was then I noticed the scarring on one side of her face, the skin rippled like fried bacon. The damaged skin covered part of her forehead and all of her cheek to the top of her chin. The scars were deeper in color than the rest of her face, making them stand out even more. Something terrible had happened to her, and she wanted me to see. I nodded to let her know I understood, and I did. It was if she’d spoken through the glass.
This is who I am. This is why I stay hidden
. I didn’t think she showed her face to too many people. I knew I should feel honored that she’d let me into her world, and I was, of course, but it also made me want to know more. Nadia had been attacked on a city bus, Mallory had said. Whatever had happened had left its mark.

I watched as a tear slowly dripped down her good cheek. She blinked twice before wiping it away with her free hand. And then, in an instant, Nadia dropped her hand from the window and the hood went forward as well, covering everything. Her mother returned with two sundaes, and they sat silently and began to eat them. Nadia never looked in my direction again. When Dad pulled up and Frank and I got in the car, I glanced back to see her still working on her sundae, her head down, the plastic spoon moving back and forth from the cup to her mouth. What normally would be something fun—going out for a treat—felt sad and socially limited. Who wants to go on an outing with your mom when you’re in high school? Especially a mother who criticizes you in public. Nadia’s life was the worst.

When we got home from the strip mall, Carly was already there, waiting to pick up Frank. My dad had said she was at an enlightenment workshop with her new boyfriend, but she didn’t look enlightened to me. If anything, she looked a little tired and was showing her age more than usual. “Hey there, Russ, how goes it?” She ruffled Frank’s hair. “I hope the kid didn’t give you any trouble.”

“Never,” I said. “Frank is always great to hang out with.”

Frank beamed. It took so little to make him happy.

Carly said, “I’m glad he’s well behaved at his grandparent’s house. Sometimes he’s kind of mouthy to his mother.”

“I find that hard to believe,” I said.

They packed up Frank’s backpack and were out the door before I had a chance to swear him to secrecy about the exchange with Mr. Specter in the comic book store. But then I realized, if he hadn’t told anyone he’d had a stone that glowed on its own prior to this, chances were good it wouldn’t come up again. Frank had a tendency to prattle on about absolutely nothing. He’d tell me every single detail of an episode of
Scooby-Doo
, but forget to convey Carly’s instructions about medication he was supposed to be taking while he was at our house for the weekend. It was probably safe to assume the subject of the glowing stone would never come up. At least I hoped so.

I was remembering all of this while I was chewing on my cafeteria pizza the next day in school when Justin interrupted my thoughts. “What do you think, Russ?”

“About what?”

Everyone at the table laughed. “I told you he was in another place,” Justin said, smacking his forehead with the palm of his hand, and I realized that they must have been watching me while I was lost in thought.

“I have a lot on my mind lately,” I said, which was the absolute truth. They resumed talking, and I did my level best to pay attention, even adding a few comments here and there to prove I was present, but between my thoughts and the abundance of electricity in the cafeteria, it wasn’t easy. I never knew how much current flowed into the space behind the counter. Lights and coolers and microwaves and ovens. The school kitchen sucked massive amounts of electricity. If I tried, I could shut out my awareness of it in the same way I could ignore annoying background noise, but it took a little effort.

One of the lunch ladies, Mrs. Whitehouse, came by our table and stopped to tell Justin he’d dropped a napkin on the floor. Mrs. Whitehouse operated under the assumption she had a rapport with the kids, which, believe me, she did not. It was sad to watch. When you went through the line, she’d sometimes randomly bellow out, “Who’s in the house?” and then cup a hand around her ear and wait for someone to call out, “Mrs. Whitehouse is in the house!” There were always a few girls nice enough to humor her. I never joined in and neither did any of my friends, even though she reportedly gave extra servings to students who played along. After everyone finished getting their food, she usually came out from behind the counter to visit tables. She joked about how growing kids should eat their vegetables and took informal surveys about the food as if we’d be getting more options in the future, but that never happened.

Today, Mrs. Whitehouse showed interest in our group, asking if kids still read the
Twilight
books (she was outspokenly in favor of team Edward). I watched as she chatted with Mick about books made into movies, and I wished she would go away. None of the other school employees felt compelled to pal around with the kids. She thought she was a teenager, from the way she acted. Truthfully, it was hard to gauge her age. Her hair was dark with no gray, and she didn’t have any wrinkles, but there was something that made her seem dated. Maybe it was her shape. She wasn’t really fat, but she was proportioned funny with a noticeably large midsection and drumstick legs. Carly remembered her from her high school days, so she’d been working here since before I was born, which gave me something to go on. Mrs. Whitehouse had been wearing that hair net for a really long time.

When the bell rang (also powered by electricity), Mrs. Whitehouse shuffled off and Lindsey, one of the girls from my table, made a point to come up to me and say, “Whatever you’re going through, Russ, I understand. If you need someone to listen, I’m here for you.” She was a cute girl and seemed nice enough. Mick, always putting his own womanizing spin on things, referred to her as “doable.” Lindsey patted my arm in a reassuring way and leaned forward so that I could see down the front of her scoop-necked shirt. Normally that would have totally made me lose my mind with lust, and
that
would have led to complete social-awkwardness, but I could see Mallory across the cafeteria and Lindsey held (almost) no appeal for me. “Thanks,” I said. “Good to know.”

Two hours later I slid into my spot in science class, so jazzed up I felt like I might jump out of my skin. Sometime during this hour, I needed to tell Mallory about the stone—how I had it and lost it without even realizing I had it in the first place. And when the hour was over, I would have to confront Mr. Specter about the stone and tell him I needed it back. I wasn’t good at standing up to adults. I’d seen other kids argue with teachers, usually about grades, and also usually without success. I’d never felt that strongly about a grade, probably because I did pretty well. Before today, I couldn’t imagine challenging a teacher about anything. Now I had no choice.

Mallory walked in with another girl just as the bell rang, leaving me unable to talk to her before class. I heard her laugh and it annoyed me a little bit. How could she laugh while I was in crisis mode?

“We need to talk,” I whispered as she took her seat in front of me.

She looked startled, but nodded. “After school.”

For fifty minutes, I was so preoccupied with what was to come, I barely heard a word Mr. Specter said. I was glad he didn’t call on me during the class discussion. Maybe he sensed I had a storm cloud hovering overhead, ready to burst. Mallory, too, was quieter than usual.

I kept thinking about the powers Mallory, Jameson, and Nadia had, and my own discovery too that I could heal Mallory’s cut. If I could do that and take a bullet out of the back of my neck too, what else could I do? I imagined walking through a hospital and putting my hands on patients in an effort to heal them. Would it work? And if it did, and the word got out, what then? Would people line up in front of my house begging for my help? I imagined a crowd pulling at me, every one of them with a heartbreaking story, all of them wanting my full attention and my ability to heal. How could I not do it? But if
I
could do it, the news would spread and more and more and more people would come. And soon there would be thousands and the numbers would grow. It was a scary thought.

After playing out this scenario in my head, I knew I didn’t want it. Not because I didn’t want to help, but because I had the sense my ability wasn’t supposed to be used randomly. None of our powers were intended to be used randomly. There was, I sensed, a purpose. I just didn’t know what that purpose could be.

When the bell rang and everyone else gathered up their things, I went up to the front of the room. Mr. Specter had opened his briefcase on his desk and he was riffling through the contents. I stood and waited.

“Yes, Mr. Becker?” He hadn’t looked up at all, yet somehow he knew I was there.

“The stone you bought from my nephew at the comic book store yesterday?”

“Yes?” Now he looked up and glanced at me over his glasses.

“It has some significance for me. I’d like to buy it back from you.”

“Okay.” He shuffled a stack of paper and attached a top sheet with a paperclip.

“That’s okay?”

“Fine with me,” he said.

That wasn’t what I was expecting to hear. “You don’t mind?”

“Of course not. Why would I mind?” He sounded almost bored. “It’s a stone. If it has some significance for you, certainly you should have it.”

I exhaled in relief. Out in the hallway, kids let out pent-up energy—lockers slammed, voices yelled back and forth, music blasted. “I have the twenty dollars with me,” I said, pulling the bill out of my pocket and looking at him expectantly.

“Surely you don’t think I brought a stone with me to school?”

I stared blankly. Stupidly, for some reason, I
had
thought he’d have it with him. “Oh, I guess not. Well, if you bring it tomorrow…”