Zapped (6 page)

I'd already stepped in it a million times, so I was determined not to now. I could tell by her tension that she'd hate pity, and anyway we only had a few block left. There was the long blue line of the bay.

So I said, “I kinda get why Harper holds a grudge.” Then I remembered what she'd actually said, and got that sick feeling again. To hide it, I asked, “How exactly did she discover your talent?”

Mercy hunched her shoulders. “At juvenile court, after I nearly toasted Phil. Both families were there. She always tests out anyone she thinks might possibly have a talent, though she was expecting my talent to be pyromania, because of the school fire. She bumped against me. She saw my spring, along with all the anger and hate.”

I couldn't help shivering, though the wind was hot and dry.

“I'm not going to say I know all her issues. I've had too many people telling me what I'm supposed to think. She kept my secret for three years. I thought I was the only one in the world who had a talent. She waited until she figured out that
I
keep secrets. She knows I work every summer to pay for the damage I did. She knows I don't get in trouble now.”

Mercy's voice sped up, and I could tell she was bothered, though she was trying to sound normal. “So when she appeared as one of the student representatives at my middle school last year, and got me alone long enough to say that she knew my secret, and what did I plan to do about it, and I said nothing—nothing bad—I was done with being a brat because I was now Mercy, she said she didn't believe me. But then, last spring, she called. Told me there are others, and did I want to meet them.” She glanced ahead, where the gazebo sat in the distance.

There was time for one more question. “Those girls chasing you?”

Mercy's grin flared. “At the other end of the street where the bus stops, there's a car repair shop that everyone knows is a chop shop. They sell drugs, too. The guys who run it have their girlfriends hanging out there, so I took a bunch of the free clinic diversity flyers, and asked those girls if any of them wanted counseling. I figured if they ran me off, you'd see, and that was better than telling Harper and having her read your memories without your knowing. I hate that she saw mine at my worst. Without telling me.” She grimaced. “But I'm okay with her using her talent on Kyle, or whoever did it. Is that what they call conveniently adjustable ethics?”

I had no idea how to answer that, and was glad there was no time as we rolled down the last of the bike path to the gazebo.

Everybody was there, so I took the folder out of my backpack, and gave it to Fletch, who sniffed Kyle's test papers. Tiny weird sparkles fluoresced around the papers, then Fletch looked up. “This isn't the guy.”

“He's not?” Harper exclaimed.

I couldn't help saying, “He sure acts guilty.”

Mercy said, “I think so, too. I think he might know who did it.”

“All right, let's go to the place where it happened,” Harper said.

She'd gotten a senior friend to drive herself and Fletch and Bec, giving the excuse that she was going to write an article on hate crimes for the school newspaper. She'd already written the article, but wanted to visit the place where Michael was attacked for visual corroboration.

There was no place in the car for Mercy and me, but as we had our bikes, this was fine. By the time we reached the corner where Michael was attacked, Harper and Bec were alone, Fletch nowhere in sight.

Harper said, “Whoever did it stepped in Michael's blood, tried to wipe it off, but didn't get it all. Fletch said it's easier if we wait here, as he's faster when no one distracts him.” She turned to Bec. “I meant to thank you in person for helping out at the hospital. Fletch told me there was no chance he would have got into the storage area without you.”

Bec had been biting her thumb. She yanked it down. “This is what we agreed to.” Her voice got softer. “And I like helping. It makes me feel…” She whispered the word, “Stronger.” Then, “But what do we do if we find him? We can't tell anybody how we did it.”

Harper crossed her arms. “If Fletch finds the bat, we could confront Kyle with the evidence, and demand the truth.”

Mercy said. “How? Threats won't work. Not with him.”

Harper eyed her, then said in that challenging tone, “I didn't think you were friends.”

“We aren't,” Mercy said. “I hate Kyle Moore as much as he hates me, but I think threats are something he hears every day. The last touch football game I played, it ended at night. I was walking out to the parking lot. He and his dad were ahead of me. His dad kept smacking him on the side of the head. Saying stuff like ‘Why didn't you catch that pass, dimbulb? Think a scout is going to want you sitting on the bench?' and the last thing I heard before they got in the car was, ‘Stop sniveling like a girl or I'll really give you something to snivel about.'”

Harper turned away. Bec looked like she was going to throw up.

Then we heard running feet and Fletch appeared, his face crimson, the chain on the side of his jeans slapping his thigh. “Found the bat,” he said, leaning his hands on his knees.

“Let me guess,” Harper said. “It got thrown down one of the palisades.”

“Got it in one. Whoever threw the bat got a bit of blood on their shoes, and the trail leads straight to a house.” He named the address.

Bec took over, then. I didn't see her leave, she was just gone. We all stood around awkwardly, Harper checking her e-mail on her phone, Fletch catching his breath, and Mercy and I waiting in silence.

Then Bec was back. I nearly jumped out of my skin. “No name on their mail slot. So I checked their recycle bin.” She wrinkled her nose. “Bill stubs made out to Jason Davies, Sr.”

Mercy's eyes rounded behind her glasses. “Jason Davies' dad. I don't get it. Jason Davies isn't even part of Kyle's gang.” She turned to me. “You sit right next to him in math.”

“The blond guy? With the peeling nose?”

She nodded twice.

I couldn't believe it. Just a boring, everyday kid, who sat there doing his work like nothing had happened.

Fletch wiped his face on his sleeve. Bec gnawed a finger.

Harper looked from Mercy to me, and back again, then said slowly, “How does this sound? An anonymous tip from the school computer to the police, saying where the bat is, and that it belongs to Jason Davies. If it turns out to belong to some other Jason Davies Junior, they should be able to figure it out, and find any other evidence, but all that is police business. Does anyone disagree?”

Bec said, so softly I almost couldn't hear her. “It's not going to fix Michael. But at least he'll know.”

And nobody would know about us.

Fletch said, “And how's that going to make him feel? This whole thing is a total downer.”

Nobody disagreed.

Bec murmured, “I hope the next project is us finding out how we got talents.”

“As long as,” Harper said, “someone really powerful doesn't find
us
.”

That pretty much killed the conversation. The three of them headed back toward their car in a gloomy silence.

Mercy rode next to me. We were also silent.

When we reached the intersection where I usually went one way and she the other, she slowed, and I slowed too. She burst out, “Here's what gets me. Jason was always hanging around Kyle during middle school. If he really did it, I bet anything it was to butter up Kyle. And I bet Kyle is acting guilty because he feels sick about it.”

I looked down at my bike, totally depressed. I had been thinking about my expectations—that we'd all use our powers in some grand climax that would uncover the villain, that justice would somehow make things okay for Michael Abrams, but instead, if anything, there were more questions than before. About everything.

“Mystery talents or not, people suck,” I said.

Mercy looked around at the mini-mall, the gas stations, the palm trees, the hard, bright blue sky overhead, as if seeking an answer. Or waiting for a question? Then she said, “I found out when I was little that my great-grandmother Mercy had a saying. It's from a Roman called Seneca:
Non est ad astra mollis e terris via
.”

“What does it mean?” I asked.

“‘There is no easy way to the stars from earth.' When I first started dancing, I really thought that if I sprang high enough, my talent would take me to the stars.”

“That's kind of cool,” I said.

“I think it's pretty dorky.” Mercy made a face. “I mean, I
love
dance. I love to soar, just high enough so people feel that lift in here, because then it's art.” She smacked her ribs. “But not too high, so they think it's not normal. Like anyone knows what normal is.”

Her smile went crooked, and she looked at the palm tree. “Anyway, I got it wrong.” She looked at the mini-mall. “I think the saying is really about how you have to try more to overcome the suck.” She looked at the ground. “That's what the group is really for, after all. Even if Harper thinks I'm a freak.” She glanced skyward, the crystals in her earrings winking and dancing in the bright sunlight. “Harper trusts me this much, at least.” She held up one hand, her thumb and forefinger about an inch apart.

The sun blasted the side of my face as we stood there in the hot wind, midway between our houses, and I thought, she doesn't want to go anymore than I do. I was waiting for her to invite me over again, but it was my turn. Was she waiting for an invitation?

If you have a friend, you invite them over. It sounds so simple, but it was a big deal for me, almost too big.

Almost. “Want some limeade?” I asked, trying to sound cool. My voice squeaked in my own ears. I coughed. “My Mom Tate always makes it fresh.”

She didn't look at me weird, or exclaim ‘
Mom' Tate?
in a voice like
Dracula?
She said, “I love limeade.”

“It's not actually just limeade,” I said as we started riding again. “It's limeade and ginger ale and some other healthy stuff, but it doesn't taste like a health drink…” I babbled stupidly all the way.

It was so late in the afternoon that they were all there.

“Dad, this is Mercy, from school.”

Dad looked up from reading the news on his tablet. “Hi, Mercy.” He added hopefully, “I don't suppose you love math?”

“Math's okay,” she said cautiously, turning to me.

“Family joke,” I gabbled. “Dad keeps hoping one of us will turn into a math geek. Like him. She's a dancer,” I told Dad.

“Cool!” Mom Tate said as she brought out the jug and a bunch of mismatched glasses.

She and Mercy went from dance to manga art, which got into scanlation translations that were so bad they were a crackup. Mom Gwen bustled around getting ready for a night shift, putting in a couple comments about how much she loved the art in Miyazaki's films, and the boys ran in and out again, impatient for dinner.

It was all boring little stuff. Everyday stuff. But somehow every bit of everydayness chipped at the ache I still felt about those big questions no one could answer.

It wasn't like the big questions went away. Or the little ones—I expected that Mercy would probably ask about how I had two moms in the same house—but the way they were all talking, I figured she'd be okay with the answer.

And I began to feel okay, even a little dizzy, the way you get when at least some of those big questions turn into possibilities, and the ones that don't are slightly less painful because maybe you've found a friend to share them with.

Zapped
.

“C'mon,” I said. “Let's go up to my room. I've got links to a couple new webtoons I don't think you've seen…”

About the Author

Sherwood Smith
is the author of a number of science fiction and fantasy novels, including the
Wren
series for Young Adults, the Exordium novels (with Dave Trowbridge), the recent
Atlantis Endgame
, a novel of the Time Traders series (with Andre Norton), Solar Queen novels (also with Andre Norton), and many others. She lives south of Los Angeles. You can sign up for email updates
here
.

 

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