Rogues: Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

I stepped off the subway doing my best to hide my face. I didn’t need anyone to see me. If there was one thing that I learned from all my years of school, I learned that it was easier to never get asked questions than to answer the difficult ones. I was not in the mood to have to talk to anybody.

So, I didn’t make eye contact with a single person on that subway platform. My headphones hung loosely in my ears. They didn’t have any music blaring through the wires, but that wasn’t important. They were just there to deter conversation. I had my hood up, even in the subway terminal. My hoodie helped hide my face from all the peering eyes. I cast my head down, my eyes following my footsteps and nothing else. I didn’t want to be noticed.

I brushed passed all the people scurrying off or onto the subway. Each bump hurt, sending pain shooting down my body. With one particularly large bump, I groaned just a little. I walked through the subway terminal, pushed the turn dial, and headed up the stairs.

Once outside, a large wind gust swept through me. Welcome to Brooklyn, I thought as I shivered. I hated the cold. Despised it. The cold made injuries ache and the original injuries were bad enough on their own. The snow was dreadful, like a million intricate knives cutting through your hopes and dreams of going outside and enjoying yourself. I hated where I lived. I wanted a home.

I walked through the cold, freezing my butt off. The wind nipped at my nose, I’m sure turning it redder than it already was. With every raspy exhale I could see the air that had been just released from my lungs. I didn’t think it was natural to see your own breath. My fingers grew so stiff that they ached, even in the protection of my gloves. My teeth chattered uncontrollably, and I shivered with every step. I cannot stress enough how much I hate the cold.

I ran my hand up, using my sleeve to brush away the snot from my running nose. When I moved my hand down, all I could see was a streak of red across the blue fabric. Apparently, my nose hadn't quite stopped bleeding, yet. Either that or the cold made it start up again. It didn’t matter. My nose still hurt.

I hated jocks. Every single one. They believed the number of muscles on your body determined your self worth as a human being, and I resented that. Athletic ability may have given an advantage in the Stone Ages, but we’ve moved passed that. Now is a time for innovation and culture. Even I can run a ball from one side of the field to the other. And I bet I could do it faster than those idiots, too.

I sighed. My fight was not with jocks as a whole. Quite the contrary, my problem rested with one jock: Thomas Mackley. Just the thought of his name, made my ribs send a jolt of pain through my torso. Tom was the real problem with the jock clique in my school. He had somehow corrupted the entire class of athletes to believe in their own superiority due to their overabundance of adolescent ideals.

My problem with him was that I knew if I had the chance to compete against him, I would dominate the smug jerk. I may not have been the most athletic person in the school, but I could have excelled in sports... if I wanted to. It’s just that being a jock equals a locker room, and a locker room equals exposure. It was a conversation simply not worth having.

A taxi honked at the minivan that had just cut it off. The horn blared from the angry man, whose red face clashed incredibly with the yellow of his cab. I heard two men yelling from down a dark alleyway. They called each other all sorts of obscenities and I could practically hear the switchblade coming out. A man flipped off a woman for some offhanded comment she had just made. From the way she was dressed, I couldn’t tell if she was a mistress gone sour or a lady of the night trying to escape the grasp of an obsessed customer.

I kept walking.

There was something wrong with this city. Everyone was so full of anger, of contempt, of hatred for the world and the people around them. I rolled my eyes. People wondered what had possessed the Regime to decide to take over, but they want control over everything else in their lives. People acted like if they were given superpowers, they wouldn’t be doing the exact same thing.

I was sick of the way people acted. I was tired of the fact that we just accepted murder… rape… abuse… What is wrong with this city? Even the teenagers had grown a cynical attitude with the world.

I continued the dull trek to my little brownstone. I walked in silence, not speaking or even looking at the people who passed me by. I didn’t want to be exposed to anymore malice. Instead, I looked at my feet. I watched the leaves tumble across the ground as the slight breeze blew them, brown and crinkled from the weather and season. I counted candy bar wrappers. Seven Hershey’s milk chocolate bars. Four Snickers wrappers. About a million gum wrappers, some with the chewed and discarded gum still inside.

I turned the corner of Birch and Maple, a large gust of wind sweeping under my hoodie sending a chill up my spine and shivers through my fingers. I sniffled. My eyes had started watering and I was almost certain they were that red color- the color that could either signify a bitter cold and dry wind or an incredibly long session with a joint. I wiggled my nose trying to warm up the tip, but I did not prevail.

I was a few doors down from my house, when the neighborhood stray, Penny (It was a joke because anybody could pick her up, but most people believed it wasn’t worth their time), came running up between my legs. The black cat rubbed up against my pants, leaving shedded hairs behind on my jeans. I bent down running my hand across the back of the cat. It was unbelievable how smooth its hair was for being a stray cat. I pet Penny right behind her ear, well, the one she still had left- she was rather a feisty fighter. The cat purred, rubbing up against me further.

I was having a grand old time, playing with the cat, when an unpleasant voice came from behind me. “Grey!” it rang out.

I pretended not to hear it. I pet Penny once more and then began to head for the door to my house. “I know you can hear me, Grey!” the voice came again.

“I don't want to talk to you,” I responded to the voice. And it was the truth. Of all the people that are on this earth, he was the person that I wanted to talk to least. Honestly I would rather have tea with Hitler or brunch with Jack the Ripper. Either would have been more pleasant than two more seconds with him.

I quickened my steps. One-two. One-two. I needed to close the gap between me and the little wooden door that held my safe haven. Well, not exactly my safe haven- a concentration camp would have been better- but the door had a deadbolt and I would love to slam it in his face.

As I walked, I rummaged through my pocket for my keys. My fingers brushed over an empty gum wrapper, a quarter, a dime, a rubber band, and my headphones.  Crap. My keys were in my backpack. I swung the yellow and blue bag over my shoulder and fiddled with the zipper.  From the corner of my eye, I saw him approaching. Come on. Come on. I yanked the zipper free, effectively breaking my backpack. Great.

No time to worry about it though. I shoved my hand into the darkness and felt around for the keys. Pencils. Loose paper. An eraser or two. Aha! I felt my keychain. It was a red slipper with the inscription There's no place like home. When I was younger I adored Dorothy. Now that I'm older I sympathize with the Wicked Witch and loathe the irony. There was no place like my home. Nowhere was nearly as torturesome. Still I kept the old keychain, because my mother had given it to me and I couldn't bare to remove it.

I fumbled with the keys before plucking out the correct silver one and wedging it into the keyhole. I shimmied the key into the lock. Another reason I hated the cold. The snow would infiltrate the lock and slow down my journey to the warmth indoors. On second thought maybe slowing my entrance wasn't necessarily a bad thing. No! No, today it was definitely a bad thing. I had to get inside. I had to lock him out.

I wiggled the key into the lock until it broke through the barrier. I twisted the key and heard the click that signified the locks release. I circled the silver doorknob with my hand. I gripped it rather tightly as I had little traction in those gloves. I turned the doorknob and the door began to ease open. I was a moment from freedom.

A hand reached over my shoulder and shoved the door closed. Hard. Damn doors that opened to the outside! I tried in vain to open it but to no avail. I felt his presence around me and a shiver fluttered down my spine. I sighed. I had lost. “You didn't think you could get away that easily, did you?” Oh, I hated his arrogance.

I groaned. “I despise you,” I spit out as I turned to face my brother.

Rogues: Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

  

            I found myself in the bathroom. I held myself up with my hands gripped against the sink, my knuckles white under the pressure. My arms and legs were tensed as the adrenaline continued to pump through my blood vessels. My chest heaved because my heart required more and more oxygen to function. My teeth clenched together, bone grinding bone and sending an ache through my jaw.

Relax. I told myself. Relax. You can do this. You can come down.

I really wasn't so sure.

At least, I couldn't hear the voices inside my head anymore. For the moment, all I heard was the slow drip of the water leaking out of the sink. Drip. Drip. Drip. It was almost hypnotic in its monotony.

I focused on the noise, trying to let everything in life ebb itself away with the water. I stared at the droplets, watching them slither down the drain. I pretended that with each droplet of water a piece of my anxiety went down with it.

I don't know how long I was standing at that sink. I don't really care. I simply focused myself on releasing my anxiety. I say “simply”, but it was far from a simple task. I counted the seconds of breathing in my head, until I reached ten. I rocked back and forth from foot to foot, trying to use up some excess adrenaline. I opened my mouth, trying to release the tension in my jaw before it had the audacity to course up and become a migraine. I listened to the quiet. I closed my eyes and just listened to the noiseless bathroom.

Well, noiseless for a few moments. All of a sudden, noise flooded the bathroom. The wooden door reading “Men’s” crashed into the white-yet disgustedly stained yellow- tile wall. I heard loud footsteps clomping from the hallway into the bathroom. They were so loud, either the person entering was heavy set or he was stomping. I waited. I waited to hear the opening of a bathroom stall or the use of a urinal. Neither came.

That’s weird. I thought. Who comes to the bathroom without going to the bathroom? Other than me...

I slowly turned my head to see who, if anyone, had entered. Low and behold a rather unpleasant- actually incredibly unpleasant- sight stood before me, leaning against the door. It was Thomas Mackley, with his oversized ego and undersized intelligence. He stood there staring at me in the bathroom. Pervert.

“What do you want?” I asked before casually turning back to the mirror over the sink. I turned the knob and pretended to casually wash my hands. I could not have Mackley know why I was in there. I mean, the whole scene in the Calculus classroom was bad enough on its own. I didn't need to make my day any worse.

Mackley’s face turned sour as he spoke in a faux-sincere manner. “Teach is worried about poor little Grey.”

“What does that have to do with you?” I asked, allowing my dislike of the footballer to seep into my voice. I wasn't an aggressive person, but I could definitely be a passive-aggressive person.

Mackley shook his head in disgust. “Not my choice. I had to come get you, dumbass,” Mackley grunted.

I slowly turned off the cold water and turned my attention to the paper towels. I heard the groan of the old machine and carefully started drying my hands. Mackley’s presence made me uneasy. I didn't dare take my eyes off him.

“Go back to class, Mackley.” I said. “I'm fine.”

I heard a laugh. Not a laugh for something comical or a laugh out of pity. This laugh was deep and fake and sinister. It was the most disturbing laugh I had ever heard.

It was two steps. That’s all it took. With two steps, Thomas Mackley had crossed the space between us. “See, that’s the thing,” he growled at me. “I don’t think you are good. ‘Cause I know why you really raised your hand. Little tattle-tale Grey wanted to rat me out.”

At this point, Mackley was towering over me. His nose was barely two inches from mine, and his eyes pierced my skin. My heart rate sped up, until I couldn’t breathe anymore. I wanted to look Mackley in his eye. Truly I did. I just couldn’t. I wanted to stand up to my enemy, the demons in my head and the brute in front of me, but I cowered. My eyes drifted downwards, away from the thorn in my side.

“Come on, Grey,” Mackley said, his chest bumping into mine. “So tough in front of the teacher, what happened?” I felt another shove to my chest. I was forced to take a step backwards, when he willfully invaded my personal space. I whimpered when he hit me a third time. I just didn’t want confrontation. I didn’t want this to end where my father ended it so many nights.

“That’s what I thought,” Mackley said, his voice full of spite and malice. He turned away from me, taking a step towards the door.

With that one step, my body eased its tension. My shoulders relaxed, my breathing steadied, I was finally getting back to normal. I sent up a silent prayer. Thank you. I thought. Thank you for not letting that escalate. But my prayer was whispered too soon.

    Thomas Mackley pivoted. In one swift movement he went from leaving the bathroom to coming straight at me. His fist came flying up, extended by his overly muscular arm and testosterone-fueled anger. It moved so quickly that it seemed to break the laws of physics. My mind didn’t have time to comprehend what was happening. There was a blur of movement thrne a force crashed against my eye.

    Mackley’s fist felt like iron. He had a solid hand, which I am sure was good for hard labor. It probably helped Mackley gain street cred by being able to fight other thugs. It was not good for me, however. His closed fist hurdled towards me, straight into my eye. The pain was excruciating. My eye clamped shut, just in time, but the pain remained. I felt a sharp pain all the way from my eyebrow to my cheekbone. I was tottering, my vision blurred by tears and  eye. My balance, thrown completely off by the blow, left me entirely unsteady.

All I had time to think about before Mackley attacked again was the pain. I was shoved. Hard. His two hands were on my two shoulders, and with the resonating force of a push I fell backwards directly into the mirror behind me. As my head smashed into the glass, time slowed to an unbearably sluggish level. I heard the crack of the mirror as my head crashed into it. My mind felt as though it was exploding in my skull. I swear I could feel my brain bounce around, sending a throbbing pain with every thwack. I felt the broken shards of glass enter the back of my head, scraping against, cutting into my skin. A thousand tiny knives sliced away at my skin.I felt a drop of blood hit my neck. My knees buckled under the resounding migraine that pulsed through my head. I fell slowly, yet uncontrollably. My nose cracked into the sink to my right, before I thudded against the ground. I groaned in pain. My breath was shallow, and my entire body hurt. Tears began rolling down my one good eye, mixing with the blood from the back of my head and my nose.

Mackley wasn’t done. Three swift kicks to my abdomen. He forced the breath from my lungs and made me want to hurl. It felt like he broke one of my ribs with all the pain coursing through my chest. I lay there on the bathroom floor for who knows how long. I never realized that Mackley left. I was kinda out of it. Maybe I passed out for a little bit. All I know is I laid there. Laid there in my sweat, blood, and tears.

Rogues: Chapter One

CHAPTER 1

It all started in Calculus class. Believe it or not, everything started in boring, old Calculus class.

“Can anybody tell me the antiderivative of 6x to the fifth power over x to the sixth power plus seven?” Mrs. Ather droned on. She had the problem written up on her chalkboard in her favorite yellow chalk. Who still used a chalkboard?  Her use of antiquated artifacts probably had something to do with the fact that Mrs. Ather was only about eight million years old. Her white hair, tied up in her tight little bun, looked so brittle that a whisper of wind might crack it. Mrs. Ather’s glasses looked thicker than my femur.

           “Anybody?” she asked again.

           Who the hell cares? I thought to myself. I, for sure, didn't.

I, of course, was sitting in the very back of the classroom. There was a desk in the corner of two walls meeting. It wasn’t a special desk. It had the same rock hard chair and the same annoying squeak as every other desk in the classroom, but it was my desk all the same. If I laid my head slightly to the left in that desk, I could easily doze off in my last period of the day.

Not that Calculus didn’t excite me.

No wait, that’s exactly the reason I dozed off. Calculus was the epitome of misery. Calculus had no purpose. It maintained no rhyme or reason and it continually refused to make any sense. Let's just say Calculus was Cal-killing-me!

I wanted to be a photographer, not a mechanical engineer. I still hadn't figured out why my school counselor was forcing me to take the stupid class.

           “Obviously, the answer is the natural log of the absolute value of x to the sixth power plus seven.” I groaned in annoyance, not loud enough for anyone to hear though. The shrill voice belonged to none other than Paige Simms, the school’s resident know-it-all. She was a small girl, maybe she came up to my chest. Maybe. Her tight blonde ponytail was wrapped in a bright pink bow, which perfectly matched her lacy pink dress. Paige was unbelievably smart and unnervingly excited to be at school.

           I loathed her. I didn’t really have a good reason. She wasn’t mean to me-like most of my peers-and she certainly was a happy go-lucky person. I guess that was the reason I hated her so much. Her pep made me need another cup of coffee, even at three o’clock in the afternoon.

          “Of course, I could list out my steps in case the class needed any help,” Paige’s annoying, high-pitched voice echoed against the cold, stone walls of the classroom.

           Strike that. I needed two cups of coffee. And make it a double shot of caffeine.

           “Very good, Paige,” Mrs. Ather complimented, scrambling through her desk for her infamous sticker sheet. “That’s an A+ for your participation grade today.”

Mrs. Ather hobbled over to the pink priss and stuck a gold star onto Paige’s pink dress. The golden star read, “Great Job!” Paige was the only person in the room that could possibly be grinning in Calculus class. The rest of the class enjoyed being treated like seniors, not kindergarteners. Next thing you know our poor senior class would be getting gold stars for “Wonderful Effort!”

I rolled my eyes. I simply didn’t understand how anybody could be so happy.

           Calculus. Ugh! Calculus was bad. That’s about it. I had decided that Calculus wasn’t worth my time during the first week of school. Why did I need to learn about logarithms and trig functions when I could be taking a nap? I closed my eyes and snuggled into my corner. Today is perfect for napping, I thought.

           I was almost asleep. Almost. Then a shiver ran through my spine, interrupting any attempts at sleep.

There happened to be a single problem with the seat: it was right next to the window. In the spring and fall, I never found the window to be a problem. In fact, some days I would sneak my brother’s old digital camera- the cheap kind that can fit into your pocket- into the classroom and take a picture of the scurrying squirrels or fluttering butterflies. My absolute favorite picture had been taken from that very seat. It was a cool Autumn afternoon. The sun shone down on the falling leaves casting brilliant light onto the oranges and reds and yellows. It looked like fire was dancing across the trees in a cascade of color and warmth. The picture was surreal and it reminded me of how things used to be. Before… before I had to wake up into the cold, harsh world of reality.

           So, typically I enjoyed the window by my side. But it wasn’t fall and it wasn’t spring. It was winter. Winters in Manhattan are brutal. The freezing winds swirling at a hundred miles an hour, cutting through your skin and chilling your very bones. The cold air leaked through the window into the- much preferred- climate controlled room, causing me to shiver and wish that it was summer. Or Florida.

          Besides the weather, the winter “wonderland” let little wonder into Central Park. The trees were bare, their leaves long shed. Without the leaves, the trees were relinquished of their beauty. They currently looked like skeletons of their old selves- kinda like I felt. The ground was littered with dead grass and looked scary when mixed with the crisp frost. All I could envision as I looked out those windows was blue and red lights flashing on one of those utterly ridiculous crime shows.

The tourists were just as bad as the weather. Tourism tripled in the month of December. People bundled up in so many layers that they resembled the Michelin Man wobbled down the street, creating an unease to my routine. I always felt more anxious the more people around me there were. I could feel the anxiousness scurry through my torso just by looking at the waves of people. The unease made me shift in my seat. I tried- and failed- to readjust my back in the hard plastic chairs that the school was so fond of. It was amazing I could fall asleep at all in those orange chairs of misery. Still I could try.

I laid my head back into the corner that had so often been used as a pillow. I closed my eyes gingerly and tried to escape reality. Sleep brought peace. The world brought war. Sleep brought calm. The world brought misery. It was no wonder I preferred a little nap every now and then.

Unfortunately, my attempts at slumber were interrupted by a wet, slimy intrusion onto my skin. My eyes shot open and I jolted up in my chair, as if I had been shot. Anger swelled inside my already blackened heart and my teeth clenched so tightly, it was amazing I didn't chip a tooth. I used a finger to flick the intrusion off of my right cheek.

A spitball? I thought, fingers squeezed together tightly. How mature.

My head swiveled to one of the three things that ranked higher than tourists on my hatred list: jocks. Something about the testosterone filled world of sports gave athletes a severe narcissistic personality coupled with a Napoleon complex. The psychology always baffled me. How could someone think so highly of themselves and yet have to domineer over others to prove their masculinity? In my unprofessional opinion, the meanest, rudest, vilest ones had to be compensating, if you know what I mean. My problem (at the moment at least) mainly consisted of four unlikable entities.

First, there was Thomas Mackley. He was the quarterback for the school's football team. As if that didn't give him a big enough head, he also happened to be a three time state qualifier in wrestling. It was amazing the brute could fit his ego in a football helmet. Well, I suppose his head was so full of hot air, there was plenty of room for pride. His arrogance, however, was not Mackley’s only downfall. He also happened to be rude and obnoxious and downright jerkfacey. Not to mention the fact that he was a complete and utter imbecile. The cherry on top just happened to be the fact that Mackley entirely hated me. I had never even done anything to the guy! Well, other than perhaps taking a few pictures of him cheating on his girlfriend and then posting the pictures around the school.

That’s what you get for being a prick, Mackley. I thought, reminiscing on the memory of one of the only moments in high school I actually enjoyed.

Sitting on either side of Mackley were Donald Thames and Leo Burget. I had gone to school with them for four years and I honestly couldn’t tell the difference between the two. I knew both were some position on the basketball team, but I never actually paid too much attention. Between the two jocks, there may have been six brain cells. The two bulging, blonde brutes never made a single decision. They only ever did what Mackley told them to do, so most of their endeavors involved bullying me in some shape or fashion.

The fourth jock that I absolutely couldn't stand sat behind Thames (or was it Burget), right next to me. Scott “Stupid Perfect” Stairwell. I probably hated him the most, although for an entirely different reason. Scott seemed to hold the attention of all the girls in the freaking school. Scott really had that whole aloof thing going for him. He didn't talk to anybody- probably because he thought he was better than everyone in the room- and everyone found him interestingly mysterious.

Not me, however. I only seemed to notice how Scott's perfect hair fell on his perfect face with his perfect eyes and perfect smile and oh, I hated him. Scott had fantastic grades, was the freaking star of the water polo team, and could buy anything he wanted. Nobody should have everything in life going their way. It wasn't fair to the rest of us. Besides pure jealousy (not that I like to admit it), I dislike Scott, because the swimmer was, well, a douche. Scott thought just because of his athletic prowess and high socio-economic standing that he was better than the vast majority. Therefore, he downright refused to hold a conversation with anyone. He wasn't necessarily mean, but...  

I could deal with meanness better than I could deal with Scott Stairwell. I constantly received meanness. I could survive in it. Thrive in it. I didn't do Scott. The dude set me on edge.

I glared at the four imbeciles. I was not in the mood to put up with being tormented. Not that I was ever in the mood, actually. Three of the four jocks snickered and the fourth gave me an apologetic look, pleading with his stupid hazel eyes.

I ground my teeth together. I did not need their jerkiness and I definitely did not need anyone's pity. Pity was such a useless emotion. An emotion for the over-privileged, so they could look down on people like me. No thanks.

Tom noticed my glare and matched with one of his own. Our eyes met and if looks could kill I would be a pile of ashes by now. Tom’s black eyebrows knit together into a unibrow of anger and hatred. Mackley puffed up his chest and I flinched. I had been in too many one sided fights. I didn't need to be in another.

Silent snickers filled the back of the classroom. I turned my head to the corner. Shame filled my heart. How could I live so far in my brothers’ shadow that I couldn't even stand up to those imbecilic bullies?

My breath shallowed and my heartbeat quickened. I could feel every pounding “thun thun” in my chest and it felt like my ribs were cracking under the pressure. I could hear the heart pumping, the force ringing in my ears. I could feel my pulse trying, trying with all its might, to pop my blood vessels. It felt like a weight was pressing against my chest, making it impossible to breathe. My vision began to blur. I panicked, my head swirling with anxiety. With fear. With doubt. My head pounded, with every echo of my anxiety.

Calm down. I told myself. Calm down.

Ha. Like anxiety works like that. If anything, I was making it worse. I increased my own self doubts to the point where I couldn’t function. I couldn't hear a sound, and even if I could, I wouldn't have comprehended anything. My mind was racing faster than the Flash. I closed my eyes and tried to block out all the noise. The only problem with that is, you can't block the noise from your inside your own head!

As my eyes closed and my world plunged into darkness, the voices in my own head started yelling. They got progressively louder and louder. Their words echoed through my mind, bouncing from one corner to another. The anxiety started snowballing, rolling down the mountains of self doubt and fear. The snowballs crashed through into the only good thoughts I had left. My last few remnants of sane thought were knocked down like bowling pins.

I couldn't take it anymore! My eyes fluttered open. I panted for a second before a whole new wave of fear washed over me.

My pencil was floating!

I'm not kidding. My pencil, the simple little wooden pencil with no aerodynamic properties, was flying. The stupid little writing utensil had lifted off the plain, little desk. It glided through the air rising slowly away from my Calculus notes, which were thankfully still firmly planted on the desk.

I nearly screamed. I mean, I didn’t. Obviously I didn't... I just yelped a little bit. I muffled the noise though, so I basically didn't make a noise at all. Basically. Mostly. Kinda.

My heartbeat quickened as my head raced.

Damn it! I thought.

I sat there stunned for a moment or two. I didn't exactly know what I was going to do. It's not like floating pencils were a normal, natural occurrence. I didn't have any sort of plan for whenever my pencil decides to become a freaking helicopter. I watched the thing for a moment, watched it float a little higher with each passing moment. What the hell was I supposed to do?

Then all at once, it shot up into the air, faster than a speeding bullet. I had no clue what I was supposed to do, but I knew that nobody else could see the stupid thing. That would have been disastrous.

I did the only thing I could do. Well, the only thing that I could think to do anyway. I shot my hand up, straight up. Fingers wrapped around the wood and I held the pencil in my hand. Victory! Thank goodness nobody saw the floating pencil. And thank goodness I didn't start floating with the thing. Laughter almost escaped my mouth when the crisis was averted. The crisis that nobody knew about.

My victory, however, was short lived. Very short lived.

 “Grey Summers?” Mrs. Ather called out, sounding truly surprised. “Well, color me impressed. I'm so glad you want to come solve this equation. I guess we finally made a breakthrough.” The sappy smile on her old wrinkly face was unbearable.

What on earth was she talking about?

My eyes focused on my crotchety Calculus teacher for a second. I tried to put everything together in my mind. I saw a derivative problem written in yellow chalk on the board. I noticed Mrs. Ather beaming at me. But for the life of me, I couldn't decipher why.

Then it hit me, like a semi truck. My hand was raised in the air. Dammit. I didn't know how to do this crap. I could not go up to the board. I didn't even want to raise my hand. Was Mrs. Ather joking? I was simply trying to stop the stupid floating pencil.

 I couldn't say that, though. I would get locked up faster than a March hare.

“Any day now, Grey,” Mrs. Ather chimed in. A grimace had fallen upon her face and her patience was clearly running out.

I looked up, my eyes bugged out like a deer in headlights. No. Absolutely not. Just no. I could not go up there. There was absolutely no way I was going up to the board. The numbers on the board looked more like Greek than math. I couldn’t have everybody staring at me. Judging me and taunting me with their eyes. I just couldn’t. No way. No how.

I looked around the rest of the room. Everybody was staring at me. I felt a few dozen different pairs of knives shooting at me from all across the room. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. How did people do this? How could people be around other people? People were the worst.

Mrs. Ather was fuming, her cheeks flaming red. “Mr. Summers, up to the front of the classroom. Now!” she hollered.

I stood up from my desk, slowly. I shuffled to the front of the classroom, one foot barely sliding in front of the other. My breathing was sharp and my head was swimming. I felt every pair of eyes in the room staring at me.

I walked over to the chalkboard. I looked at the problem on the board. I looked at it again. Staring at it for what must have been an eternity, I still had no idea what was going on. Had we even gone over this stuff?

I started thinking through the problem. Well, trying to anyway. Okay, I just take the derivative. I do that through… through… power rule? Maybe.

What an utter idiot!

Wait what? I thought. I shook my head.  It doesn’t matter. Whatever. X to the 5th power equals…

Glad I’m not him.

I turned my head around and surveyed the room. No one was speaking. Everybody looked dead silent staring at my back. I swallowed.

I can do this.  

I went back to the board and began writing down numbers. Some answer was better than no answer, right?

Haha. The answer’s so obvious. It's-

This class is so boring. I wond-

That punk is finally getting-

Does he even go here?

I wish I could help-

The voices started flooding into my head. My voice was muted. All I could hear were other voices. Voices I had never heard before. I didn’t know whose they were or what they were doing in my head, but I wanted them out. A searing pain stabbed over my eyes. My vision blurred as the pain increased and I stumbled backward running into someone’s desk.

“Watch out!” came a shriek from a short girl dressed all in pink.

Papers fluttered to the ground and the voices continued to bombard my mind. I couldn’t concentrate and I definitely couldn’t focus. It felt like someone was constantly stabbing me in the brain. My knees wobbled from a sudden weakness. My body shook and ached.

                               What was happening to me? 

More and more words bounced around in my skull. I couldn’t take it anymore. I ran the hell out of that room.