Mayhem (15 page)

I didn't
take the bus to school the next morning, walked the distance instead. All the while I thought of Krystal and what I wanted to say to her. The things I wanted to tell her. Fatima's trying to turn her against me. That thought kept me awake half the night. And it shows.

After my shower this morning I noticed the dark circles under my eyes, the hollowed look in my cheeks. Normally, as a guy, I'm not real into how my face looks. I mean, I don't want to look hideous but I'm not like primping all the time either. Still, this morning I cringed. I didn't look like me, which seemed just fine since I didn't really feel like me either.

The only familiar feeling was the ache in my chest when I thought of Krystal. When I replayed the conversation I overheard yesterday, hearing the indecision in her voice as she tried to defend me, that caused more pain. If I could just explain everything to her, I'm sure she'd understand. I know I have this choice to make, but really there's no choice at all. I know which side I'm supposed to be on. I feel it every day.

I arrive at school before the buses and because I have breakfast and lunch vouchers I am allowed to go in before the first bell. The decision I finally made is a cowardly one, don't need anybody to tell me that. But it's what I've decided to do. Heading down the hall where my first-period class is I stop
at locker number 107. I slip the folded piece of paper between the slits at the top and hope for the best.

I'm not hungry but my temples are throbbing, and since I didn't eat before I left the house I figure a carton of milk and a piece of fruit might not be such a bad idea. Heading to the cafeteria I see a couple of familiar faces, kids I knew and went to middle school with and don't normally associate with now. They all look at me, then turn to huddle in their little group. Just like at lunchtime, the cafeteria is divided into classes. Not classes as in junior, senior, etc. The kids I went to middle school with are going to the jock tables, as most of them play some sort of sport. There's a few at the goth table looking as if they may have actually stayed in that spot since yesterday at lunchtime. The table where the girls and I usually sit is empty, so I naturally migrate there.

From my position in the center of the room I see the differences but wonder at the hidden similarities. Take Judy Renquist, she's a junior this year, with fiery red hair and bold blue eyes. In middle school she had freckles and her hair was curlier instead of in the smooth waves it is now. She was teased and called Little Orphan Annie for years. Now, because her skin is considered alabaster, her hair a natural anomaly to the girls who live at the beauty salon, and she can hold a standing split on top of a pyramid longer than any of the other girls on the cheer squad, she's moved up in the ranks.

Barry Humplefeld used to stick his finger up his nose and suck that very same finger minutes later. That wasn't a memory he was likely to live through, so it's no real wonder he sits by himself by the juice machine.

I look at both of them now, neither of them speaks to me. I guess that goes back with the years as well. I don't know
what my failing traits may have been in others' eyes. To myself I can admit not being overly friendly to anybody, but is that really a reason to set me apart? I guess I sort of set myself apart. To an extent it seems that we can dictate how we will be perceived. If I'd wanted to be thought of as a jock in high school, maybe I shouldn't have quit the football team when I was in elementary. Maybe instead of steering clear of Pace and Mateo I should have tried to befriend them. Maybe they wouldn't be so hell-bent on punishing me every chance they got.

In the seconds I have that thought they're erased. Feeling sorry for myself used to come easily, now it leaves me with a sour taste in my mouth. Or is that the white milk I just downed in two gulps? Either way, I don't like it.

Mateo and Pace are jerks, there's no way around that fact. I don't know if it's the exact way they want to be perceived but it's the impression I got a long time ago. Now, I hate them. Yeah, I know hate's a strong word. Krystal would tell me I shouldn't hate anyone. Sasha would say they aren't worth my time, to let them live their sheltered lives and get on with my own. Lindsey doesn't really have an opinion about the class wars because she seems to get along with any and everyone.

That leaves me to fight this battle on my own.

Which actually is growing achingly familiar to me lately.

 

I watch her walk into the building feeling a bit like a stalker, since I'm standing between two sets of lockers at the far end of the hall. The temperature outside has fallen a bit and she's wearing a fitted jean jacket over a black shirt today. Her hair's all out, pulled back from her face so I can see the silver hoop earrings. At her wrist is the charm bracelet that I now know
holds a Betty Boop charm, a silver cross and an
M
that doesn't really look like our birthmark but in Krystal's mind probably stands for the same thing. I like the way the bracelet jingles on her arm as she lifts her hand to remove the book-bag strap from her shoulder. Somebody says something to her, Carol Landon from my government class, and Krystal turns to her with a pretty smile. She's made a few more friends here at Settleman's since she's gotten used to the town. I think it's great that she's finding her place.

She opens her locker and I see my note fly out. Krystal looks shocked, then reaches to grab it before it slips to the floor. Out of nowhere Pace appears. Reaching out one long arm he grabs the note, holding it away from Krystal.

As she gives him a heated look I take a step out from between the lockers. She reaches for the note but Pace holds it up out of her grasp. He's laughing and drawing a lot of attention. Mateo isn't far behind and steps up to Krystal with his own nasty smirk. He snatches the note from Pace.

I'm already moving toward them, heat suffusing my face and the tips of my ears. They're going to do it. On instinct I know it and I should turn around and walk fast the other way. But I can't. It's too late now.

Mateo opens the note. I can hear his deep, cagey voice saying the words just as I push through the small crowd that's convened around them.

“You mean everything to me. I want to be totally honest with you about all that's going on,” he says, changing his voice so that it sounds sing-songy.

“Stop it!” I say through teeth that are clenching so hard I think my jaw's gonna lock. “Give me the note, Mateo.”

He looks at me, then down at the note again. A sick grin
spreads across his face and I know he's seen my signature at the bottom.

“Why don't you come over to my dirty shack tonight,” Mateo continues. “It's not much but I have a bed and we can lay in it and have hot steamy sex!”

Everyone in the crowd laughs. Krystal looks like she's seen one of her spirit friends. Her eyes get bigger and her mouth gapes a bit as her gaze finds mine. I can't speak, embarrassment has a grip on my vocal cords all but straining them into noncompliance. In my mind I'm repeating over and over how sorry I am but I know nothing is coming out. She starts to shake her head, her eyes filling with tears.

“Tryin' to get laid, tracker?” Pace says, thrusting his pelvis.

“Fat chance!” somebody from the crowd yells.

“Even she doesn't want a tracker,” Mateo says, ripping my note in half. “Find your own kind” are the last of his words as he tosses the pieces of paper in my face.

Embarrassment has opened the door to rage. I feel it roaring through my body, the strength I've been dying to unleash. It's like bolts of thunder, rolling until they reach their destination. I lunge for Mateo. But he's ready for me this time. He steps to the side and I fall flat on my face, sliding across the newly waxed tiled floor.

More laughter sounds behind me, fueling my anger. They're all laughing at me, making fun of me. Like always, I'm the butt of their jokes. I hate it! I hate them!

Hate! Hate! Hate!

Rolling over onto my back I look up at the ceiling at the fluorescent lighting. One by one they all burst, drenching the hallway in darkness. Now the laughter has turned to shrieks. Somebody's running, probably to get the principal, but it's
too late for the school judicial system to handle this situation. Rising to my feet I stand in front of Mateo just as he throws a punch. I take it on the chin but don't move because I didn't feel a thing. With a startled look Mateo punches me again. This time I catch his fist, twist his wrist until he's bowing in front of me in pain.

Pace comes at me from the side, and with my other hand I reach out and grab him, lifting him off the ground. When I let him go he crashes through the remaining crowd of kids and into the lockers. I drag Mateo across the floor while he's screaming like a girl.

Inside I'm triumphant, for once in my life I've got the upper hand. And for all the kids around the world that are being mercilessly bullied either online or in person, afraid to go to school and in some cases scared enough to commit suicide, I toss Mateo and watch as he slams into the lockers so hard spit flies from his mouth.

More jocks charge me, and while I don't know them I fight them all off, feeling the strength growing, loving the ultimate feel of power, of supremacy.

Then I hear her.

“Jake.” She says my name and it sounds so soft, so innocent. “Please stop this. You're scaring me.”

It's Krystal and she's standing near her locker, tears streaming down her cheeks. I don't know how I could hear her speaking so softly over all the noise and chaos in the hallway, but I did. And the heat in my body simmers like it's been spritzed with water. The steam is still there but the burn isn't.

I can't look at her and feel glorified in my outrage. I can't hear her voice and feel proud that I've accomplished some
thing. It's in her eyes, in the tears falling from her chin. The disappointment and the fear.

Before I can make another move I'm grabbed from behind and dragged away. I don't even fight it, when I obviously could have. I can fight them all and win, but Krystal's gaze stops me cold.

Later in the office when I'm questioned, when my Dad is once again called, I have nothing to say. No explanation and no recriminations. They're all against me, always have been. Nobody cares that Mateo and Pace have been hounding me since elementary school, nobody gives a damn how much they embarrassed me and Krystal today. So it's no use in trying to explain. They hang with the Richies so they're always right. Even when Dad tries to defend my actions and wants to place a formal complaint against Pace and Mateo, his words are discounted, the principal basically calling him a liar.

I want to yell in Principal Dumar's round, fat, sweaty face that he's the liar. He's the fake one taking up for those ignorant, ill-mannered rich kids so their parents will continue to throw money into the school projects. I want to wrap my fingers around his skin-layered neck and squeeze.

Now you see where you belong.

The voice sounds in my head and I welcome it. This time I grab hold of the words, embracing them, holding them close to me as the only truth I've ever really known.

Dad takes me home. He's silent and so am I. I'm expelled from school, my chances of getting into a good college all but dashed with one morning's events. Dad doesn't know what to say. I don't care anymore. Nothing I say is going to make a difference. Only my actions can speak for me now.

On my
ratty old desk my cell phone vibrates. Turning my head slightly so I can see it, I watch as the vibration moves it in little paces across the desk. The light from its screen is the only light in the room, its sound adding to the monotonous tick tock of my wall clock.

I've been in my room since this morning's fiasco at school. I don't know where Dad is. When we came into the house he went his way and I went mine. Neither of us wanted to talk. I think because we know there are no more words. Something's changed and we both know it. What we plan to do about it is anybody's guess.

But I've been lying here thinking of nothing really and then of everything. Mostly I'm thinking about my mom. She was a Mystyx and I never knew. She could manipulate light, that's what Pop Pop told me, when Dad wasn't around of course. That sounds like a good power to me, so how'd I end up a Vortex? I guess that's where Dad came in, his genes I mean. If Uncle William was a Vortex, then dark was already looming in the blood of the Kramer men. That would be a logical explanation for my mixture of good and evil.

The fact that my growing strength and courage are coming from evil and I'm enjoying it means I've made my choice. Yet in my mind I don't quite know if I'm an evil power. I guess
my actions are speaking louder than words lately. Actions that I do not regret in the least bit.

See, this is what makes me think I can be different, that my dark powers can be used for good. I know that might seem like I'm trying to rationalize the choice I've made, but I don't see any reason why anything has to happen in totality.

Outside my window thunder roars so hard the house seems to shake. It sounds as if something ought to have broken in its midst. I jump a little, then settle back down quickly. It's just a thunderstorm, no big deal. But ten minutes later thunder roars through the sky once more. The windows shake and I almost fall off my bed. As soon as the rumbling is over there's deafening silence throughout my room. Even the tick tock of my clock has stopped. The electricity must have gone out, since it's a plug-in clock and we often lose electricity during a storm.

Never since I was a little kid have I been afraid of thunderstorms, but this is different. And I can't say that I'm really afraid, just sort of anxious and leery of what's going to happen. Because let's face it, I live in Lincoln, I'm a Vortex of supernatural powers, I've visited the Underworld and know that there's another realm where magical beings live—so I know that something's going to happen.

The storm sounds intense, rain batting against the window with fierce attitude. Wind is making some strange noise that's a cross between a wolf's baleful howl and an angry demon's tenuous moan. Why I break it down that way, I don't really know, but those are the sounds I hear. I should get up, go and check Pop Pop and Dad, make sure there are enough candles and flashlights at the ready. But I don't move. My mind wants to, but it neglects to send the message to my body. So I'm still
as a board on this bed, eyes wide open as if something else is holding the lids wide so I don't miss anything. But all I see is nothing. I mean, nothing substantial, since it's dark. Shadowy outlines of the furniture and paraphernalia around my room are visible but nothing else.

Until…

My door creaks open slowly, just like in a horror movie. I can move my head to the side so that I'm watching who or whatever comes in. The shadow is slow-moving, but familiar.

“Pop Pop.” I call his name but he doesn't answer, just stands in the doorway while the door opens in front of him.

To say it's eerie is an understatement, because at the exact moment the door opens all the way, tapping the wall behind it, a fierce streak of lightning sparks through the window illuminating Pop Pop's upright body. And by upright I mean he's not in his normal crouched-over position that he has when walking or even sitting because of his osteoporosis.

When I sit up, my feet hit the floor at the precise moment another bolt of lightning streaks through the room. I see him clearly then. “Pop Pop, what are you doing up? Is something wrong?”

He kind of cocks his head as he looks at me, as if I should already know the answer to that question. “Things are not what they seem. You should know that and keep it in mind. Your choice will affect them all.”

“How?” I ask, anxious for him to tell me all he knows.

But Pop Pop doesn't speak. Instead he looks to the window like he's waiting for someone or something. I look to the window as well, standing up from my bed. Through the storm I see a light, small as a pebble at first but then growing and growing until I'm squinting my eyes to see.

The light shines brightly through my window, casting shadows on the far wall. Shadows that seem to come alive and are moving directly toward Pop Pop.

Before I can scream or react in any way, at my side I hear a sound like a gasp, and the moment I turn to him Pop Pop falls to the floor.

 

When I think of my life, it makes me angry.

When I think of Krystal possibly still pining away for Franklin, or even using me as a replacement, it pisses me off!

When I think of Pace and Mateo and their small-minded jerk attitudes, I want to break something.

I'm used to dealing with anger, it's been a part of me all my life. I've always been angry at something: Mom leaving, Dad working so much, Grandma dying, Pop Pop getting sick, kids at school, adults at school. You name it, I've been angry about it. Seems like second nature to me now.

Tonight, however, the anger's different, the feelings moving through me are foreign. And yet I'm embracing them.

The last hour has been eventful, more eventful than any other time of my life. Pop Pop collapsed, I yelled for Dad and we called for an ambulance. The siren was loud and broke through the noise of the storm as the vehicle raced down our street. All the while Pop Pop remained perfectly still. His eyes had closed and he looked as if he were sleeping while the paramedics worked on him. I think I knew it then.

At the hospital Dad went back into the room with him, only to come back out twenty minutes later with a somber look on his face. I didn't need him to say the words.

When I was finally allowed in to see him, or the shell that used to be my grandfather, I didn't know what to say or what
to do. I'd never been that close to a dead body before. It didn't feel as weird as I'd once thought it would, possibly because it was my grandfather. And I didn't feel as sad as I thought I should, instead I was just pissed off. Because no matter what the doctors said or didn't do, I know this was no accident.

The truth was in the shadows, the ones that appeared on my bedroom wall just before Pop Pop collapsed. I could be angry with Charon, because somewhere deep inside I know the shadows had done his bidding. Or I could be angry with the world I was living in, the one that demanded our power be kept secret; the one that crapped on people like me and my family all the time; the one that gave kids like Mateo and Pace a free pass to do whatever they wanted.

Good and evil went beyond the gods and demons and the Majestic, they were here, in Lincoln, Connecticut, and throughout the world in so many shapes and forms. Wouldn't it be nice to have the upper hand, to have the power to do away with one or the other? The power that was right at my fingertips.

Now, standing in the hall at the hospital, so many thoughts and scenarios run through my mind, all of them beginning with the cruelty and unfairness of the world and ending with Pop Pop dying. Dead. Gone. Forever. My fingers clench and my temples throb. I feel nauseous and then I feel empowered, pushed to do something. I can't believe they couldn't do anything for him, couldn't save him. Isn't that what hospitals and doctors get paid for? The nurse said it was a massive heart attack. They have medication for that, or some such crap. Then why couldn't they bring him back? I knew the answer but it didn't stop the pain and fury now occupying every available
crevice of my body. Pop Pop can't be gone. He shouldn't be gone. Because I still need him.

“Jake.” Dad calls my name and the tone of his voice matches that stupid doctor's. I don't want to hear whatever he's getting ready to say. My head falls back against the wall and I close my eyes. Hopefully this will let him know I don't want to hear any more.

His hand grips my shoulder. “Let's go home, son. Nothing more we can do here.”

Nothing more we can do. Nothing we can do. Nothing. Nothing.

The words play over and over in my head like a scratched CD. I want to scream. I want to cry. No, I want to fight.

Against life.

Against death.

Against any and everything that has ever caused me pain. I want to cause them pain right back.

“I'm not going,” I say, pulling away from Dad's grasp. To say he looks shocked is an understatement. Then he sighs and drags a hand down his face.

“Look, Jake. We can talk about this more at home. I'm tired, it's raining buckets outside and I just lost my father, dammit!” The last statement comes out like a burst of air. I've never heard my father talk that loud or seen him look that serious. But it doesn't change my stance.

“I can't go back there,” I say, the words sticking in my chest, lodging right beside the lump of sorrow.

Dad walks toward me, reaches out and hugs me close to him. His embrace is tight and at first I resist. After all, we're guys, we're not supposed to cry, and definitely not in public. But I don't think I can stop the tears from coming. I certainly
can't stop the pain from ripping through my chest. I want him to be alive, to be breathing, to say something. I want my grandfather back.

My arms go around Dad and the sobs come full force. I don't care who sees or hears me, I don't care what happens from this moment on. Without Pop Pop none of it matters to me anymore.

 

Two days later we're standing in the cemetery, right next to Great-uncle William's grave. There's a six-foot hole there, with a coffin held up by what look like bungee cords, waiting to be lowered as soon as the last prayer is muttered.

Rev. Lawrence, from Krystal's church, is standing at the top side of the casket on this green felt material that I don't know if is meant to just look like grass or to help cover the still-damp ground. There are a couple rows of chairs behind me, but I don't feel like sitting. Neither does Dad. So we're both standing near the casket. It's the color of cement with a slight gloss to it. I have no idea why I'm noticing something as trivial as the color of my grandfather's casket. Especially when I'm feeling like my entire world has come to an end.

I know that sounds drastic. And yes, my dad, who has always been there for me and who has promised to stand by me no matter what, is right beside me. He's living and breathing and doing what he does best. Still, I feel so lost, so alone in this world now.

I am here, Jake. Always.

The voice comforts me. It probably shouldn't but it does.

The sky's still a dusty gray, has been for the last four days now. Some people from Dad's job showed up, and some older people who knew Pop Pop when he was of sound mind. I saw
Sasha, Lindsey and Krystal at the church, but I haven't spoken to any of them since I heard them talking about me that day after school. They've been calling me, but my cell phone is still on the desk in my room. Right where it was the night Pop Pop came in and collapsed.

I don't have anything to say to them. They're all against me for whatever reason. I did talk to Twan briefly as I was leaving the church, but he and his aunt just wanted to offer their condolences. Other than that my mouth has remained shut. Just like the rest of me.

I feel tingling in my biceps but I'm ignoring it. I don't want the power right now. This is Pop Pop's last day here on this Earth, at least for his body. I don't want it marred by thoughts of anything else.

The reverend is finished talking and people are walking away. Dad drops a hand on my shoulder. “You coming?”

I shake my head, unable to move and refusing to take my eyes off the casket.

“I'll wait in the car. Take your time,” he says. I nod and wait for him to walk away.

Only when I think I'm alone do I take a deep breath and move a step closer to the casket.

“I just want you to know that I listened to everything you said, Pop Pop. I heard every word.” Tears sting my eyes, but I try with all my might to hold them back.

“I'm not Great-uncle William. I will be better. I promise.”

And just as I speak those words I move to touch the casket one last time. Its surface is piping hot, singeing my fingers. I pull my hand back, cursing as the sky crackles with lightning. The wind picks up and I turn around.

The rest of the townspeople walking to their cars probably
think we're about to get another thunderstorm. But I know better.

To my right about five tombstones over I see Krystal, Lindsey and Sasha standing, watching me. To my left I hear the flap of wings and know exactly what's coming.

“Run!” I try to warn them, but they don't move, just keep watching me.

As a swarm of ravens descends from the gray sky, I turn to face them. Holding my arms open wide I stop them where they are. “Get back!” I yell.

They stand still with their wings flapping, staring intently.

Then I hear something, like a ripping sound, then a crash. As I look behind me my eyeballs almost fall out of their sockets. The ground is breaking open, old caskets surging upward, opening to allow zombie-like corpses to roam free.

A putrid stench floats on the wind as a low howling begins to sound. I look back and the ravens have broken their stance. As the zombies approach me from one end, the ravens fall to the ground, rising again as the black silhouettes I'd seen before. I'm in the middle of a battle. Dead versus deader.

I look around frantically for some sort of weapon and instead see Krystal, head bowed, lips moving like she's chanting something. Sasha, who was once standing next to Krystal, is now right in front of me.