Mayhem (5 page)

“But
I haven't seen him as a ghost,” Krystal says.

Sasha asks, “Does that mean he's not dead?”

“I guess. I mean, I hope he's not dead.”

And with those words I lose exactly that—hope.

Hope that I'd ever fit in at this stupid school with these idiotic kids and their ridiculous cliques. Hope that for just one year I can be normal enough to get through it without incident. Hope that Krystal will like me the way I like her.

They're standing in front of the building on the top landing of the steps leading to the sidewalk where the buses line up. Krystal with her hair draped over her shoulder and Sasha with her profusion of curls haloing her face. Lindsey isn't there, but that's not a surprise. I don't know where she went after the last school bell rang. But unless we plan to meet, she usually vanishes into the crowd of other kids eager to get home.

I catch the end of their conversation. If I hadn't been in such a hurry to get away from Strickman I would have missed it entirely. That might have seemed better, but would have only prolonged the inevitable.

Krystal is still hung up on Franklin.

Franklin, the local weatherman's son, the one who fell into the lake and came out with demon eyes trying to suck Krystal's eyes right out of her head.

As if that wasn't reason enough, I'd never liked him from the start. That could possibly be because he got to Krystal first, but I'd like to think I'm mature enough to have a more rational reason. Okay, I don't, but who cares. Nobody knows how much I like Krystal anyway.

“Oh, hey, Jake. Whoa,” Sasha says, stepping around Krystal to come closer to me. “What happened to your face?”

Krystal turns and her eyes widen. “Oh, Jake, what happened?”

“Is that the question of the day?” I ask, praying the hurt coursing through my body doesn't come through my words. Walking down the steps I half hope they don't follow me. But they do, still asking what happened and looking at me expectantly the way girls do when they want an answer.

I'm heading toward the buses when Sasha says, “Mouse is here, I can take you both home.”

“Good. Jake doesn't look like he needs to be on the bus today,” Krystal says.

What does being on the bus have to do with my swollen and still-bloodied nose? “I'm fine,” I say to no avail because they've each looped an arm through one of mine and are now escorting me to the car.

“Now tell us everything that happened.” Sasha talks in a whisper like she's afraid what I have to say might be top secret.

“I said I'm fine,” I say again, slower this time because maybe they didn't hear me the first go-round.

“You are not fine. Your nose is huge and there's blood on your chin and your shirt.”

This wasn't an observation I wanted Krystal making about me, but what could I do at this point? I shrug, realizing that
I still have on the shirt from my gym class. Nurse Hilden retrieved my clothes from my locker, but I stuffed the shirt in my bag and quickly stepped into my jeans. The gym shirt was bloody, as if my head had been split open instead of just a nosebleed.

Arriving at the car Sasha finally lets my arm go, but she steps in front of me, putting one hand on her hip, the other holding her book bag. “You can stop being all snippy and just tell us, Jake.”

But I don't want to tell her or Krystal. I just want to go home and forget about it. I sigh because Sasha is notoriously stubborn. She's like a pit bull with…well, with anything in its mouth. Once she gets ahold of something she doesn't let go until she's got exactly what she wants out of it.

“I got hit with the basketball,” I say, then move to open the passenger side door.

Mouse, Sasha's bodyguard, is standing near the hood of the car. He turns and looks at us. Mouse has always made me nervous. Actually, the fact that Sasha, a sixteen-year-old high school student living in Lincoln has a bodyguard at all makes me a little uncomfortable. I mean, what does she need a bodyguard for in this town? And if her life is “like that,” meaning rich and famous enough to need protection, then why is she here in Lincoln at Settleman's High in the first place? Well, an easy answer to that is there's no other high school in Lincoln. I guess her parents could have sent her away to school, an exclusive private school no doubt, but she's here. And so is Mouse, glaring at me with a look that says he knows something else is going on. I clench my teeth so hard my jaw hurts. Mouse knows about us, the Mystyx, but he never says any
thing about it. That makes me even more suspicious. I wonder what else he knows.

“You play basketball as well as any of them on the team. How'd you manage to get hit by the ball?” Krystal asks, sliding into the backseat with me. Why hadn't she sat up front?

I sigh and lay my head back on the seat. The passenger side door closes and I hear Sasha turning around in her seat.

“Yeah, you're a great player. And you have great eyesight. You didn't see the ball coming?”

These two are acting like detectives from some corny primetime drama.

“It's nothing. Just an accident. Let's just drop it,” I say finally.

The driver's side door closes and Mouse says, “He will be fine in the morning. Don't worry. Put your seat belts on.”

Everybody does what Mouse says. His voice is just like that, it makes you do whatever he says even if you don't want to. Kind of like Darth Vader without all that heavy breathing.

The girls let it drop, but I can feel Krystal looking at me. Every few minutes or so she watches me kind of on the sly. I know because I'm watching her that way, too. I wish I could just reach out and take her hand, that would be comforting. I could forget about everything that had happened today, I know I would. With just her touch I would feel calm.

But I won't touch her. Haven't since she started seeing Franklin. It's strange to have so much power brewing inside me but not have enough courage to touch the girl I'm crazy about.

Maybe I'm just crazy.

Anyway, I never do touch Krystal, nor do I say anything else to her. And Mouse, thank goodness, drops me off first. I
climb out of the car quickly, muttering a goodbye or something, and quickly walk into the house. I don't even look back to wave.

 

Relationships between fathers and sons aren't supposed to be easy. At least that's what I think. Same goes for mothers and sons, but I can't really attest to that one. I just think it's generationally impossible for a parent to understand their child one hundred percent. Sure they say they do because they've
been there and done that,
but that's not really true. Because time changes things. There's no possible way any parent could have experienced everything their child has or is going through.

So when my dad comes into my room and sits at my old ratty desk, pushing my keyboard back just a little so he can rest his arm there and says, “Look, Jake, I know what you're going through,” I know I'm in trouble.

Not the grounded-for-life kind of trouble—my dad doesn't do that. Besides, my life is so dull that grounding me wouldn't actually seem like punishment. This feels deeper, though, like he's about to talk about stuff I'd rather not talk about, which is just about anything. Especially now when I've resigned myself to lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling with its water stains from the leaking roof, thinking about how the girl I might be just a little bit in love with still obsesses about somebody else.

“This is hard for me,” he says, clearing his throat and running his hands through his hair. It's been too long since he visited Henley at the barbershop, but I bet that's not what he's here to talk about.

“What happened to your nose?” he asks abruptly.

I don't think that's what he's here to talk about, either.

I shrug. “I got in the way of the ball in gym. No biggie.”

“Is it broken?” he says with concern.

“No. The nurse says probably just bruised.” She'd said more, but I didn't want my dad thinking we really should go to the hospital. He seems okay with that and moves on.

“I don't want you getting mixed up in this supernatural stuff,” he says finally, and sounds like it's taken a huge weight off his shoulders.

I roll over, prop my head up on my hand and look at him. “Why?” It seems like a simple enough question but Dad takes an outrageously long time to think about the answer.

“It takes people away.”

As far as answers go, this isn't what I expect. Not from Dad.

He continues, “Your mother knew about the ‘curse' or these ‘powers.'” He lifts his fingers to make those silly air quotes. Now I see where I get my geekiness.

“My own father was the one who said he saw something in you the day you were born. He knew you'd be one of them. I think he was talking about your birthmark but I didn't care. I just wanted him to shut up.”

Dad sighs and stares at my computer screen for a minute. Then he looks back to me and his eyes seem kind of odd, more sad than mad.

“Me and your mother, we were happy together. And we were happy when we had you. And then all that changed.”

I remember feeling that way. Like all was well and then… “Because she left?”

He shook his head. “No, because of that power.”

“My power,” I say since it doesn't seem like he wants to acknowledge it.

“She was scared of it, scared of the things you could do,
you might do. All the stories and the predictions. It worried her so much.”

I nod like I understand and I think on some level I do. On another level I can feel the pinpricks of anger brewing. It's so normal to me now, this feeling of discontent, of simmering rage. More often than not I'm upset about something or agitated. I'm beginning to think that's my nature.

“You don't believe in the power, do you?” I ask suddenly, wanting to know, wanting to hear him say it.

“Oh, no, son. I do believe in it. I believe it made my uncle insane and drove him away from all he knew and loved. I believe it's dangerous and that's why I want you to stay away from it, Jake. I don't want you anywhere near what might be happening.”

“What
is
happening, Dad. It's already started and I'm already involved. I don't know if I can stop now.”

“You can!” he says, turning to me, leaning over so his elbows are pressing into his knees. “You have to. It's the only way to guarantee you'll be safe, that we'll all be safe.”

I feel myself shaking my head, disagreeing with my dad. It's not something I do often, just because it seems easier to keep my opinions to myself. Arguing with my dad or anybody else for that matter just doesn't seem worth it. Or at least it didn't, until now.

“I don't think so.”

“What do you mean you don't think so? You don't know what this is all about. You have no idea what you're getting yourself into. None of you do!”

“But I feel like I have to do it.”

“You don't have to. Say no, turn away from it and it'll go away.”

I can hear the urgency in his voice. He wants me to believe what he's saying and he wants me to obey him. But I don't think I can.

“I don't know, Dad” is all I say. “I just don't know.”

“I'm warning you, Jake. For all our sakes, just walk away from this.”

Then he stands up and walks out of my room as abruptly as he came in. That's how it is with Dad. He says what he wants, then he's done with it. I never get explanations from him. He just is who and what he is, for better or worse.

I definitely put him in the “for better” category, since he's the one who decided to stick around. Ever since my mom left he's been both Mom and Dad to me, he's caretaker to my grandfather and the sole provider for all three of us. I help out around the house and with Pop Pop, because I know my dad can't do everything—even though he tries. I'm glad he stuck around, that he thought I was worth it. So I can understand why he's afraid.

But I'm not.

I don't think I'll ever be afraid again.

My eyes
open and every nerve in my body is alert. I'm awake even though I'm positive it's still nighttime. I'm in my room, lying in my bed. But I'm not alone. I know that as surely as I know my name.

He's here, the one who is a part of me. He's waiting.

For what I'm not sure. But I sit up in the bed and let the energy flow through my body. It flows like a cool breeze, like icy-cold water sipped through a straw. I feel it filling me up like a balloon, inflating me.

When my legs move and my feet hit the floor, I'm staring at absolutely nothing in front of me. And yet I feel him. I don't know, maybe it's an
it.
But because I really believe he's a part of me I'll keep referring to it as
him.

It's time you know the truth,
he tells me.

I nod, like, “yeah, I'm ready to know the truth.” I don't know why but I don't think speech is necessary. He's inside me, inside my mind and my body. So whatever I think or say he knows.

To the window,
he says, and I get up from the bed and walk to my window.

Open it.

I do.

Now jump.

Huh?

I turn back looking around the room at nothing once more.

Trust me, Jake.

I take a deep breath. It's two stories. I guess I could break a leg or maybe my ankle, or if I fall wrong, my arm. I'd definitely bruise my face, which wouldn't ordinarily bother me, but with the swollen nose Pace gave me today I don't think I need any more bruises in that area.

Okay, so I lean through the window, then decide I can't do it looking down. I turn, sit my butt on the sill, then twist so that my feet are hanging out the side of the window. There's a crisp breeze blowing, actually it's cutting against the bare skin of my legs and feet. This morning it was like an inferno, and now this. But it's Lincoln, and we have wacky weather all the time, so I'm not at all concerned.

Well, yeah, I am, because as I sit here thinking about the weather I'm hesitating to jump. Obviously, I'm hesitating too much, as I feel a push from behind, then I'm just out there, flailing in the breeze. When I think I'm going to crash into the ground with a loud thud that will wake Pop Pop and break all my bones, the exact opposite happens. It's not a fast fall, just a slow-motion drop. I can see myself going down but not the ground rushing up toward me. I'm in an upright position so my face isn't in danger of smacking the dirt first. And with a light muffled sound my bare feet touch the ground as if I'd just taken a step out of my window and landed down here.

Walk with me,
the voice says.

Pulling my T-shirt down I shake off the first of the shivers and begin to walk. My boxers are short but my T-shirt is long, thankfully. That only means I probably look like some girly dork walking outside in the middle of the night in my
underwear, no less. I don't see anybody around so I guess I don't have to worry about being razzed about this tomorrow on the bus.

In another time and place there was a goddess who ruled over everything.

Styx,
I volunteer, eager to show I know something at least.

She ruled my world, bringing the strongest of gods to their knees before her.

Who are you?

I am that from which your power was born.

I thought our powers came from the weather. That's what Fatima said.

The Messenger can only tell you so much. She cannot tip the scales. She could just as easily have been a messenger of dark. Styx has control of her.

So Fatima lied to us. Is that what you're telling me?

I am telling you that there is more to know.

Like what?

You are very powerful because my displeasure with her was great. That is why the storms grow so violent. She controls the sun and the moon, the power that surges from both. Her plan was to create an army to fight against me. With my own power, I add to the intensity, the heat, the heart of every storm.

So our power is from both of you. Styx who is the light and you…
my thought trails off.

I am the dark. And so are you.

I stop, right there my feet refuse to move. “I am not dark.” The words come out of my mouth before I can prevent them.

You have me inside of you. I know it. I have felt it.

No,
I say, but feel just a bit of truth to the words.

You have felt it, too. You like the feeling. It is feeding your hungry soul.

I am a Mystyx. We were created to fight against the dark, in the name of Styx and her curse.

You do not even know what her curse is or its purpose.

I know that she cursed the dark. She is the light.

She is the goddess of the river that circles the Underworld. There is no light in the Underworld.

My toes curl into the drying grass. I'd walked behind the houses close to the tracks but not crossing them where the woods awaited on the other side. There are sloping hills here, land not yet used for new construction. A few months back all this land was slotted to become a new club for the Richies, but Sasha put a stop to that. How she'd done it she never said, but my family and the rest of the residents nearby had been able to keep our houses because of her. I was sort of thankful because that meant my dad and Pop Pop had a place to live. As for me, I don't want to stay here anyway.

All that aside, the voice within's words ring in my mind. What he'd just said made absolute sense. But how could that be?

So the goddess Styx is evil? Is that what you're saying?

There is a blurry line between good and evil, light and dark, or whatever you wish to call it in this place. But yes, she is from the Underworld, therefore she is of a dark nature. And you are born of her.

Which meant I was dark? Or at least I think that's what he's trying to tell me.

The other Mystyx are born of her, too.
I still don't get what he's trying to tell me.

They do not have the power you have.

This is true. All of us have different powers. But I'm the
only one with an active power. Krystal is a medium, a power linked to her mind and her acceptance. Lindsey is telepathic, again, her power uses the mind, not a physical essence. Sasha, on the other hand, can move through space. But her powers have no effect on anyone other than her. I was the only one who could lift or move objects, hurt people.

You can do so much more. I can teach you.

What he's saying sounds right and wrong all at the same time. If he's here and he's telling me this, then he—the voice within me—is evil.

No!

Search your heart, Jake. You hunger for what I have to teach you. And when you are ready you will ask for my help. You will need me.

“No!” I yell out loud this time and turn back, running toward my house like a band of wild dogs is chasing me. I run so fast I can't even feel my feet touching the ground. Then I'm standing beneath the back window of the house, no key to get in. I should be out of breath, but I'm not. Looking up at the window that I'd jumped out of I wonder how I'm going to get back inside.

Jump.

The voice is speaking again, but I want to ignore it. I want to shut it out for good because I don't like what it said or how those words make me feel. Still, I need to get back inside.

Taking a few steps back I start to run again. Then I jump and land right on the windowsill. Adrenaline pours through my veins and I can't help but smile. It's a rush, this running fast without effort and jumping up and down two stories. I feel powerful, almighty, confident.

Then I slip inside, climb back into my bed and feel confused all over again.

 

The first thing I notice this morning, looking in the bathroom mirror, is that my nose is healed. There's no bruising, no swelling, nothing. I look exactly the way I did yesterday morning, ratty brown hair and all.

Not possible, is my first thought. My nose was twice its normal size yesterday, puffed up like somebody had put a glob of clay in the middle of my face. It was purple and bruised and sore.

I touch my nose now as I continue to stare in confusion. It doesn't hurt when I touch it, the color is normal, the size just fine. Long, narrow, a little crooked, just like it was yesterday morning and the day before that. As if Pace had never thrown that ball and I'd never caught it with my face.

The heat starts then, right in my biceps where it always originates. The green is glowing as I turn to the side and spy it in the mirror. My power. It's growing. Curious to see how much power I have, I stand back from the mirror staring at it until it swings on its hinges, opening the way to the medicine cabinet. Inside I focus on the bottles of pills, jars of cold elixir, cotton balls and swabs. They all start moving, marching out of the cabinet in a long line. All around the bathroom they go, coming back to the same place on the shelf again. The mirrored door slams shut and I see myself again.

My hair is thick and flying in all directions, my eyes blaze with adrenaline. Reaching for the drawer I grab the scissors and start whacking away at the long strands of hair that curled over my shirt or hooded jackets. I cut it so short my scalp is almost visible. On top there's a little more left, but it isn't in my eyes anymore. My entire face is visible, from the line of
my jaw to the bridge of my nose and the vein slightly protruding in my forehead.

I look different, which is good, because I feel different. Stepping into the shower I bathe with an urgency I've never felt before. Anxious and looking forward to getting dressed and going to school is new to me. Breakfast is a half glass of milk. Nobody's in the kitchen. Pop Pop is usually awake in the mornings when I leave but I don't see him. Ms. Tompkins, the part-time nurse my dad hired to take care of him, isn't here yet, either. Dad would already be gone, his shift at the electric company starts early. But I don't give any of that much attention.

Grabbing my book bag I head out, walking down the street with long easy strides, no longer with the hesitation of facing another day at Settleman's. I'm ready for the day and for anything that confronts me.

Or at least I think I am.