Unspoken by Adam Allegro
The clock in Mrs. Webber’s fifth grade class runs in hyperdrive, and my heart’s a hopscotching elephant thumping twice the speed of the red second hand. My hands are clammy and cold. Panic squeezes my brain and sweat fogs my coke-bottle glasses, as the words I rehearsed a thousand times yesterday with my neighbor, Miss Donovan, are disorganized and fleeting. Every fact about the light bulb is jumbled soup - filaments, The Royal Institute, 1200 hours, electric arc lamp, 1802, Menlo Park, patents, Humpry something, 1879, glowing carbon, Thomas Edison, charcoal rods, resistance - a wilting word salad without dressing or croutons. Can’t even remember where I’m supposed to start. And I’m going next. And I have to pee.
Charlotte Ross, basically perfect in every way, finishes her flawless report on the printing press. I pray to any god for her to keep talking, but when she smiles that I-know-I’m-the-best smile at Mrs. Webber, it’s clear I’m doomed.
“Wonderful, Charlotte,” says Mrs.Webber. “Truly informative and expertly presented. Well done!”
I look down as a beaming Charlotte skip-glides back to her seat. If I don’t make eye contact with Mrs. Webber, maybe she’ll forget about me and we can break for lunch.
“Alright, Stevie,” she says instead. “You’re up. Let’s hear all about the light bulb!”
Now I’m really sweating. Like an inmate meeting the executioner, I rise from my desk on shaky legs and sheepishly trudge to the front of the class, my overburdened bladder hounding me with every step. My runaway breath beats me there.
Standing before my classmates makes me forget even more. They don’t care about the light bulb, they just want to see a trainwreck in real time. Seconds that feel like weeks pass, and my tongue’s a knot. I turn to Mrs. Webber to save me but she withholds the life ring and I drown.
“Go ahead, Stevie. Whenever you’re ready.”
I inhale bits of courage and exhale a stutter.
“In… In 1802 - I mean in 1879, Humphry Ediso-”
“A little louder so everyone can hear,” smiles Mrs. Webber.
“In 1879, Humphry Edison was at the Royal Institute of Menlo Park when he invented the electric arc bulb in 1200 hours.” I can’t remember anything else.
Mrs. Webber frowns and her eyebrows scrunch, one higher than the other. “Stevie Wilkins, did you do any preparation for today?”
“Yes, I really did… I kinda forgot some stuff though.”
“Hmm,” she scrutinizes. “Why don’t you start over.”
A tidal wave of panic pours over me. Some students giggle and whisper. My shaky legs threaten to dislodge my thighs, which are currently puckered tight to hold my overfull bladder.
“Ok.” I devour a breath, begging the memorized words to return. They ignore me. “In 1802 Humphry Edison was at the… the… He was at the Royal Menlo… the Menlo Insti - Royal Menlo Institute in Menlo Par-”
It begins with a hot trickle. The first to snicker, of course, is Rusty Todd, the biggest bully in school. Next Tina Chang covers her gasping mouth, and Jeremy Peckman giggles maniacally, almost falling out of his chair, and Elliot Folleti gawks with disbelieving eyes as if an alien just appeared out of nowhere. Then the seeping dam fully crumbles, my jeans staining warm and dark down my right leg.
“Settle down class!” barks Mrs Webber. “Enough!”
But the room is already a circus laughing and jeering machine gun bullets at me. I’m desperate for safehaven but everyone’s in shambles. Everyone except Charlotte Ross.
Panicked and embarrassed, I bolt for the door and explode crying into the hall while the class roars behind me.
It’s the worst day of my life.
***
The tears rolling down my cheeks help with the hurt. I can’t decide what to do when Charlotte walks out of the classroom, her usual bubbly manner replaced with tender concern. I don’t dare meet her eyes, not usually, definitely not now.
“Mrs. Webber asked me to walk you to the nurse’s office. To change your…” she peers down to my accident. “...you know.”
I want to die.
“K,” I mumble without looking up. I can’t move.
She takes my hand and leads me forward. Her fingers around my dead-fish make me want to run far away and hug her at the same time.
“You know what?” Charlotte’s voice is soothing and soft. “Sometimes I still wet my bed. I even did it in class last semester, but no one noticed. I just kept smiling and acting like it didn’t happen.”
I finally look up. Her soft eyes make me feel better, and I half-smile, which makes her smile too. I realize we’ve been walking this whole time, and now we’re at the nurse’s office.
“Don’t hate yourself, Stevie. They’ll all forget about it soon.” She takes a few steps then turns back. “By the way, I was super excited to hear your presentation.”
“Thanks, Charlotte.” I don’t want to die anymore, just crawl inside a deep hole and stay there until I’m a grown up. Charlotte nods and returns to the classroom, and I go in to see the nurse.
***
Nurse Robin seals my damp jeans in a big plastic bag and gives me a spare pair of PE shorts, then calls my mom but no one answers. She shoos me off to lunch like I’m a stray cat. I hide in a bathroom stall for the period instead of eating with the others. I’m not hungry anyway.
At some point Rusty Todd and two of his friends burst into the bathroom jeering and reeling, recalling the ‘hilarious’ presentation over and over. It hurts my chest to hear. I plug my ears and pretend they’re the bad guys in an action flick who die at the end. Dad would have wanted me to stay strong, so I do. After the bell rings I take the long way back to class and slip into my seat without looking at anyone.
All afternoon I feel their penetrating eyes - rubberneckers trying to glimpse the fiery aftermath. I blank stare at my geography book cover while they review state capitals, then blank stare at my math book during multiplication tables. When Mrs. Webber dismisses us for the day, I’m the first out the door.
My older brother, Tim, a kind-of-popular seventh grader, is late to meet me again. “Sweet shorts, nerd,” he mocks, holding up the bag with my jeans. Tiny golden-clear water droplets streak inside the plastic. “So you pissed yourself?” He hands me the evidence and I quickly stow it inside my backpack. I don’t want to talk about it.
“Ya,” is all I can manage.
“It happens, little bro. Don’t stress.” His cool eyes search the emptying parking lot. He coughs, then clears his throat. “Mom didn’t answer, huh?”
“No.”
“Figures. Since the accident she’s been totally checked out.”
Just say it, Tim. Since dad died.
“C’mon dude, our ride’ll be here soon.” He places a hand upon my slumped shoulder and ushers me to the bus stop.
***
We ride in silence. Tim’s buried in his phone and I’m studying the other commuters. The school bus doesn’t go near our house, so we take public transportation with all the grown ups when mom’s working. I let my imagination wander, wondering what they might be thinking, where they might be going, then nudge Tim from his digital hypnosis when our stop arrives. We walk the rest of the way home.
Mom should be back from work by now. I just want to hug her and cry this awful day away while she strokes my hair and tells me everything’s going to be okay. Like she used to. But there’s no car in the driveway, and mom doesn’t love that way anymore. Why I spend so much time with Miss Donovan, the old widow inventor next door. Also my best friend. Tim makes fun of me, but I don’t care. A bolt of excitement strikes as I see her car parked in front of her garage. I wonder what she’s working on today, and plan to find out shortly.
“Race you up!” shouts Tim.
He beats me up the entry stairs like always and bounds up to his room to squeeze in some gaming before mom gets back. I know she’s working extra to keep the house, but I still miss her. Leaving the front door ajar, I toss my backpack in my room, put on clean clothes, grab an oatmeal cookie from the kitchen, my least favorite kind, and explode outside slamming the door as I leave.
Crumbs sprinkle like dry hail as I stuff the cookie in my mouth opening the gate to Miss Donovan’s yard. The side garage door is unlocked like always, so I give it a quick knock-knock-knock and walk inside to a comforting scene. Curious contraptions and intriguing doodads litter shelves and every corner of the space - machines and apparati big and small in different states of completion. Even though she’s explained most of them, they’re still foreign and magical. It’s more exciting than Doc Brown’s Back to the Future garage, but it’s real.
Miss Donovan sits in her usual spot at the workbench, but today she’s napping instead of tinkering. Her head rests awkwardly between scattered tools and fasteners. I consider going home so I don’t wake her. Instead I move closer, as something unspoken beckons. I tiptoe around the swivel chair, desperate to wake her and share my horrible day because I know she’ll make me feel better.
I gasp when I see my best friend’s face. Her over-wide eyes are cloudy and flaccid, sunken like they weigh a thousand pounds. She’s still as a rock, and no breath blows from her half-open mouth.
“Miss… Donovan?” I ask, but already know she’s dead.
***
I’m not sure what to do, so I just stare. Minutes creep by until I shake myself aware. There’s an overwhelming urge to run outside and scream, yet curiosity keeps me. I step closer to poke her shoulder but nothing happens. Invisible waves stagger me, so I decide it’s time to leave and tell Tim. Maybe he’ll know what to do.
Backing away from Miss Donovan’s corpse, I trip over something and crash-thud to the polished cement floor like a shot soldier in one of those grownup war movies. When my wind returns I slide the small shipping box from under my calves and read the sloppily scribbled note taped on top.
For Stevie Wilkins Only! The ‘Only’ is underlined twice.
Clutching the box so tight to my chest that the cardboard creases, I glance one final time at Miss Donovan’s lifeless eyes before speed walking outside like a shady shoplifter stealing something priceless. Crisp, refreshing air pulls me to the sidewalk. I debate opening it right then and there, but don’t, as I know in my bones it’s meant to be received in private. I walk like everything’s normal. The dipping sun shoots a cooling breeze through the neighborhood.
Instead of telling Tim straight off, I head up to my room and slide the box under my bed. Then I wait outside his door. Normally he’d grapple me into a headlock if I entered uninvited, but this was serious. I barge in and get right to it before he berates me.
“Miss Donovan’s dead!” I declare without weaseling around.
“What the…” He drops his controller and gets killed on screen. “You made me die!” he barks, swiveling his gaming chair. “My door’s closed, shitbrain! Means you knock!” He rises to throttle me.
“STOP!” I shout with all my might. “She’s dead, Tim. Like really dead.”
He freezes. “What? Really?”
“Yes. Come look.”
Alarmed excitement paints his face. “Damn… I gotta see this.”
***
I watch from the garage door while Tim heads inside. Once intrigue shifts to despair, he calls mom five times until she answers.
“She says we gotta go home and wait for her.” So we do.
We’re plastered to the living room window watching the police arrive, then a fire truck, then an ambulance, then the coroner. When mom’s blue wagon skids into the driveway we sprint from the house and jump into her open arms, and I kind of get the hug I craved earlier.
A screeching gurney wheels Miss Donavan’s corpse to the ambulance. I quietly heart-whisper goodbye to my best friend. Tears slide down my cheeks but I don’t cry. I think about the box under my bed and wonder why it’s so important - wonder what might be waiting inside.
Mom brings us into the hallway and says something about life and death. I’m not listening.
“You guys alright?”
We both nod, but I can tell Tim’s confused and affected by it all. Mom can’t. I’ve seen dead raccoons and mice before, even a rotting cat once, so I know it’s just a thing that happens sometimes.
“Okay,” exhales mom, a burden avoided. I’m relieved she doesn’t ask about the accident in class. After yet another double shift I know she just wants to feed us, take her feelgood pills, and lay down. “Call you when dinner’s ready.” Then she’s in the kitchen and Tim and I trudge upstairs. He doesn’t play any video games, just sits silently in his chair staring out the window.
Guilty anticipation pulls me into my room. I close the door and place the box on my unmade bed, gazing at the thing to stretch the moment. Unable to resist any longer, I run scissors through tape to unfurl flaps, holding my breath the whole time. I’m an eager gopher digging through the crumpled packing paper until my fingers flirt with a familiar object - a pair of thick, black glasses, identical to the ones currently sagging below my bridge. Looking closer I see lenses are different. Tiny crosshatched circuits stitch the glass, so small they’re all but transparent, and the temple tips are slightly thicker, with miniscule holes littering the inners of each side. Mild disappointment taints the moment because I don’t understand what power they hold yet. Tossing the frames aside, I upturn to the box to see if I missed something. Crumpled packing drops like rain, then a handwritten note glides to the mattress.
My Dear Stevie, it begins. I have treasured our time together. Thank you for being such a dear friend with the weird old lady next door. These eyeglasses are very special. I created them specifically for you. They hold an unseen power, as you will soon discover, and are not to be abused for any personal gain under any circumstances. I trust that you will wield them responsibly. Your good friend, Sally Donovan.
Disappointment becomes wonder. I replace my normal glasses with Miss Donovan’s and expect something remarkable. But there’s nothing. They’re as normal and boring as my other pair, same prescription and all. Trying everything to make them work, I finally surrender when mom yells “Dinner!” from downstairs. I grab Tim on the way, who hasn’t moved from where he was earlier.
“C’mon, dude.”
But I just don’t understand it…
“Don’t understand what?” I ask.
Tim spins around hollow and confused, but doesn’t answer.
“Dinnertime,” I say, then take the steps two at a time, my hungry belly leading the way.
Three big bowls of spaghetti with microwaved store-bought sauce sit cooling at the dining room table meant for four. Tim shuffles down behind and plops across from me. Mom’s weary and frustrated, like she’s being pulled eight ways at once.
I NEED a change - something new to kick this slump. These poor kids... And I have to do it all again tomorrow. So, so tired.
“What?”
“Huh? Eat your dinner, Stevie.”
Why’s he looking at me like that? Did I say that out loud? Jesus I’m exhausted.
Mom’s talking without moving her mouth, and I’m a little creeped out. I lower my eyes and twirl some spaghetti.
Tim gazes a hundred miles into his bowl. It’s like dad all over again. And you don't even care.
Mom doesn’t respond. Am I hearing things?
“How was school?” she asks.
Say something. “Fine,” mumbles Tim. “Stevie pissed himself in class.”
Ugh, goddamnit. “What? You did?”
I really don’t want to talk about this. “Uh huh.”
C’mon, kid. You’re almost ten. “Must have been what all those calls were about earlier. Was too busy to check my voicemail. Have you washed them yet?”
“No.”
Jesus Christ. “Stevie! Put them in the washer after dinner. I need to do my work clothes anyway.”
“Okay, mom.”
Tim coughs. I can’t go to school tomorrow.
“Are you feeling alright?” mom asks.
“Think I might be coming down with something.” He coughs again.
“Right. Well, no staying up late playing games, okay? Get a good night’s rest.”
Why’d she have to die? Those empty eyes. “K, mom.” I don’t want to die.
Can’t understand why sounds aren’t matching up, as some of the words I’m hearing aren’t coming from mouths. Then I recognize why Miss Donovan wrote what she did in the note. I’m hearing their thoughts! Next I realize I’m not sure I want to. I want to be alone.
“I’m not feeling so good either,” I lie. “Can I go lay down?”
“Probably for the best,” she replies. Yes, easier if everyone does that. “We’ve all had quite the day. Don’t forget your jeans.”
“I won’t.”
Tim hangs back while I quick-step to clear my plate in the kitchen, then avoid looking at them on my way upstairs. I shut the door to my room, return the paper packaging and mind reading frames to the box, and nudge it back under my bed. On my way to brush my teeth I drop the jeans in the washer. Gazing at my reflection in the bathroom, I decide never to wear the glasses when I’m looking into my own eyes. Who knows what might come of that?
My brain’s spent from their thoughts, or maybe the rollercoaster day, so I quickly return to my room to avoid Tim, who’s now halfway up the stairs, then kill the light and entertain my spinning thoughts until the pillow swallows me.
***
Mom’s already gone when the alarm beeps drag away my dreams. I was afloat and alone in a desert of words that soared past like flying fish, zinging through my ears and nose and mouth, wiggly and alive. As some were buoyant and gentle, most were sad and grainy and hopeless.
After getting ready for school I don my normal pair of glasses and stow the special pair in my backpack. I hustle to grab Tim because we’re running late. His door’s closed, so I knock this time.
“Hey! You ready?”
What sounds like a fake set of coughs rumbles back. “I’m sick, Stevie. You’re on your own today. Already let mom know.”
“Okay, Tim. Hope you feel better.”
I hate riding alone. With no better option I snatch an overripe banana and rush to the bus as it arrives. The big woman driver smiles and doesn’t make me pay. I thank her, then settle into an empty middle row for the twenty minute ride.
Peering around, I remember Miss Donovan’s glasses and decide to try them again. When I look up I’m ambushed by a frenzy of intimate thoughts. Soon I get the hang of things, cutting the chaos by focusing on one person at a time.
A man announces he’s selling candy for gas money. Just need some green for a drink and I’ll be set. Another man gives him a dollar and the first one smiles, says God bless three times. Heh heh, Sucker.
I now understand how powerful these things are, and eagerly try someone else.
The mother across the aisle has two daughters, the younger on her lap and the older beside her swinging a skinny pair of legs. The woman’s playing a game on her phone with a vape pen in her other hand. Her mind is blank until she sees me. What terrible parents let their kid ride the bus alone? She scoffs and takes a puff, blowing into her shirt and her daughter’s hair, then focuses back on her phone while the girls squirm and yearn for attention. Why’s mommy always on that thing? thinks the younger one, wrinkling her nose as the vapor dissipates.
The old man in front of me smells musty and sweet like dust and rotting oranges. His blank, sagging blue eyes gaze through the window at a blurring world. So many regrets… I shoulda at least tried. Coulda chased my dreams. Woulda done it, too. He’s muttering incoherents, and his thumbs rub his forefingers like they’re trying to start tiny fires.
Over my shoulder a younger guy wearing a stained gray sweatsuit rocks back and forth. Fuck, fuck, fuck. So screwed this time. Where’m I gonna find the money?
Up front in the accessible area an old woman with a stick instead of a leg anchors a wheelchair full of empty cans. Her face is pockmarked and sludgy, like it's melting in the slowest motion. Her loose-fitting clothes are tattered and stained. I am oh so grateful for all of your blessings in my life, Lord. I pray that you never allow me to forget my gratitude in prayer and acts of kindness. Thank you, Lord, for all that you’ve given me.
A man in a reflective work vest and sunglasses naps on the other side. His head bounces with the bumps like a blue-collar bobblehead. He wakes up surprised and meets my eyes. Why’s that goofy kid staring at me? I look down immediately.
Most others are taped to their phones, their minds all but shuttered except for some caveman grunts and empty giggles. Then it’s my stop so I quickly exit.
***
The digital bell scolds me for being late. Whatever. I heel-toe through the double doors and move down the locker-lined hallway to my classroom, then discreetly open the door and slip into my seat in the back. Mrs. Miller peers up from reading roll and dismisses my tardiness. Poor Stevie, she thinks. I won’t call on him today. Awesome! When she gets to ‘W’ I shout “here!” like yesterday never happened.
We take out our copies of The Phantom Tollbooth and I pretend I’m following along with the others, but I’m much more interested in my classmates’ thoughts than another boring kids’ book. The room swells with inner chatter, and I realize I’m not the only one lost in my thoughts most of the time.
I laser at Jeremy Peckman, who isn’t thinking anything, just humming a song I don’t recognize. It's boring so I move on.
Sandra Flores fidgets with her hair. I hate this mess. Why can’t it be smooth and silky like Charlotte’s? I wish I was Charlotte. Charlotte’s perfect…
Because he’s to Sandra’s right, Elliot Foletti’s next. Mom never lets me sleep over Jake’s house. She sucks so much. Then, editing his previous thought, I don’t mean that. She could just be a little more chill sometimes. More like dad. I wish I had a Gamestation so I could play Bloodgetter 3 like Jake.
An eager Naveen Das sits tapping her feet in front of them. I hope Mrs. Webber calls me next so she can see how much I practiced. Maybe she’ll tell mom I’m doing great at Back to School night. That would be awesome. Then one day I’ll get into a good college and mom will finally be proud of me.
Next I land on Lauren Reese making a picture in her sketchbook instead of following along. Nothing coherent comes from her mind, just random descriptions and ideas. After some time the scene I’m hearing comes together like scattered puzzle pieces into a whole. It’s a rowboat bobbing in the open ocean while a lone white rabbit holds on for dear life. There’s an approaching storm in the background blotting out the sun. The picture my mind conjures makes me feel small and powerless.
Derrick Sandoval daydreams through the window. I’ll be a superstar athlete one day. Maybe a famous influencer. Or I’ll be a billionaire. So rich I’ll buy an island… He looks at the back of Naveen’s head. Then she’ll pay attention to me. His stomach rumbles like a muscle car. God I’m starving. Shoulda eaten breakfast.
Sam Getz is one of the few actually paying attention, yet he has trouble tracking the words, instead tripping on them like he’s barefoot and they’re invisible legos. Please don’t call me, Mrs. Webber. Please don’t call me. Please don’t call me, over and over again. But she calls him anyway, and it takes him forever to get through one paragraph.
While Sam stumbles through his words, Mrs Webber spins her personal life holding an attentive smile. When will this divorce bullshit end? Already don’t make shit at this job and he’s still trying to gut me. Asshole! “Nice work, Sam,” she encourages. One more day till the weekend. Just gonna crawl into a ball with some ice cream and hibernate.
Then there’s Charlotte Ross. She’s pretending to follow along, but only I know her mind is far, far away. So much pressure to be perfect. Wish I could start over somewhere where no one knows me. At least I’ll see grandma this weekend. She always makes me happy, even if she smells like attic coats.
Her thoughts make me feel better about myself. All of their thoughts do. I’m a superhero with a secret power. Even though Miss Donovan warned me about using the lenses for personal gain, I imagine a future where I know everything and have everything I want, all from the power I now hold. It’s exhilarating and I’m giddy. My courage swells, and I make my way around to the bully Rusty Todd’s stupid head. Why can’t we just go on break NOW? I hate this book. I hate school. I hate you, dad. I hate myself. I’m an ugly, stupid idiot. A visceral sobbing erupts inside of him. I feel sadness and pity, some understanding. He looks at me. That’s it, I’ll kick Stevie’s ass at recess!
My eyes dive to the page like a nervous ostrich, my chest tingling with anxiety because I know Rusty will thrash me. I shouldn’t have brought the glasses to school, I immediately decide. Sneaking another anxious look, I see he’s still glaring at me with maniac eyes like I’m a plate of Big Macs and he’s starving.
Ron Emery is halfway through his paragraph when the bell rings us to recess.
***
First outside, I book it to the baseball diamond to blend in with the fourth grade kickball players. Though I dare not look behind me, I know a certain someone follows.
Blasts of elation and insecurity filter through my glasses as I pass rowdy students from different grades. It’s too much, so I focus on the cracked concrete streaming below and go to remove the special spectacles, even though I won’t be able to see.
“Hey, Pissboy, what’s the rush?”
A gripping hand on my scrawny shoulder spins me around. I’m face to face with a grinning Rusty Todd. His two sidekicks, Micah Grosswein and Curt DeLaney, stand behind to each side. Leave him alone, thinks Micah. Beat his ass, think’s Curt.
“Why you keep staring at me? All that piss leak into your brain?” The sidekicks laugh like it’s the funniest thing they’ve ever heard, but I know they’re just trying to impress Rusty.
My eyes meet his despite my begging them not to. Gonna teach this little shit a lesson, same way dad teaches it.
I’ve never been in a fight, except some tassels with my brother, so when he shoves me and I fall to the ground I don’t know what to do.
“Get up, Pussy!” he snarls. Tell me I’m no good, you old, hateful man… You’re no good. I’ll kill you one day.
Fear drives a pure reaction.“Kill who?” I ask without meaning to.
“Huh? You heard that?”
I can’t possibly fight him with my fists, but I do have something he doesn’t. I stand up and press further. “You’re not a stupid idiot, Rusty.”
The bully moves back, his face contorting in confusion. Micah and Curt look at one another perplexed.
“And I’m sorry your dad hits you.” I speak softly, but the words pierce like sharpened spears.
Tangled fear splashes Rusty. What does he know? Why isn’t he crying like the others? Tears start to form, and one runs down his cheek. What the hell’s going on?
“You only hurt others because you’re so hurt,” I whisper with authority. “And I’m not scared of you anymore!” It’s like I land a decisive blow without even touching him. His eyes widen like I’m a bully twice his size. “I just… feel sorry for you.”
Rusty’s a deflated balloon. Micah runs away without turning around. Curt steps back, his bewildered eyes stuck to me like I’m some powerful wizard. Inside Rusty sobs vulnerable, liberated tears, some of which follow the others down his actual face. The universe echoes the moment. A miskicked kickball careens from the baseball diamond to drill Rusty square in the face, knocking him off his feet in a cartoonish way. Embarrassed and alone, as Curt has also left his fearful leader’s side, Rusty rises to his feet while the other nearby kids laugh at him.
I keep my eyes planted on him, feeling victorious, but all I get are Rusty’s tears, which taint my little celebration. He knows something’s off, and I know he just wants to run away like his disloyal sidekicks. Instead, his fear turns to rage, his inside faucet quiets, and he gulps down a deep breath.
“You don’t know me!” he screams, then punches me square in the face. The glasses snap in two opposite directions, and the world bursts blurry. I collapse a second time to the concrete knowing that Rusty Todd will never bother me again. For a moment he watches me before running away like I’m radioactive waste.
Despite my bloody nose and the star speckle flashes fireworking around me, I feel no pain, only pride. The feeling shifts when my probing fingers discover the real damage. My special glasses are broken, and the only person who can fix them is gone forever. But it’s okay, because I’ve learned the hard way that probably no one should have such power. Somehow I understand Miss Donovan knew it would all work out this way.
Out of the fuzz a figure arrives into focus. It’s Charlotte. Her worried eyes make me feel good again.
“Stevie! What happened? Are you okay?”
I smile like it’s all a breeze, looking her straight in the eyes this time. “Hi Charlotte.”
“I saw what Rusty did. He’s such a jerk!”
She helps me to my feet and I chuckle, presenting the broken frames in my palm.
“Oh no! Your glasses!”
“It's alright. I have a spare in my backpack.”
“Oh goody.” She smiles and takes my other hand, and I’m in heaven. “I’ll grab them while the nurse looks at that nose.”
Charlotte leads me to the nurse’s office again. But this time it’s much, much different. I hold my head high quietly thanking Miss Donovan as we float forward, knowing that things won’t be going back to the way they were.