Jackson Ford - Random Sh*t Flying Through the Air

The central part of the burnt rice still won’t budge. It’s tempting to just rip the stove and oven out of the wall with my PK and send them smashing through a window. I can do it, too. I used to think I could only lift around three hundred pounds, but a few months ago I discovered I was… Well, let’s just say I’m a lot stronger than that now.

There’s a knock at the door.

No way is it seven-thirty already. It can’t be. A look at the oven clock tells me otherwise. Goddamn it, he was supposed to text when he was getting close.

I grab my phone from its charger by the fridge, and of course, he did. I just didn’t hear it because I was too focused on not destroying dinner.

There’s a horrible moment of frozen panic, where I’m not sure if I should keep cooking, open the windows for the smoke, answer the door, get him a drink or just fall over.

I settle for the door. I badly wish I had time to smarten up – when your crush is coming over for dinner, these things matter. I’d planned to put on something a little less gross than the 2Pac tank I’m wearing, and fix my hair. I’ve been growing it out lately, and it’s pulled back in a short, messy ponytail, black strands going every which way.

I take a deep breath, tell myself to calm the fuck down, and open the door.

The book’s gotten boring. Matthew’s already figured out who committed the murder. Part of him is pleased that he managed to outsmart the writer, even as he’s equally annoyed that there’s no point in finishing the story now.

For the first time in hours, he lifts his gaze from the iPad, blinking. It’s gotten dark outside the truck. Clouds have just started to gather, deep and black, scudding across the sky. The dashboard clock reads 6:02.

“I’m hungry,” he tells his mother.

“OK,” Amber says carefully, not taking her eyes off the road. “There’s some chips in the back, I think?”

“I don’t want chips. I want a tuna sandwich.”

“We’ll be at San Bernardino in a little bit. We’ll stop for some dinner there.”

“I don’t want it in a little bit.” His voice has gotten louder. Why does she always try to calm him down? “I’m hungry now .”

“Baby, don’t get mad. I’ll find you some food soon, OK?”

She should have gotten snacks. He can’t buy food – he’s too little, even if he knows a lot more than most grown-up people. The annoyance turns to anger, boiling up inside him, his chin trembling. A tear pricks at the edge of his left eye. He lets it drop – grown-ups hate it when kids cry.

He reaches out with his mind, grabs hold of a small rock from the side of the road. It’s harder to do if he’s in a moving car than if he’s standing still, but he manages to snag it, whipping it at the window as they rumble past. It collides with a crack, making his mom yelp.

“Baby, please…”

In response, he grabs another rock, cracking the back window. “I’m not a baby,” he yells.

“Mattie, I’m sorry, I—”

A chunk of soil spatters across the windshield on her side, and she has to fight not to swerve. Matthew’s anger grows and grows. He’ll make her get out the car and stand still so he can teach her a lesson. The thought of pelting her with dirt, of finding the smallest, sharpest rocks he can, fills him with a slippery little jolt of glee. It’s the kind of glee most children feel when they do something bad, when they draw on a wall or pour a full glass of milk on the floor. Most children have the sense to back away from it, aware that they’re taking a risk – not just the wrath of a grown-up, but something much more primal.

Deep inside Matthew, there’s a twitch of worry – a little vestigial tail, weak and helpless. The worry that this time, he might have pushed it too far. He ignores it, as he always does. He’s done way worse than this before, and hasn’t gotten in trouble, not really. Not even at the School. Definitely not with Amber.

Thinking of the School makes him angrier. Matthew wishes he’d stayed. So what if the government was coming to shut the place down? He wouldn’t have let them. Ajay and the other teachers knew what he could do – they’d tested his powers a bunch of times. He was the smartest person there, everybody knew it, so he didn’t get what the big deal was. He shouldn’t have let Ajay talk him into running.

He howls, tears gushing down his cheeks now, mouth twisted in a snarl as his mother begs and pleads. Dirt and rocks hammer the car, cracking the rear window, scudding against the tyres. No one else can do what he can do, no one else knows how, they’re not smart enough. What would happen if he threw something bigger? Concentrated a little bit more, grabbed a rock or a boulder, smashed it right into Amber’s stupid face? Is she saying he can’t ? Does she really think he won’t do it?

A building looms out of the darkness. A gas station, just ahead, the awning visible around a sloping hillock. Amber gasps with relief. “There! We’ll stop quick, OK? Get some dinner.”

For a moment, Matthew wants to keep going. Just smash the car to pieces, see what she does. But he is hungry. He wasn’t making that up. Slowly, the anger fades. Not gone completely – just smaller now.

Maybe they’ll have toasted tuna sandwiches.

Despite the fact that they’re in the middle of nowhere, the gas station is a big one, a huge Chevron sign perched on a massive awning. The concrete apron is old, worn in spots, but clean. There’s movement behind the windows of the station’s store, a clerk stacking a shelf already loaded with potato chips. To the right of the store, a man wearing overalls tied around his waist fiddles with a cage of propane tanks. A green Toyota idles at the pumps, the driver getting ready to pull away.

At that moment, Matthew feels a twitch, deep in his gut. It makes his eyes go wide, banishes the anger and hunger.

“Stop the car,” he says.

“Just going to park, baby.”

“ STOP THE CAR NOW! ”

She slams the brakes, face twisted in confusion and fear. Matthew leaps out before they’ve even come to a halt, popping the door and shooting across the grey tarmac.

He’s always been able to feel the ground – the dirt, the rocks, the soil. He can feel them all in his mind, like he’s holding them in his hand. He’s so used to it he barely notices, but this … this is different. This is big. Bigger than the biggest rock he’s ever lifted. It’s like the ground is calling to him, from very far down. He’s never felt anything like it before.

The Toyota has just begun to pull out from the pumps, and it comes to a screeching halt as Matthew crosses its path. He ignores the driver’s angry hand gesture. He just sidesteps, sprinting for the edge of the concrete apron. Behind him, Amber comes round the other side of the truck, shouting his name.

He skids to his knees, hands exploring the desert dirt. There’s not a breath of wind. The tears on his cheeks haven’t even dried yet.

“Matthew!” Amber reaches her son, coming to a halt a few feet away.

It’s energy. Not the smooth, even energy he gets in a rock, or a clod of soil. It’s pulled tight, stretched like guitar string. It’s deep, almost too big for him to wrap his mind around. He’s directly over it.

“What—?” Amber stops, coughs. “Sweetie, what’s going on?”

The propane guy shouts something from back by the building. Matthew ignores him. “I can’t even feel the end of it,” he says. “It goes on for ever .”

The energy line runs north to south, going further than he can touch. For the first time in his four years of life, Matthew feels something other than joy, or anger, or annoyance.