Нил Шустерман - Scorpion Shards

It was around eleven that night that Michael Lipranski stood at the tip of the lighthouse bluff, contemplating that final step east that would send him plunging to his death in the cold breakers.

For Michael, the evening hadn’t begun with such thoughts, but it had begun desperately. The star-watch was a great make-out opportunity—and on his last day at this school, Michael felt compelled to take advantage of that.

Upon arrival, Michael had set his charms on Melissa Brickle, who was, by nature, the school’s wallflower. One smile from Michael changed her nature considerably. He took her to the high bluff behind the lighthouse—the most easterly place—and there, to the sound of waves and the pulse of the spinning light arcing over their heads, Michael got down to business.

Michael’s kisses were more frantic than passionate; more compulsive than romantic, but Melissa did not no­tice, for, as Michael knew, no one had ever kissed Melissa Brickle this way before, and her own new and overwhelm­ing feelings blocked out everything else. Michael could feel himself trespassing in the dark places of her mind, releasing those feelings like wild beasts from a cage. A thin ground fog carpeted the grass around them, slipping off the cliff in a slow vapor fall. The mist seemed to be flow­ing from the two of them.

Through it all, Michael’s mind and body were explod­ing with emotions. Frustration, anger, confusion all fought for control—but what he felt more than anything tonight was futility. No matter what he did, no matter how many girls he lured into secret corners—even if he took them all the way and absolutely gave in to all of his urges—he still would not be satisfied. Instead his urges would only increase—they would grow and drive him in­sane. Michael’s grip on Melissa grew stronger as they kissed—so strong that it must have been hurting her, but she didn’t notice. She wouldn’t notice even if Michael re­ally did hurt her.

“Tighter,” she said. “Hold me tighter.”

And as he tightened his grip, Michael came to under­stand that this frenzied necking was a violation of the girl. He had, in some way, entered this girl’s mind—he made her want all the things that he could do to her, and this was a violation as real as any other. Michael was terrified of what he was turning into, and what awful things he might be capable of.

Before it went too far, Michael pushed Melissa away.

“What’s the matter?” she asked. “Did I do something wrong?”

She moved toward him again, then this shy, sweet girl slipped her hand into his jacket, and shirt, shamelessly rubbing his chest.

Michael gently grabbed her hand and placed it back down in her lap. “Better stop,” he said.

“Better not,” she whispered. She tried to snuggle up to him, but Michael stood up.

“Just go!” screamed Michael. “Get out of here!” But she did not move—so he reached down, picked up a clump of dirt and hurled it at her shoes.

Confused and humiliated, Melissa ran off in tears.

Good, thought Michael. Because there were worse things she could feel than humiliation.

Soon the sound of her footfalls faded, and Michael was left alone with his bloated, malignant urges. But those urges could be killed, couldn’t they? The sound of the crashing ocean made him think of that. These soul-sear­ing urges that ate him alive could be destroyed by one sin­gle step east. Right now anything seemed better than having to feel That Way anymore.

And so, before he knew what he was doing, Michael found himself leaning into the wind at the edge of the cliff, daring his balance to fail him, and gravity to pull him down to his end.

“Do you really think anyone cares if you jump?”

The voice came as such a shock, Michael almost did loose his balance. He stumbled backward, away from the cliff, into the grass. His life did not so much flash before his eyes, as slap him in the face.

“If you jump, people might freak, but they’ll forget soon enough,” said a voice that was dense and wet, like liquid rubber. Lourdes Hidalgo lumbered out from be­hind a bush like a buffalo, and Michael wondered how long she had been watching.

In truth, Lourdes had been watching from the moment Michael had brought Melissa to the bluff. Lourdes enjoyed watching the other kids make out—and wasn’t ashamed of it either. She had enough things to feel ashamed of—peeping was low on her shame list.

“I don’t care if everyone forgets me,” said Michael. I’m just sick of feeling This Way, okay?”

“What way?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“How do you know?”

Michael looked down at the bulge in his pants. They were too tight down there, as always, and in this warped little moment, he didn’t care who he told or how dumb it sounded.

“Do you know what it’s like to feel totally crazed all of the time? To wake up That Way, and go to class That Way, and not be able to sleep at night because of the Those Thoughts going through your head, and then when you do sleep, to be invaded by Those Kind of dreams? They say we got hormones, right? Well, I don’t have hormones, I am a hormone—one big mutated hor­mone with a thousand hands and a million eyes. It’s like that hormone has eaten me alive, and there’s nothing left of me. Do you know how that feels?”

Lourdes, to her credit, took the question very seriously. “No,” she said. “But I do know what it’s like to be fat. So fat that I can’t sit down in a movie theater. So fat that I have to ride in elevators alone. So fat that when I take a bath, there’s no room for any water in the tub. If anyone should jump into the sea, it should be me.”

Michael shrugged, feeling embarrassed. “Naah. You’d probably bounce.”

Lourdes considered this. “Or splat like a water bal­loon.”

“Gross!” Michael looked at Lourdes. She was truly hideous to behold, even in this dim light.

Lourdes smiled at him and Michael backed off. Was this a trick? Was she just after him like all the other girls? After all, she could not be immune to his full-moon effect, could she?

“Nice try,” said Michael. “I’m not going to kiss you, so get lost.” He turned toward the edge of the cliff again, contemplating it.

“Kiss you? I don’t want to kiss you, your breath smells like onions.”

This got Michael’s interest. “What do you mean you don’t want to? Don’t you find me irresistible?”

“I can resist you just fine,” said Lourdes. “I mean, you don’t use enough deodorant, your clothes are ugly, your hair is stringy—"

Michael grinned, unable to believe his ears. “Go on! Tell me more!”

“Let’s see. You’ve got a crooked lower tooth, your eye­brows are like caterpillars, you got no butt at all. . . .”

Michael practically jumped for joy. “That’s great,” he said. “Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve been able to talk to someone without them either wanting to beat the crap out of me, or make out with me? Do you know how long it’s been since I could talk to a girl without feeling you-know-how? This is great!” Michael could have gone on for hours contemplating the deep ramifica­tions of their mutual lack of attraction, but hearing about how unattractive Michael found her didn’t seem to make Lourdes too happy. He looked at her swollen form and wondered how a girl could get this way.

“You know, you’d probably lose weight if you ate less,” offered Michael.

“I’ll tell you a secret,” said Lourdes. Her head rolled forward on her neckless body, and she whispered in her cotton-padded voice; “I haven’t eaten in months.”

“No way!”

“It’s true—not a bite, and still I get fatter. Almost a pound every day.”