Christopher Smith - Bullied

When the bell rang, it marked the beginning of a new school year, but what did that year hold for me now? Certainly not what I was thinking earlier this morning-pending death. Certain destruction. A fist to the gut.

But what now?

Without being conscious of it, I’d just turned someone into a spinning sphere of light. Until I learned exactly how to use this thing, I’d need to monitor all my thoughts, which was scary because doing so was next to impossible when most of the school had it in for me.

What if someone came up behind me and punched me and I had one of my usual thoughts-die! Would they? Was this thing that powerful? Could I kill someone with it? The whole thing made me uneasy and, frankly, kind of scared. What were its limits? Did it have limits?

Did I have limits?

I needed to speak to creepy Jim now-not later-but since I didn’t own a cell, there was no way to reach him, so I’d need to suck it up and try to keep things under control until later, when I could speak to him.

That is, if he’d talk to me. I was told to figure this thing out on my own. Somehow, I’d need to do that. But how? Would today's Sara and Jake incidents create enough attention to move the target off me for the next several hours? As I moved toward the door, people were still talking about them, so I was able to slip under the radar as we all shuffled into the hall. I caught a few looks shot my way, but none of them lingered-the interest was elsewhere. For once, I wasn’t the focus.

But I was curious.

English was first and I had a few minutes to get there. Ahead of me was the boy’s bathroom. I stepped inside, saw no one there. I went to one of the mirrors and looked at myself. Face covered with acne. Hair a thick, wiry mess. Tooth missing thanks to one of Dad’s drunken benders.

Could I change it?

I stood there, staring at my face. How would I even begin to change it? Could I change it? When I turned Sara into a menorah, I’d been in my head, thinking that she should have an aura of light about her since she was so goddamned perfect.

And so that’s the tactic I took now. I looked at myself and thought that my acne should disappear and never come back, that my tooth should return, that my hair should have smooth, natural waves. Minutes passed. I studied my face and thought long and hard, willing it to happen-but nothing happened. Nothing changed. I was still the tall, skinny kid with a face made for a horror movie.

Why couldn’t I change it? Was it beyond the amulet’s limits?

I looked around the room. Across from me was a light. Certainly, I could shatter it. I thought about the light and in my mind’s eye, I imagined it exploding. But it didn’t. As much as I tried, I couldn’t make it happen. I held out my hand in front of me like some powerful being from a horror movie, I thought “shatter,” and then I tossed an imaginary ball of energy toward the light.

Zip.

What had I done to make Sara light up like that? I hadn’t been scared of her-that wasn’t it. I hadn’t felt threatened. So, what was it? Was there a limit on how often you could use this thing per day? Because if there was, I was screwed.

I was just leaving the bathroom when I remembered what creepy Jim said to me. It's different with everyone. Might not even work for you. But if it does, you'll need to figure out how it can help you just like me and everyone else before me. There's no training manual. There's no directions. You work it with your heart and with your head.

And there it was.

With my face and with the light I tried to shatter, I’d only been using my head, not my heart. I wasn’t fully vested. I went back to the mirror and looked at myself, hating what I saw. My parents were too poor to buy me anything to control the acne, and so it had taken over my face and parts of my neck, turning it red with its craters and swollen bumps.

I was ashamed to look like this and I spooled down into that feeling, tapping into in a way that I hadn’t before. You work it with your heart and with your head. My face should be free of acne. It should be smooth and I should have a normal complexion-the best complexion-just like the rich kids.

And then I did.

When I walked into my English class, it was the usual parade of chatter, with everyone either catching up on what they’d done that summer, or talking about what had happened to Tyler and Sara.

My teacher, Mrs. Branson, was writing something on the chalkboard as I passed her. She was an ice bitch who had never liked me. And she was shady. I could see her looking at me out of the corner of her eye. And then she stopped writing all together.

“Seth Moore?”

The last thing I wanted was attention. I pretended I didn’t hear her and kept walking to my seat.

“Seth,” she said, her voice more commanding. “I’m talking to you.”

I turned to her. “Yes, Mrs. Branson?”

It was as if she’d never seen me before. She was an older woman in her late fifties who, probably in her prime, was something to look at. Now, she still was, only age was eating away at her, putting on pounds where she hadn’t had them before. Her tough luck.

She studied my face and hair.

“Is there a problem, Mrs. Branson?”

She composed herself. “No,” she said. “Did you have a good summer?”

“I’ve never had a good summer. My parents are drunks. Over the years, everyone in this room has gone out of their way to make certain that's a known fact. It was a lousy summer. It was no different from any summer I’ve ever had. It sucked.”

She didn’t know what to do with that. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s nice to have you back. At least it looks like the summer treated you well.”

Make her squirm. “What does that mean?”

“It means that you look…healthy.”

“How did I look before.”

Her face flushed. She was digging herself deeper. I was more than happy to let her do so. “Your skin has cleared up,” she said.

“I didn’t know you had an interest in my skin.”

“I don’t. But you have to admit it’s a change.”

“Really?” I said. I was aware that the room had gone quiet. People were listening. “A change from what? What did I look like before?”

Somebody behind me said, “A freak.”

It was Mike Hastings-I’d know his voice anywhere. I turned to him and when I did, the expressions of surprise that shifted across every face in that room were priceless. Everyone was rooted to my face, which was indeed smooth and actually had a hint of color to it. I looked better. Some might even consider me handsome. Many were staring at my hair, which had a kind of hip, curly vibe to it. I saw Alex in the back of the room, and his brows were knitted together, trying to figure me out.

“You think I’m a freak, Hastings?”

“Any guy who wears that amount of makeup to cover his zits is a freak, buddy. You didn’t look like that this morning. You looked like you always look-a frigging volcano ready to erupt. Who’d you get the makeup from? Your momma while she was passed out?”

“You're a class act, Mike.”

“And you're a friggin' drag queen.”

“If you think it’s makeup, come wipe it off me.”

“Why?” he said. “So you can get close enough to kiss me?”

Save for Alex and a few others, most in the room laughed.

“Why don’t you leave him alone?” Alex said.

But Hastings was having none of him this time. More interesting is that Mrs. Branson was allowing all of this to unfold.

“Why don’t you shut up? This doesn’t concern you.”

“Actually, he’s right,” I said. I turned to Mrs. Branson, who had a look on her face that suggested she was enjoying this. Her eyes were bright. She was biting her lower lip.