Awash in Talent (10 page)

Today I went on my first field trip with the class. They said it was the first of its kind, and it was, because the other principal had been calling them to encourage inter-Talent cooperation, whatever that means. I don’t know what they were trying to accomplish with this trip, but I also don’t think it turned out like anyone really expected.

The guard drove us in a giant van, with buddies holding tightly to each other and Mr. A. at the lead, over the river and up College Hill via Hope Street to the Moses Brown Academy for Telekinesis. You can tell it’s going to be different, just from the name. Not only did some rich old guy actually
want
to be associated with this Talent, but it’s an academy for, which is to say, in favor of, this Talent. The PMA is for the management of pyros, but this school is for the
promotion of
telekinetics. I couldn’t get over the difference. I eyed the wrought iron fence with graduation year plaques proudly displayed and the wide, sweeping lawn and couldn’t help but feel skeptical.

They—a smiling woman and three students—led us through the grand front gate and across the lawn and such a strong feeling of empowerment came over me, I nearly jumped the fence and went running through the streets of the East Side to show my freedom to the world. I squeezed Jill’s hand and whispered, “What is this place?” She squeezed back and made a humming sound like she knew exactly what I meant. Have I mentioned yet that Jill is
awesome
?

After a little speech by the woman, who turned out to be the principal and a strong believer in inter-Talent cooperation, they gave us a grand tour through the library and classrooms. It was weird to look through the windows in some of the classroom doors and see things like paintbrushes apparently creating art by themselves, or tortillas and cans of beans flying around the Spanish class. There were also tiny places like where a singer would warm up before a performance, which they called “concentration rooms.” The lunchroom wasn’t a complete dining hall, because this isn’t a boarding school, like ours, but it was still a monument to gothic architecture. I would say it imitated Harry Potter, but I think this building was here a few years before J. K. Rowling. We rushed through an enormous auditorium and ended up in a giant gym. I mean, it was huge, like you could fit six basketball courts in there. I hesitated to go in, thinking they were going to have us run in circles or shoot hoops, or something else ridiculous, but they just pointed to a long bench for us to sit on. They were going to give us a show and there weren’t enough of us to pull out the bleachers, they said.

I sat on the end to be sure I’d only have to sit by Jill, and not someone obnoxious like Melinda. Already on this trip she’d stuck her head into one of the concentration rooms and sung the important words of that stupid old Alicia Keys song, surprising and knocking over some poor guy who was innocently trying to levitate feathers in the pattern of a clownfish. Willa instinctively brushed the pieces of down out of Melinda’s perfect waves, but she missed some of them, and I certainly wasn’t going to point them out, and no one else did, either. I guess most of us agree Melinda deserves to look like a jerk.

But I’d underestimated Brian’s determination to form a foursome with me and Jill and him and Raúl. He sat right next to Jill on the bench, and in that moment, I was sure he liked her. I can’t say I’m not crushed into a pulp of emo raw sadness, but Jill is awesome enough that I can understand why any boy would go for her.

There were two new telekinetic students standing before us, and the ones who had been on the tour joined them. Behind them was a series of objects, some familiar, some probably traditional in telekinetics training. The tallest student went into presentation mode. “Welcome to Moses Brown.”

I sighed reflexively. This was going to be hokey.

A pack of cards floated in the air over the first kid who had been with us on the tour. Suddenly, they fanned out, then shuffled themselves, then made a little halo over this guy’s head. It may not sound impressive, but there was something so creepy about it, it couldn’t be hokey. It was impossible to look away. I think all of us pyro kids were holding our breath by the time the next girl started. She worked with feathers not unlike the ones the poor kid in the concentration room had been using. She made them travel in arcs toward the ceiling, and as they traveled back down, they made a pattern like a flock of geese. But I don’t mean just a V—it moved and morphed just like a real flock of geese, and at the end, it became a single goose that looked like it was flying, with eerily flapping wings and all. “Ooh,” was all that could be heard.

Then the last kid who had been on the tour faced one of the new kids and they started tossing these weirdly shaped foam things in various sizes at each other. Without using their hands. It was like a pair of jugglers. Each one had to not only keep track of the stuff he was throwing, but also his partner’s stuff so that he could dodge it if need be. And as they went faster, they had to dodge the stuff, I mean it was flying everywhere. It started to look like they were ninjas, swerving wildly to avoid . . . Nerf balls. They got a lot of claps and woohoos from the audience when they both stopped and let everything fall at the same moment. The choreography was impressive, I’ll give them that.

Mr. A. said, “The real talent will be the one who picks all that up, of course.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw two adults dressed in janitorial jumpsuits heave great sighs of agreement. Our guard looked down the row at each one of us, almost making me believe he could make us do that work if he decided to. Such a weirdo.

“And now for the grand finale,” the tallest student said then. “It takes all of us . . .”

The telekinetics all lined up in front of us and switched positions as if who they had on one side of them made a huge difference, like in a choir lineup. They all raised their right arms in a graceful motion, but nothing happened.

They looked at one another, and we looked at them expectantly, until the new girl, who hadn’t performed yet, spoke.

“I sense the presence of aluminum.”

She had straight brown hair and looked younger than the rest of the presenters, and also a little queasy.

Jill pulled out my safety sack, which shone in the crinkled fashion of aluminum foil. “I covered this lump of sulfur so it wouldn’t reek so bad—sorry, Kelly. I’m not saying you reek . . .”

The brown-haired girl made a sound like she was going to hurl and looked like she was about to fall over. Just what the world needs: another drama queen. Two of her fellow students rushed to her side and I wondered if they had a buddy system. It didn’t seem like it. And then I thought, if she can be such a big baby about her kryptonite, so can I. I had been restraining myself since we were in this civilized place and I wanted Brian to see me as the elegant swan I’m not, but things being the way they were, I jammed my hand under my collar and started scratching all around my shoulder, where my patch was driving me crazy with itching.

“Why do you have a lump of sulfur?” the principal asked Jill earnestly. She let the principal take the foil off the sulfur and hand it to one of the telekinetic kids, who rushed out of the room crumpling it.

“It’s Kelly’s kryptonite. I keep it nearby in case her patch falls off or something.”

“Patch?” asked the principal.

Mr. A. stepped in, finally. “We give each student at the Pyrokinesis Management Academy a patch with their kryptonite”—here I could swear he winked at the principal, as if there were something else unspoken in the patches—“to wear during waking hours to prevent mishaps. It’s not enough to make them really sick, but the . . . urge to make flames remains under control during wear.”

The principal gasped. “That’s terrible. Look at this girl.” She gestured at me, scratching like there was no tomorrow. “She’s clearly very uncomfortable. As you can see, we don’t keep our Talented students hemmed in by their weaknesses. We have an encouraging environment that promotes self-esteem, not shame. Take all those patches off this instant.”

The guard stepped toward us, ready for trouble.

I could see it all: we take off our patches, all the posters on the walls go up in flames, and, depending how good their sprinkler system is, we’re all soaked in less than a minute. And that’s the best-case scenario. I don’t have to tell you what the worst-case scenario is. This lady needed some serious sensitivity training if she was really going to promote inter-Talent cooperation. It does not do to tell the bird it’s caged.

Think about what you’re saying, idiot, I thought. And then I heard the words outside my head. “Think about what you’re saying, Principal,” said Brian. “You may be kryptonite-free here, but our patches are preventing death and injury.”

“You couldn’t buy enough insurance to have us here without our kryptonites,” said Raúl. Cynical as it sounded, he was probably right.

“I’m an Other-Talented Healer,” said the aluminum-hating girl. She looked fine now, not sick at all. “I can heal anyone and it will be like nothing happened.”

I don’t know what an Other-Talented Healer is, but this girl had no idea what she was talking about. I think she’s about the same age as me, but her overconfidence, which she clearly thought made her seem more mature, sounded like a squawking little girl.

“Why don’t you continue with the presentation we’re all so anxious to see?” said Mr. A.

The telekinesis kids looked like I felt: let down. Deflated like old balloons. Like, how could they do their grand finale now, with everything that’s been said in this ginormous room?

But they looked at one another, then planted their feet and swept their arms upward (not as elegantly as before), and the bench we were sitting on began to rise from the floor. As soon as I could tell what was happening, I hopped off to stand next to the guard, and my side of the bench lifted a little faster. “Get back on,” said the aluminum girl. “We’ll hold you safe.”

I shook my head at her, so she turned her attention back to the bench, and, apparently with the help of her classmates, lifted it even faster. They were headed straight for the ceiling, which, as I mentioned, was like a million feet above. Even from below, I could see the white knuckles on the sides of the bench. Melinda screamed, so it was a happy time, anyway. Mr. A. looked at the principal and said, “What are you thinking?”

“They’re fine. My students are holding each individual on the bench in addition to lifting the bench itself. Even if the bench falls, none of the students will,” she replied with the same self-assurance she had when explaining about inter-Talent cooperation.

But Melinda wouldn’t stop screaming, and Willa joined her, because she’s Willa. So after a stern look from Mr. A., the principal waved at her students and we never got to see what they were planning to do. The bench alit and all nineteen students clambered away, brushing each other off as if terror had stuck to them like a powder. First thing, I made sure Jill was okay, and she was, having held onto Brian’s arm the whole time.

Aside from the guard, who could hardly get over what he thought was the comedy of the day, everyone was quiet on the ride back. I think we were all processing different reactions.

I followed Jill inside and looked at our undecorated cinderblock walls—posters, tapestries, and even paint present too much of a threat when we take our patches off at night—and my mind flashed back to the architectural grandeur of Moses Brown. Each room seemed to imitate a different style, like a palace or something, and there were objects everywhere, many of them flammable. Objects to decorate with, objects to use. Objects any of those telekinetics could send through the air in complex loop-the-loops, but here, they would expect us to merely set ablaze. And that accounts for the Spartan, yes, I’ll say it, prisonlike look of the PMA. Those telekinesis kids should have a field trip over here.

Why couldn’t I be a telekinetic? Or even just normal? Apparently, only 10 percent of the population has one of the three Talents at any given time, so I’ve ended up in a group of something like 3.33 percent. Pretty darn special. Why is this my lot in life? Why does my family deserve me to be this way?

October 17

I have to write this quickly so I don’t forget anything and because I’m so tired I might pass out at any moment, and I can’t do that because we’ve got our science midterm next week. How will I ever get this all down?

Last night, we had another fire drill. Or so I thought. It was earlier than the alarms usually go off, about ten thirty. Jill and I had just gotten under the covers when the blaring started. We’re practiced at this now, so we had our flip-flops, sweatpants, and sweatshirts (it’s definitely fall now) ready to grab by the door. I checked Jill’s pocket for my safety sack and she checked for hers and we were out the door.

Since I got a buddy, fire drills have been kind of fun. I don’t have to fake-smile anymore. I just go with Jill and find our little group and stand around in good company, listening to Raúl’s latest stupid comments. This time, we went down to the designated area on the docks and quickly found Brian and his buddy in the crowd, but there was no hanging around.

“Hi,” I said casually, but both Brian and Raúl were panting, and Brian had this intense look on his face.

“There’s an actual fire,” he said. “It’s going to be a while before we can go back inside. Jill, can you cover for Kelly?”

She grinned like an accomplice. “I got this. And so does Raúl.” I watched her punch Raúl on the shoulder, but still had no clue what was going on until Brian grabbed my wrist and started moving away from the group. My heart was leaping out of my chest—Brian was kidnapping me. The boy I liked was taking me away in the dead of night. Didn’t he like Jill? What was he planning? What did any of this mean?

Pretty soon, we were holding hands and running, and finally the questions cleared out of my head because we were headed in the direction of Waterplace Park and, was that—? Yes, through the buildings, I could see masses of people gathered along the water’s edge, and flickering, shimmering air, and tendrils of smoke. We were going to WaterFire! In sweats and flip-flops over pajamas, but still. I can’t think of anywhere I’d rather be.