Farsighted (Farsighted Series) (4 page)

“Where? Miss Teak’s?” Simmi asks, raising her voice in surprise.

“Um, yeah. Don’t go in there. It’s freaky.” I laugh, trying to make light of the whole ordeal.

Simmi laughs, too, but it seems forced.

The bell to Mom’s shop tinkles and somebody exits with a bouquet of lilies of the valley. The scent is warm and inviting. There must be some baby’s breath in the bouquet, too. I know all of Mom’s flowers—both by touch and by smell. “Simmi?” An older version of Simmi’s voice asks, sweet and musical.

“I’m right here.”

“Shall we go see Miss Teak now?”

“Yes, Mummy. I’m coming.” Turning to me, bringing her voice closer, she adds, “See you tomorrow at school.”

Simmi and her mother walk away. The odor of incense and the sound of mysterious string music grow strong and then cut off altogether as the door to the All-Seeing Miss Teak’s shop closes tight.

I gulp. Why do I always say the wrong thing around girls?

Chapter 3

Until he is able to accept his destiny, the traveler will face great difficulties. He must continue forth despite his fear and know the battles will ultimately strengthen him.

I sulk into school the next day, irritated about my brain malfunctioning lately and embarrassed by how I’ve acted around Simmi. The last thing I need is more problems. I head into first period attempting to disappear. No such luck.

“You better watch yourself, Kosmitoras,” Brady Evans growls. I wasn’t even aware he had entered the class, but now here he is, uncomfortably close to my desk.

I don’t say anything. I don’t want to encourage him. Even the slightest word taken out of context might set him off. The bell rings, but the teacher hasn’t come in yet. The other students are milling about, whispering excitedly.

“You’re lucky you’re a cripple, freak, or I’d—” Brady says. Why is he still here? I didn’t do anything to make him angry. Some of the students start taunting Brady, telling him to throw a punch at me. Brady laughs; clearly he loves the attention.

After a moment, the whispering stops. Brady’s moved away from my desk so fast I hardly even realized it. I decide to let the whole thing go, but then footsteps come toward me again, carrying with them the scents of Axe deodorant spray and dried sweat. Brady seems intent on a confrontation. Well, I wouldn’t want to disappoint him.

Slyly, I nudge the end of my cane across my seat and into the aisle. Not sticking out far enough to be noticed but still far enough to get in the way.

Thud
! Brady trips and falls headlong down the aisle.

Ha, always wanted to do that. Sometimes blindness comes in handy. No one would ever guess this wasn’t an accident.

“You better watch yourself, Kosmitoras,” Brady growls, back on his feet now.

“You better watch yourself, Evans,” I hiss back, drawing out the
S
at the end of Evans. I’m a venomous cobra, ready to spring at the slightest hint of danger.

The bell rings. Wait didn’t the bell already ring? Haven’t I been here before?

The other students in the class are milling about, whispering excitedly.

“You’re lucky you’re a cripple, freak, or I’d—” Brady says.

“Or what?” I challenge, rising to my feet while wrapping my knuckles around the handle of my cane and solidifying my grip. I’ve had enough, and besides, what have I got to lose by standing up to him? If anything, a fight with Brady could improve my social standing.

The whispering grows louder. Some of the students start taunting Brady, telling him to throw a punch at me.

Brady laughs arrogantly, “Or I’d make you sorry.” He cracks his knuckles as if his words weren’t clear enough.

“I’m not a cripple, but I
am
going to make you sorry,” I shout, bringing the end of my cane down hard on Brady’s toes.

I can tell it stung, but Brady doesn’t make any noise to indicate it. He’s too much of a tough guy. Instead, he punches me in the stomach.

I don’t feel anything except a pulsing pain in my middle. And anger, a lot of anger. I raise my cane again and thwack Brady higher up—his face, his neck, I don’t care as long as it hurts.

This time, he cries out in pain.

Now, I’m laughing. This is what he deserves, since he just couldn’t leave me alone.

The teacher comes into the classroom. Her sweet body spray trails her. The other students grow quiet, waiting to find out what she’ll do.

Brady punches me in the nose. There’s a crack as he makes contact with the bone. Blood spurts from my nostrils and flows into my mouth—guess I’ve gotten my daily dose of iron now. I almost throw up, but before I can, the teacher pulls me and Brady out of the classroom by the collars of our shirts. She forces us down the hall toward the principal’s office.

Once there, we’re separated and forced to sit quietly until our parents arrive. I feel like such a little kid. Brady’s lucky we’re apart, otherwise I’d cane him again.

Dad rushes into the office, totally frantic. “Alex?” he calls out. He spots me and comes over to where I’m sitting, holding a tissue to my nose in order to staunch the flow of blood. “Alex! What happened? Are you okay?”

“Nothing,” I grumble. “I’m fine.”

“Doesn’t look like you are to me. Tell me what happened.”

“Dad, I don’t want to talk about it,” I yell. “God, leave me alone already!”

For once he doesn’t press the issue. Instead he walks over to the secretary’s desk and thumbs through some pamphlets about peer pressure, drugs, and abstinence—I asked the secretary about them last year when I knocked them onto the floor while handing her a doctor’s note. Dad fiddles with the papers, continuously folding them and really grating on my nerves.

After what seems like an eternity, Mrs. Evans arrives. A cloud of expensive-smelling perfume floats after her as she hurries toward Brady and starts fussing over his injuries. Of course, she’s not mad at him at all. Any woman who’d given birth to someone as awful as Brady can’t be a good person.

The door to the interior office opens, and Principal Palermo calls us in. I drag myself into the room, which smells way too much like polished brass for my taste, and take a seat in front of Palermo’s desk. Brady does, too, and both of our parents hover over us. The temperature rockets a few degrees from the nervous energy.

“Boys, this school has a zero tolerance rule toward fighting,” our principal says with a tinge of reproach in her voice.

“But what if you’re acting in self defense?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest and shifting my face toward the far wall. There’s no way I was going to let Brady get the first word in.

“Self defense?” Brady protests, standing up and slapping his hand across his chest like an insane gorilla. “He landed the first blow, and the second! If anyone was acting in self defense, it was me.”

“Sit down, Mr. Evans, and both of you keep quiet. Like I said, we have a zero tolerance rule, so I’m sorry, but both of you are suspended for the rest of the school week.”

“The rest of the week? But that’s no fair. He started the whole thing. Look at me! Look at my nose, it must look horrible. Who beats up a blind kid? I mean, really?”

“You weren’t playing the blind card earlier, when you hit me across the face with that stupid stick of yours,” Brady growls under his breath.

“Alex, did you really do that? Did you fight?” Dad asks.

“Only because he started it! He just came up and said, ‘You’d better watch it!’” I try to make my voice sound deep and idiotic like Brady’s.

“Because you tripped me.”

“It was an accident.”

“Yeah, right. An accident,” Brady mocks, emphasizing the word
accident
in a whiny twang—is that how he thinks I sound?

“It
was
an accident,” I pout, slumping back into my chair and gripping the arms with my hands to keep from yelling again.

“Enough from both of you,” the principal interjects. “Several other students were around at the time of the fight. Each has told your teacher what happened individually, and their stories match up. We don’t need any more from either of you.”

I kick at the floor in frustration. “Of course, they took
his
side. They’re all his friends.”

“Alex,” Dad warns. “Your principal told you to keep quiet, and I think you’d better listen. Mrs. Palermo, please, could you tell us what happened?”

The principal sucks in a deep breath and tells her version of the altercation to our parents. “Whether on purpose or by accident, Alex tripped Brady with his cane. Brady and Alex exchanged threats. Brady made a derogatory comment about Alex’s, um…special needs, and Alex said he was going to make him sorry. He used his cane to hit Brady in the foot and across the face. Brady struck Alex in the stomach and on the nose. Their teacher came in before the fight could escalate any further, and now here we are.”

“Is this true?” Dad asks me, his voice full of concern—it’s obvious he’s putting on an act for the principal. He doesn’t really care.

“Yeah, whatever,” I mumble. No one believes me about Brady having started the fight. I’m not even sure if I believe me, what with a strange sense of déjà vu clouding everything.

“I told you, Mom. He’s jealous of me and my friends, and he can’t control himself,” Brady whines. Ugh, he thinks I’m jealous. I would never want to be like Brady or his lackeys. They’re all big, stupid gorillas, without an original thought among the lot of them. I’d rather die than be like Brady, and that’s the truth.

“Both parties are to blame, no matter who the instigator was,” Mrs. Palermo says. “I’ll see you boys next week, and I hope you can control yourselves better during the rest of the school year. We pride ourselves on the—”

I’m so furious I need to leave before I whack Brady in his stupid face a second time. I get up and stomp out while the principal’s still making her boring, motivational speech. What’s the worst that can happen? Dad’s already going to ground me for weeks, if not months, and I doubt a three-and-a-half day suspension is enough to make me calm down and forget how much I hate Brady.

***

Now that I’m suspended, my only option is to hang around Sweet Blossoms with Mom the entire day. I begin to read ahead for English out of boredom. The rest of my books for first semester came in last night and Mom picked them up for me—all fifty-some volumes are at home except the two I brought with me today.
Romeo and Juliet
looks stupid, so I start in on
The Odyssey
. Not something I would ordinarily choose to read, but I am
really
bored.

Mom is surprised I got into a fight, but not angry. She knows how the other kids act with me, and she seems to be proud I chose to defend myself for a change. After blotting at my nose and fussing over me, she gave me a little talk about being responsible for my actions, and left it at that. She’s much more understanding than Dad. He’s still acting weird. I’m glad he’s off looking for work, because frankly, I can’t stand being around him lately.

Mom hums a peppy little tune and pieces together floral arrangements for a funeral. It’s sad somebody died, but funerals are great for business—especially since Sweet Blossoms is the only florist within miles of our small town. I’d help, but I haven’t got an eye for these things; I tend to put a bunch of things that smell good together. Mom says they look nice, but I always hear her rearranging them. Instead, I’m sitting on a bench in the bay window at the front of the store, dragging my left index finger across the bumpy pages of my book.

I’m at the part where Telemachus tries to go and find his dad, Odysseus, even though the dad’s been gone for like twenty years. I don’t understand how he’s going to find him, since Telemachus has no idea where his dad is, or even what he looks like. I guess it’d kind of be like me trying to search for my dad—he’s at a huge disadvantage. I’m contemplating whether I would even try to find Dad, provided he got lost and all, when the door jingles an off-schedule holiday greeting. I assume somebody’s here for an arrangement of funereal flowers, but I’m wrong.

“Alex?” Simmi’s sweet, nutty presence approaches.

“Hi, Simmi.” I stand to greet her and slap the covers of my book together before I can remember to bookmark the page. I try to focus on draining the color from my cheeks—how embarrassing. “Um, can I help you with something? Do you need flowers?”

“No, nothing like that. I heard what happened in first period. I came to bring you your make-up work for chemistry and history. If you tell me what your other classes are, I can bring you the work from them, too.”

I accept the pages from Simmi’s soft hands. If the thickness is any indication, she’s taken very detailed notes for me. “Thanks. You didn’t have to.”

“It’s no problem. I’ve only been at this school for two days and already I can tell Brady Evans is not at all a nice person.” She pauses, and I hear her shift weight from one foot to the other and scratch at her elbow. “It won’t be a problem?”

“What?”

“The notes, you’ll be able to read them, right?”

“Oh, yeah. Dad can type them up using our braille printer at home. No big deal.”