Super Nobody (Alphas and Omegas Book 1) (3 page)

“I can...I can pay you back for it,” he would
say.

“Good luck. Those things aren't cheap you
know. As a matter of fact, forget about the whole thing. We'll just
stop our subscription. You won't need to come out here and possibly
wreck the whole building.”

Though he saw the conversation going another
way, possibly. She would be so distraught over his hand that she
would lead him back into a little office, strewn with all sorts of
books, and fawn over the injury. She'd tell him how brave he was,
and not to worry about the e-reader, the library was going to give
him another one. No, they weren't just going to give him another
one, they were going to give him a special present. An award for
bravery, and a complementary e-reader with all the books he could
stuff onto the thing. He would have to charge the thing's battery
every day.

And then she would look up into his eyes, and
smile at him. It would be a cute, unsure smile, and then they would
both realize her hand was on his knee...

“Yuck,” he said aloud, and then realized he
wasn't alone. A cyclist was relaxing nearby at the the corner of
Van Buren, waiting on the light. The man gave him half an amused
grin, and zipped off as soon as the light changed. Michael headed
across the street and down the block toward the library, towards
destiny.

What ended up happening at the library wasn't
either of the scenarios he’d thought up. Lily was waiting for him,
her beautiful features pulled into a sad smile.

“Your grandfather called a little while ago,”
she said. “He told me what happened. I'm really sorry Michael.”

He handed the reader over silently.

“I wish I could give you another one,” she
said, “but I'm all rented out right now. That kid who broke it is a
real jerk, right? But you laid the smackdown on him huh?”

“Yeah,” Michael said, embarrassed and flaming
pink at the non-compliment. He shuffled his feet, wanting to stay
and talk with her, but terrified of what he would say.

“Well don't tell your mom and dad I said so,”
she said, lowering her voice and looking about to make sure she
wasn't overheard, “but sometimes a-holes like that Trent kid
deserve to get punched right in the kisser. You did a great thing
today, Michael, and you did it on your own. Great job.”

He felt a thrill shoot through him, that she
would swear in front of him. He felt all grown up for a few
moments. Then she held up her hand.

“High five,” she said.

Oh yeah, he felt eleven again. But he gave
her a high five anyway.

He headed home after waving goodbye to Lily,
and not to Grandpa's house either. Dread swept over him again as he
thought of his mother's reaction to the bloody bandages wrapped
around his hand. But he needn't worry about being grounded or
screamed at. Apparently that was what his father was for.

The strangeness started the minute he walked
through the door. Michael's mother Susanna was the bedrock of the
Washington household, the type of woman who looks like she may be
made of bone china but is actually reinforced titanium with a
brilliant shine. She had a razor tongue, most especially for
baggers who weren't paying attention to what was going on in the
supermarket, the people who sent bills in the mail, and for
Michael's father. She wasn't much taller than Michael, and the
common joke around the house was that when Michael hit his growth
spurt she was going to be the baby of the family. Still, Susanna
Washington's hips were shaped to have her fists balled on them, and
her eyebrows had that soft arch that could travel up in concern, or
turn wicked at any time.

She rushed straight up to him just as soon as
the front door opened, making baby noises at him.

“Ooh, there's my widdle Michael...are you
alwight?”

“Mom, I'm not three,” he said. She ignored
him, pulling up his bandaged hand and inspecting the job the school
nurse had done. He could see the dressing go through the inspection
process. If it wasn't up to snuff, she would be on the phone,
leaking acid into the ears of his school administration. She had
transformed into a demon when Mrs. Richardson had checked a mistake
as right on his third grade spelling test.

“Did they get all the glass out?”

“Yes mother,” he whined. “I'm fine.
Really.”

“And who is this...this bully?” she spat the
word.

“He's just some kid at school.”

“And you've given him hundreds of dollars for
no good reason, is that it?”

No, he wanted to tell her, he did it so Trent
would keep smiling instead of following him home and punch him in
the guts every day with his band of merry idiots. He did because
the paper route wasn't difficult. It was an hour and a half a day,
seventy houses and the library, and he did it because he got the
chance to talk to Lily several times a week. He couldn't tell her
any of that though. She wouldn't understand. Susanna Washington
wasn't the sort of person who just listened and nodded. She
listened while coiled, ready to get on the phone or in the car, and
make someone's life miserable until she got what she wanted.
Michael had worked hard at this Trent thing, and though he was sort
of proud of himself for beating the snot out of him, it wasn't what
he wanted to do. There were a lot of Trent's shadows around, lots
of them in fifth and sixth grade. They were vicious, they liked to
smash bottles and leave the shards under peoples' car tires. They
liked to let the air out of the tires in the entire bike rack, and
grab peoples' lunches in the morning, just so they could shake up
the cokes until they burst and rocketed across the ground. Beating
up Trent wouldn't put them off his scent. They would swarm him
every single day after school.

“Mom,” he sighed. She didn't understand,
wouldn't understand. She wasn't built like him.

“I'm waiting for an explanation, young man.
You know perfectly well that your father and I are here for you. We
put clothes on you, I feed you three meals a day. We put a roof
over your head. I carried you in my body for nine months, and I
will be-”

Oh great, the nine months thing. This was her
favorite guilt trip. He phased out of her rant, where she talked
about feeding him and burping him and playing with him for years
and years. Duh mom. Who did she expect birthed him and raised
him?

“Well young man? What do you have to say for
yourself?”

But he couldn't look at her. First of all, he
didn't want to meet her eyes, see the confusion there, the hurt and
the guilt. Second of all, he didn't want to have to try to explain
something he just couldn't.

He was ready to build his wall out of 'I
don't knows' when his father walked through the door.

“Dad?” he asked. He was supposed to be in
Guatemala or something. Somewhere in South America.

His father filled up the entire doorway. He
was the complete opposite of his wife: he looked like a Terminator
was trapped under his skin, but he couldn't argue with anybody. He
was a marshmallow on the inside. He had those bright blue eyes that
showed every single emotion he was feeling, and the intense brow
didn't help in the slightest. His face could have been chiseled
from granite, and Michael sometimes wondered where his neck had
gone off to. He was dressed in a suit, which looked just wrong.
Anything but construction clothes or overalls just didn't feel
right, and the briefcase in his hand seemed like a toy.

“Hey dude.” His father's eyes flickered from
him to his mother and back. Worry creased his forehead, but
disappeared as soon as Michael leaped up into his arms. He
transferred Michael to one arm, forming a seat for his son, and put
the briefcase down. Michael's head came close to brushing the
ceiling.

“What's going on? I heard you kicked some
royal butt. Broke a kid's nose? Nicely done!”

“Michael Edward Washington!” Mom shrieked.
“Don't you dare put these ideas in his head. Fighting other boys at
school? You must be out of your mind!”

“Dude,” his father whispered. “Go on and hang
out in your room. Turn up the music nice and loud.”

He went, but no music. He'd never seen his
mother blow a gasket like that before. She wasn't even going to
stop long enough for him to get all the way upstairs and close the
door. It started as soon as he was half way up.

She swore like Davey, a nice circle of acidic
words Michael had never heard from her before. “You need to pull
your head out of your butt, Michael! You know your son can't be
fighting.”

“Susie...”

“Don't you give me that happy crap, Michael.
It's not too early. There is no fighting over at that school. Not
in this town. I don't care how they do it anywhere else, our son
will not be a part of that. And you. Encouraging him. Like you left
every speck of your brain back in whatever armpit of the world you
just crawled out of.”

“Now that's not fair,” his father said
quietly.

Michael didn't hear what came next. He
strained to hear what his mother was saying, but they'd either
moved out of the living room or she was whispering too quietly. He
was about to head back down a few stairs when she exploded
again.

“You see if I don't!” she bellowed. “I will
not stay in this place with a husband who's not really my husband,
pretending everything is fine when it's not, and you're trying to
blast apart the entire establishment just because you never played
baseball when you were a kid.”

“Sue, please...stop talking like that.” At
first, Michael wasn't sure what he was hearing. His father's voice
wasn't right. It was cracked and uneven. Then the light bulb
clicked on: his father was choking down tears. “You're not being
fair...”

His mother's shrill and bitter tone carried
all the way up the stairs. “Fair. Talk to me about fair. I swear to
God, Michael, if you are still here when I get back, I'm going to
your father's house and I'm finishing this entire farce.”

Michael didn't know what a farce was, but it
was probably another version of the D word. And it was that word,
the D word, that Michael understood was the most horrible thing
parents could do to each other. He didn't know what it meant
really, or what the actual word was, but it seemed like it was
worse than murder.

The door slammed, and his father made a sound
that Michael had never heard a grownup make before. It was half a
laugh, and half a sob. And when Michael Senior appeared at the base
of the stairs, Michael Junior got the biggest shock of his short
life.

His father's face was blotchy, red, and
crumpled miserably. Tears poured down the normally stone face, and
without thinking, Michael went down several stairs, level with his
dad. Just like with his mother, Michael didn't have any words.
Instead, his father just pulled him into an awkward hug under the
wood railing. Michael felt several days worth of stubble against
his face and neck. And the tears. In the middle of his chest, it
felt as though something large and spiky was shifting around, until
it reached the bottom of his stomach. It settled down there and had
an uncomfortable nap.

Only two things happened in the next two
years that were worth mentioning, aside from lots more schoolwork
and various teachers. The first happened on the very first day of
sixth grade, just as he knew it would. The Trent legacy wasn't
forgotten. Of course not. He just had to wait until it came and
poinked
him in the head. Only in sixth grade, he wasn't
going to be stupid about the whole thing. He went out at lunch
recess that day warily, watching the skies for incoming dodge balls
and sneaking Trent shadows.

Looking around the playground, he was
surprised to find that nothing had changed. It was one of those
wonderful things about school; the first graders were swarming the
place, and they looked smaller than ever. Second graders were
engaged in the beginnings of cliques. Clusters of girls could be
seen here and there, talking and giggling. Boys scrabbled around on
all fours or threw themselves off the monkey bars recklessly. The
older kids were playing four square, lined up and talking about
strategies. They were dodging and shooting hoops as well. Other
groups were looking at cards or comics. A few, he knew, were in the
library drawing or reading books.

And nobody came over to him. None of them
launched a dodge ball at him, or made an obviously horrid pass with
a basketball to whack him in the chest. In fact, when he finally
meandered over and around the playground, he got the distinct
impression that people were watching him. Nobody would stare at
him, of course, not full on. But there were a bunch of times he
could have sworn people kept looking away as soon as he turned to
look at them.

The fact hit home just as soon as he sat down
on one of the courtside benches. The four girls who were sitting at
the other side immediately got up and left. He had the whole bench
to himself.

The very idea that people were scared of him
made him laugh. Which made more of them stare at him. And that, of
course, made him laugh harder. So he went and sat in the mini
section of bleachers at the opposite of the court. It was like in
Panetti's art class, when they dropped rubbing alcohol on
watercolor. One second there was vibrant color, and the next second
there was a perfect circle of white, the color retreating.

He couldn't stop laughing for a whole week.
By the end of that week, he was sure everyone thought he was
completely insane. He wasn't sure they were wrong, but boy did it
feel great to be free of Trent's long reach.

Speaking of Trent, where exactly was he?
Michael had lived in a sort of bubble for the first eleven years of
his life, not really considering where other people were, or what
they were doing. More than that, he was never sure if Trent was
punished for breaking one of the bones in Michael's hand, or why
his family hadn't called and been outraged. The whole thing had
just disappeared.