The Extraordinaries Page 21

Oh, they try to act like they aren’t; their egos don’t allow for such magnanimity. They strut and preen like tiny little show dogs, carrying themselves with an undeserved sense of accomplishment. They can be rude and mostly daft, their lack of self- and spatial-awareness making it a slight wonder they’ve somehow managed to stay alive in order to puff out their body-spray-saturated chests and put copious amounts of product in their hair.

  The problem with this is, sometimes, certain events can occur to break through this shield of teenage futility.

  Nicholas Bell was a stupid teenage boy. He was partially aware of this fact, but still. He was absolutely convinced that he could become an Extraordinary, that he was destined for something more. Maybe he wasn’t a tiny show dog, per se, but he did believe himself to be somewhat invincible.

  That was, of course, until Bob Gray flapped his lips and told Nick something that altered the shape of the entire world.

  “Oh my god,” Nick said while in bed, staring up at the ceiling.

  “Oh my god,” Nick said, three hours later, still staring up at the ceiling.

  His mother smiled at him like she always did.

  * * *

  In addition to being inherently stupid, most teenage boys tend to have an attention span that leaves a lot to be desired. Now, imagine if you will, an inherently stupid teenage boy who is afflicted with an attention deficit disorder of the most hyperactive variety regulated by something with the ridiculous name of Concentra. And, as luck would have it, this same teenage boy got maybe an hour or two of sleep before his alarm went off and he managed to trudge his way down the stairs like some amorphous blob.

  Only to reach the kitchen and remember he was angry with his father.

  “Crap,” this teenage boy muttered when he saw his dad in the kitchen and the previous day’s events burst through the fog.

  Dad grunted in return.

  Cereal sat on the counter next to an empty bowl and a carton of milk. This was almost enough to distract Nick since he was reminded from one of his late-night internet adventures that Canadians had bags of milk instead of cartons or jugs (something he would never understand), but then he remembered Dad asking why he had to be this way, and he forgot all about Canadian milk bags. Nick’s lunch sat in a brown paper sack next to the milk.

  He and Dad had fought before. They were two guys living together under one roof, so it was to be expected. However, even after the Great Romance of Nick and Owen when Nick wasn’t doing so hot in school and his father had sat him down to have the talk where Things Were Going To Change, he’d never felt like … this. Like he was a burden.

  Dad leaned against the counter, the newspaper in his hands, but Nick knew he wasn’t reading it. He was waiting to see what kind of mood Nick was in.

  Well, two could play at this game, because Nick was in a foul mood. But it wasn’t the usual I hate everything because all my feelings are real and valid kind of foul mood that seemed to grace sixteen-year-old boys facing an identity crisis. No, this foul mood was tinged with my best friend’s uncle told me my best friend wants my junk and stuff and also I wish I had superpowers but it’s not working out so well.

  It was unquestionably the worst kind of foul mood, and he was probably the only person in the world who felt this way. No one could ever understand.

  The cereal was off-brand. It was called Cinnamon Bread-Shaped Chomps. Nick wondered if this was Dad’s way of apologizing, because Nick wasn’t allowed to eat Cinnamon Bread-Shaped Chomps, given how much sugar was in a couple of spoonfuls. He was suspicious, sure he’d open the box up and see raisins inside atop bran flakes as a final screw you.

  Imagine his surprise when Cinnamon Bread-Shaped Chomps spilled into the bowl.

  A tiny pill sat next to the spoon on the table too, so that pretty much made the cereal moot.

  It was then that Nick had a terrible idea as he poured milk over the cereal, one that he was sure he’d probably end up regretting, but seemed like a good one in the here and now.

  “I’m taking my pill,” he announced grandly.

  Dad looked over the paper, his expression bland.

  Nick made sure his dad watched as he put it in his mouth.

  He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.

  Dad went back to the paper.

  Nick pulled the pill out from under his tongue. It was gritty in his fingers. He shoved it into his pocket. It left an acidic taste in his mouth, but it was soon nothing but a distant memory under cinnamon and something that was vaguely bread-shaped.

  His dad wanted him to be someone different?

  Fine.

  He finished his breakfast.

  He put the bowl in the sink. He put the milk in the fridge.

  He picked up his backpack after placing his lunch inside and turned to leave the kitchen.

  “Nick.”

  He stopped, convinced he’d been caught. His dad had used his supercop senses and had known the moment Nick tried to hide the pill. He’d take Nick to the precinct to interrogate him, and then Nick would be forced to spill what Bob had told him yesterday, and how confused that made him because if he was being honest, Seth had biceps apparently, but he was sort of fond of the way Seth had looked before, and if he was really thinking about it, he was maybe fond of the way Seth talked and breathed and existed in ways he hadn’t really thought about, and he didn’t want to seem shallow if he found out that he might have a crush on his best friend now. Because what would that say about him if Seth was all buff now with massive shoulders and then Nick decided he wanted to touch them? It shouldn’t matter how a person looked, it was the inside that counted.

  That was completely at odds with his destiny with Shadow Star, because they were obviously meant to be together, right? Nick wrote stories about him and had his autograph, and Shadow Star knew his name, so that had to mean something. Life would just be so much easier if Seth and Shadow Star were the same person, but that was ridiculous. Because Shadow Star was a superhero who saved the city from the forces of evil while Seth had to deal with feral cat emergencies which, to be fair, weren’t any less important. They were just important on a different scale.

  Add in the fact that Nick had to become an Extraordinary so he could help the big lug standing in front of him, even if he wasn’t feeling exactly charitable at the moment.

  “What?” he asked, wondering if this was the moment when everything would be okay again.

  Dad stared at him for a beat, then sighed. “Have a good day at school.”

  Nick swallowed thickly and opened his mouth to say something, but turned around and walked out of the kitchen instead.

  * * *

  He was running a little behind by the time he reached the Franklin Street station. Jazz and Gibby were waiting for him on the bench near the stairs. Seth’s train would be arriving in a few minutes, which meant Nick had a little bit of time to decide how to act. Seth hadn’t texted to say he wasn’t coming in to school today, so Nick expected him shortly.

  “Hey, Nicky,” Jazz said as he approached. She squinted up at him. “You okay? You look … sweaty.”

  “I’m fine,” Nick said, though it came out in a squeak. He coughed and lowered his voice at least four octaves. “I’m fine.” It sounded like he was snarling. “Um. Have you seen Seth?”

  Gibby narrowed her eyes. “No. Why?”

  “No reason. No reason at all.” He laughed awkwardly. “I mean, why would there need to be a reason for anything at all ever?”

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” Jazz asked, sounding concerned. “You’re really sweaty.”

  “It’s not sweat. It’s … raining.”

  “Strange,” Gibby said. “There wasn’t a cloud in the sky fifteen minutes ago.”

  “A flash flood,” Nick said, glancing around the station. He didn’t see Seth yet. “Just on my street. Freak thing. Probably will never happen again. So, listen. Here’s the thing. Today is going to be weird, and you can’t say anything.”

  Jazz and Gibby e
xchanged a look and had one of their silent conversations that Nick would never understand. They looked back at him.

  “Why is it going to be weird?” Gibby asked.

  “Just … like. Okay. So. Um. Feelings. And I—there were ghosts. Tuberculosis insane asylum ghosts. And I had Cinnamon Bread-Shaped Chomps this morning for an apology, so I’m a little wired. And I’m still so mad. But. I don’t know at who? I think it’s at almost everyone. Like. Is that okay? I think it’s okay. And then there’s Phase Three. I don’t know. It’s just this whole thing.”

  “Wow,” Jazz whispered. “That was … I don’t know what that was.”

  “Why are you mad at us?” Gibby demanded.

  Nick wasn’t quite sure, so he told them as much.

  They didn’t seem appeased.

  “You sound like you have a lot to work through,” Jazz told him sagely.

  Nick was relieved. “Right? It’s just … I’m having all these feelings—”

  “Hey, guys,” Seth said from behind them.

  Now, it should be said that Nick had never really had someone in love with him before. Yes, it would have to mean Bob was telling the truth, but since Nick never heard him lie about anything before, he didn’t think Bob would have picked such a horrible time to start.

  In terms of the love life of Nicholas Bell, his experience was rather short. He wasn’t by any means an expert in l’art d’amour. So when faced with the fact that someone who he considered his best friend and who he was also fighting with apparently wanted to put his face on Nick’s face, he discovered quite quickly just how awkward things could be.

  It didn’t help that Seth was standing there, looking like he did, wearing an oversized sweater vest over a collared shirt, chinos, loafers, and a goddamn polka-dotted cravat of all things. How dare he.

  “Seth!” Nick cried, his voice much louder than he anticipated. “Buddy! Pal! Hey! Hi! How are you?”

  Seth, for his part, took it in stride, though he did appear to be somewhat startled at the rather sweaty best friend practically shouting in his face. “I’m fine.”

  Nick nodded furiously to the point where he wondered if whiplash was possible. “Good. Good, good, good. That’s … good. You feeling better? Like … just. Better?”

  “I am,” he said slowly. “Are you okay?”

  “Never better!” Nick bellowed, wiping his forehead. His hand came away soaked. “I brought you something.” He reached into his backpack and pulled out the present he’d stopped at a bodega for. It had made him miss his usual train. “It’s Mexican candy! Skwinkles Salsagheti!”

  “I can see that,” Seth said, staring down at the plastic package Nick had practically shoved into his hands. “And you got me Skwinkles Salsagheti because…”

  Because the bodega—like most bodegas—catered to the Hispanic community, and there wasn’t anything with nougat in the entire store. The meltdown he’d had meant that he wasn’t allowed to go back to that particular bodega. “It reminded me of you,” Nick said, for lack of anything better.

  “What’s happening?” Jazz whispered to Gibby.

  “I have no idea,” Gibby whispered back. “I only like girls.”

  “O … kay,” Seth said. “Thanks. I think.”

  Nick nodded so hard, he felt bones crack. That probably wasn’t good. “Yep. Just looking out for my best bud. My bro. My brotato chip. My pot-broast. We’re just Bromeo and Dudeliet.” Nick actively forced his mouth shut before he could make things worse.

  Seth stared at him strangely for a moment before shaking his head. “I—look. About how we left things yesterday—”

  “Nope,” Nick said, taking a step back. “Nope, nope, nope. Don’t even worry about it. Enjoy your Skwinkles Salsagheti. ¡Muy rapido!”

  And in a move he would most likely regret for the rest of his life, Nick turned and ran up the stairs and all the way to school, leaving his friends behind.

  * * *

  His day didn’t get much better after that.

  There was a pop quiz in AP History that he was pretty sure he boffed big-time.

  When called on to explain a Byronic hero in English class, Nick managed to give a three-minute presentation on the mating habits of box turtles before the teacher mercifully put him out of his misery.

  He was twitchier than normal, and even though he knew there was a mushed pill in his pocket, he didn’t dare take it out, knowing he had to prove a point. Maybe proving a point during the middle of a life-altering romantic crisis was not the best time to try and quit cold turkey, but Nick was nothing if not spontaneous.

  And, for one of the first times in his known life, he was actually dreading how quickly the day seemed to be moving. He stared in horror up at the clock as it approached lunchtime, knowing he’d once again be faced with Seth, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about that. What if Seth had misunderstood the gift of Mexican candy and had thought it meant intent? Did Nick mean for it to have intent? If so, what did that mean? And why did Seth have to wear a freaking cravat on today of all days? And when had cravats become some sort of weakness?

  When the bell rang for lunch, Nick gave very serious consideration to applying for a passport, waiting the requisite four to six weeks for it to arrive, and then fleeing the country.

  However, given that he was underage, it meant he would have to ask his father for help applying, and Dad was on his shit list, Cinnamon Bread-Shaped Chomps aside.

  He walked slowly toward the lunchroom. He understood what it must feel like to be in a gulag.

  Seth was already at the lunch table with Gibby and Jazz. Their heads were bowed together and they whispered furiously. Nick’s curiosity pierced through the haze he’d been mired in since the day before. What could they be discussing so intently? It was a mystery that needed to be solved, and by god, Nick would solve it. Maybe they had come up with plans for a more secure Phase Three, and he could be an Extraordinary by this afternoon! Wouldn’t that just make this weird day better? Of course it would.

  But before he could take a step toward his friends, an arm fell on his shoulders, and he was pulled close to another body, a voice near his ears. “Hiya, Nicky. Why’re you just standing here? Who’re we staring at?”

  Nick shivered at the hot breath on his neck. “Owen,” he managed to say. “Glad you could show up and—holy god, what happened to your face?”

  Nick pulled away to stare at Owen in disbelief. He was smiling that wicked smile, even though it had to hurt. It looked as if Owen had been punched right in the eye, the bruise dark, the skin puffy. Owen shrugged. “It’s not too bad. You should see the other guy.” He glanced over Nick’s shoulder to their lunch table before looking back at Nick. “Aw, are you worried about little old me? Nicky, I’m touched. Really.” He reached out and pinched Nick’s cheek.

  Nick knocked his hand away. “What happened?”

  Owen rolled his eyes. “It’s not a big deal. Just a bit of sparring. A lucky punch, that’s all. I’ve had worse.”

  “Sparring,” Nick repeated slowly.

  “Yep. Gotta keep in shape, you know? I mean, how else could I get your attention?” His smile widened. “I know how you like the muscles.”

  Nick scowled at him. “I don’t like anything about you.”

  “Now, now. We both know that’s not true. You missed me. Admit it.”

  “I didn’t even notice you were gone.”

  Owen laughed. “Someone got a backbone in the last couple of days. It’ll do you good when you become an Extraordinary, I think.”

  Nick blinked. That sounded suspiciously close to a compliment. “Really?”

  “Sure. That’s still a thing, right? You still want to be an Extraordinary?”

  “Yeah, it’s still a thing. Other things have … happened, but it’s not going to stop me.”

  Owen studied Nick so intently, Nick started squirming. Then, “It’s good to see you’re so adamant about it. Tell you what, Nicky. When you’re ready to play with the big boys, you let me know. I
might be able to help you.”

  Nick frowned. “Help me with what?”

  Owen pinched his cheek again. “Is that a formal request?”

  Nick shoved him away. “No. I don’t need your help with anything. I can do it on my own.”

  “Sure, Nicky. Just remember that I offered, huh?”

  And because Nick had a heart, messed up though it might be, he had to ask. “It was just … sparring, right? Not—” He hesitated, unsure if he was overstepping.

  “Not what?”

  “Not your dad?” Nick blurted before he could stop himself.

  Owen looked taken aback, but he recovered quickly. And for a moment, the mask slipped again. “Nah. He wouldn’t raise a hand to me. Never has. I promise, okay? It’s not like that.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I do. Now, shall we go see why they’re talking about us?”

  “How do you know they’re talking about us?”

  Owen winked at him. “Because they’re trying to act like they aren’t.”

  Nick looked over at the table. Sure enough, Gibby was waving her hands at Jazz and Seth, whispering something that Nick couldn’t hear. Both Seth and Jazz turned their heads to look at Nick and Owen.

  “Great,” Nick muttered.

  “Eh,” Owen said. “If people aren’t talking about you, then you’re doing something wrong.”

  * * *

  If breakfast had been uncomfortable and the train station awkward, then lunch was absolutely excruciating.

  It didn’t help that Jazz was staring at him weirdly, or that Gibby kept muttering under her breath about idiot boys. And Seth seemed barely able to meet Nick’s gaze for more than a second or two before he’d look away, pulling at his polka-dotted cravat. Nick also wanted to pull on it.

  And it absolutely did not help that Owen seemed to be more … hands-on than usual. He leaned into Nick, bumped his shoulder, laughed quietly as he whispered in Nick’s ear. Seth scowled at Owen for almost the entirety of lunch, his forehead wrinkled, cheeks flushed.

  “So,” Nick said, trying desperately to make things normal again. “I’ve decided to move on to Phase Three.”