NO[R]M•i•nal: adj. being true in name only but not in reality
After doing our round in enemy territory—Lincoln High’s student section—and finding nothing except some friends to chat with, Laila and I settle in for the second half of the game. When the whistle blows, indicating the start of the quarter, I’m surprised Trevor isn’t in his seat, watching intently. I scan the sidelines to see if he’s talking to Stephanie. He’s not. Stephanie’s in the middle of a high kick.
“Hey,” I say to Laila. “I’m going to see if I can find Trevor. I’ll be right back.”
“Okay.”
Now that the game has started again, the blacktop behind the stadium is deserted. The lights from the lone building—the snack hut—create a glowing island in the otherwise dark alley. I immediately see the broad back of Trevor, standing at the counter, giving the cashier some money. When she hands him his soda, he turns away from the stadium steps where I stand and walks into the darkness. I have to run to catch up to him.
“Trevor,” I call, breathless.
He turns. “Oh, hi, Addison.”
“What are you doing? Aren’t you going to watch the rest of the game?”
“I … no, actually.”
“Why not?”
He takes a swig from his soda. “I just feel a little stiff. Thought a walk would help.”
“That’s a good excuse, but what’s the real reason?”
He smiles. “Did you inherit some of your father’s lie-detector genes?”
“Maybe,” I say, even though the only bit of Discernment I have has to do with manipulating time. The reason I know he’s lying is because he’s not acting like himself. He’s been even quieter than normal all night, which isn’t saying a lot, because he’s pretty quiet all the time.
“I guess even though I’m usually good at not thinking about ‘would’ve-beens,’ I’m having a hard time tonight. I’ll blame it on the team we’re playing.”
“Let’s just blame everything on them.”
“Sounds good.”
I wait for him to say more, but he doesn’t. He just quietly drinks his soda. I know the would’ve-been that he’s having a hard time not thinking about—his injury. But I wonder if there’s more to it. “What are you thinking about?”
He rubs his shoulder. “The doctor says I can throw again next week, but I realize I’m never going to play competitively again.”
I nod.
He takes another long drink from his soda, finishing it off. He seems to be stalling, maybe waiting for me to leave, but I don’t want to. I want him to talk. I want to be here for him. “It’s not that I’m not strong enough,” he finally says.
“Of course not,” I agree too quickly, then laugh a little. Technically I shouldn’t know that, but I just happened to have seen him with his shirt off and took plenty of time appreciating the evidence of his statement.
“I am.”
“I know. I just agreed.”
“But you’re laughing. You don’t think I am.” He looks at the soda can he’s holding, turns it sideways, and then crushes it between his hands.
I laugh harder. “Was that meant as proof?”
He smiles. “Yes, actually.”
“You totally got that out of Ninja Wars Two. I remember that. Naoto’s eyes are like bugging out of his head while he crushes a soda can.” I bite my lip to stop my laughing. “You’re such a nerd.”
“You’re the one who remembered the comic. You can’t call me a nerd.”
“Total nerd.”
He grabs me by the wrist, pulls me toward him, and somehow lifts me up and is holding me off the ground, his arms wrapped around my thighs, before I can blink.
My heart is immediately in my throat. “Okay, that’s much better proof of your strength,” I say, patting his shoulders. “I believe you. You can put me down now.”
He doesn’t move. His face is serious again. “It’s not that I’m not strong enough to play. It’s just that specific motion.”
“Throwing?” My hands are gripping his shoulders, their solidness further proof of his claim.
“Yeah.”
So a Paranormal precisely targeted his throwing muscles? It’s hard for me to believe someone would do that on purpose. But what else could it be? I have to find out who. Trevor loosens his hold, and I slide gently to the ground. A little light-headed, I take a few wobbly steps back.
“Tonight, watching Duke play, was hard.” He pauses for a long moment, and I don’t want to push him into continuing, so I hold my tongue. “Do you ever feel like you do something or are something for so long that it defines you?”
If only he knew. “Yes. I know exactly how that feels.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Sometimes I feel like I’m slowly floating away. I’m constantly looking for something to grab on to so I don’t lose myself.” Mostly because without my ability to define me, I’m not sure who I am or how others see me.
He nods like he understands exactly what I’m talking about. “I know I was only a junior last year, but I had my whole future planned. Now I feel like I’m still trying to hold on to what I was, even though the thing that made me that person is gone. And everyone else seems to be hanging on to that person too … man, are you sure you want a future best friend who is such a whiner? Just ignore me. I’ll be back to pretending tomorrow.”
His thumb is hooked in the front pocket of his jeans, and I have an overwhelming desire to hold his hand. To comfort him. But I know I can’t. He has Stephanie for that. I’m supposed to punch him on the shoulder and tell him to buck up or something. I settle for a speech. “Whining is definitely something best friends are allowed to do in front of each other—it’s in the handbook. And you don’t have to pretend with me, Trevor. You are more than a football player to me. I didn’t even know that version of you. I only know who you are now—a great friend, easy to talk to and be around, an amazing artist, an awesome brother … a total nerd.” I smile. “And that’s just what I’ve learned in the last few weeks.”
The distant lights from the stadium mask half his face in shadows. “Thanks, Addison. And for the record, whatever you left behind, whatever has you feeling like you’re floating here, doesn’t define you either.”
I want to ask him what does define me. Who he sees when he looks at me. But I can’t get the words out. They sit in the back of my throat for fear he won’t know the answer to that question either.
“But,” he continues, “if you need something to hold on to until you feel grounded, I make a pretty good anchor.”
An unexpected feeling of warmth fills my chest and makes me want to hug him or cry. I can’t do either. “Yeah, you proved that.”
He laughs. “Do you want to go watch the rest of the game?”
“Not really, but I left Laila up there.”
“Okay, I’ll see you Monday then.” I watch him until he disappears into the blackness.
When I get back, Laila gives me a sideways glance. “Where’s your boyfriend?”
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
“Oh, right …”
“What did I miss?” I ask, changing the subject. When Laila gets an idea in her head, no matter how off base it is, it’s best not to try to talk her out of it.
“Only Duke being awesome,” she says with a smile. “But I’m sure he’ll do it again.”
Fifteen minutes pass, and she leans toward me. “Told you.”
I glance up at the scoreboard—21 to 3. Five minutes left. We’re getting our butts kicked. “Are you ready to cover for me? I’m going down to the locker room.”
“Yeah, go already.”
In the locker room I position myself behind a bin of soccer balls and wait. It feels like it takes forever, especially since the grass/sweat combination isn’t a pleasant smell. Why am I doing this?
A couple years ago Laila showed up to lunch holding the janitor’s golf-cart code and a skateboard attached to a rope. “We won’t get caught. Search it,” she said, when I refused. I did. Even though the skateboard path led to one of the best days ever, it also led to the principal’s office. I chose the other option. The safe one.
My knees scream out in pain from squatting behind the soccer balls for so long. I am doing this because I have to know … for Trevor. Just as I stand to stretch them out, the hollers and stomping feet of a large body of people echo through the halls. I push myself farther into my hideout.
Before I had the brilliant idea to inject myself into this situation, I hadn’t thought about the logistics of what would actually happen in the locker room. But when I hear water running, I turn all the way around and press my face against the wall. Slowly, some of the players trickle into the rows of lockers, where I can pick up on conversations. Nothing interesting is being said. I don’t know what I had hoped to hear. Obviously no one is going to come out and say, So who should we purposefully maim next week?
“Duke, great game,” a loud voice says. Several others agree with the comment and give an appreciative whoop.
“Thanks, guys. You too.”
“That was some great soothing out there tonight,” a guy I don’t recognize says.
Then Duke says, “Just a little influence is all it takes to make the other team as docile as little girls.”
I peer around the soccer balls to see if I can see the Mood Controller—I’m assuming Andrew—who Duke is talking to. I recognize one of the guys standing next to him—Ray—they were constantly together. The other guy is scrawnier; maybe he’s the freshman. These were the people who ruined Trevor’s career—Duke, obviously the mastermind, and his minions. But who did the actual injuring? Laila had said there weren’t any Mass Manipulators on the team. The only Mass Manipulator I know is…
Bobby? Could he be involved somehow? And why? Did he even know Duke? Did he go to the football games? I’d have to ask Laila.
I stand by the soccer balls until the locker room has emptied out. I feel like my brain has been emptied out as well. Disappointment is slowly filling in the curiosity of before. Deep down I thought I would prove Rowan wrong, not right. I sink to the floor. Is this really the kind of people we have become? The kind who can use their powers to hurt others without any remorse? I wonder what the locker room sounded like after Trevor’s injury had been successfully administered—did they congratulate one another that night? The thought makes me sick.
When I don’t hear anyone, I abandon my hideout and walk toward the exit. Apparently I should’ve walked faster, because Duke rounds the corner and slams right into me, sending me flying backward.
“Oh, jeez,” he says, startled. “I’m sorry.” He holds out his hand to help me up. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine.” I ignore his offered hand and push myself up off the ground.
“Hey, you’re Addie Coleman.”
“Yes. I am.”
He flashes me a killer smile. “Clairvoyant, right?”
It catches me off guard to hear someone say my ability out loud like that again. I look around. “Yeah, sort of.” I rub at my stinging palm.
“Are you hurt?” He takes my hand in his and inspects it. A chill goes through me as he traces a finger over the tiny scratches on my palm.
His hair smells good and seems to freeze me in place for a moment. I finally regain my senses and take my hand back, wiping it a few times on my jeans. “I’m fine.”
One corner of his mouth goes up into a half smile, and my heart seems to think this is the most adorable thing in the world. I remind myself of who he is and what he’s been doing, and the annoyance comes rushing back.
“Laila told me you moved. Did you move here? To Dallas?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you’re missed.”
“I know what you’re doing,” I say evenly.
He lowers his head with a smile and kicks at the ground. “My flirting isn’t very subtle, is it?”
Flirting? “Not that. I’m talking about you and your friends using your abilities to get ahead.”
He shrugs his shoulders. “And?”
Anger surges through me. “And it’s wrong.”
“So you’re saying you’ve never used your ability to help yourself?”
“I don’t hurt people.”
“Neither do I,” he says.
“That’s right, you just stand back and let your friends do the dirty work while you reap the benefits. I don’t get it. What’s in it for them?”
Duke’s perfect eyebrows lower, and I’m distracted by the notion that he must pluck them. “What are you talking about?” he asks.
I shake my head. “I’m talking about how one by one your competition is falling down around you and you’ll be the only good quarterback left standing. Congratulations, your plan is working. I hope your victory feels as hollow as your heart. But at least you’ll have your pick of colleges, right?”
Duke’s smile has fallen and has been replaced by a look of shock. “What?”
“Don’t try to deny it. I heard you telling your buddy that all he has to do is influence emotions a little.”
“Yeah, emotions are influenced, but not for the reasons you’re claiming. It just makes the competition less aggressive, a little more relaxed. It’s not meant to hurt anyone, just to keep me from getting sacked.” If my dad were here, I know he’d tell me that Duke is lying. “Listen. Let’s talk about this. Can I buy you a burger or something?”
All I want to do is punch Duke in the stomach on Trevor’s behalf, and he wants to buy me a burger? “No.”
“Addison?” I whirl around to see Trevor standing in the wide corridor. The guys stare at each other, and I panic. I walk quickly toward Trevor.
“Call me sometime, Addie,” Duke says from behind me. Now I want to punch him in the stomach for my own reasons. I keep walking, grab Trevor’s hand, and lead him away. His hand is warm and strong, and I don’t let it go even when we’re outside.
“What was that all about? Do you … know him?”
If I’m ever going to tell him the truth about where I’m from, now would be the perfect time. “No. I don’t. I was just trying to find stuff out, you know, spy. For Rowan.”
I’m trying to walk as fast as possible, but Trevor slows down, and I’m forced to slow down with him.
“And?”
“And what?”
He squeezes my hand. “Did you find out anything?”
Only that Rowan is right. You were injured on purpose. I want to say that so bad, but how can I when I’m not allowed to talk about abilities? I hate lying to him so much that my stomach is rebelling against me with painful cramps. “I know you said Duke is a nice guy, but I don’t see it.”