I Am Number Four

Mrs. Burton flicks the lights on. I open my eyes and look at the clock. Class is almost over. I feel calm again, and had completely forgotten about my hands. I take a deep breath and flip open the cuff of the right glove. The light is off! I smile and remove both gloves. Back to normal. I have six periods left in the day. I have to remain at peace through all of them.



The first half of the day passes without incident. I remain calm, and likewise have no further encounters with Mark. At lunch I fill my tray with the basics, then find an empty table at the back of the room. When I’m halfway through a slice of pizza, Sam Goode, the kid from astronomy class, sits across from me.



“Are you really fighting Mark after school?” he asks.



I shake my head. “No.”



“That’s what people are saying.”



“They’re wrong.”



He shrugs, keeps eating. A minute later he asks, “Where’d your gloves go?”



“I took them off. My hands aren’t cold anymore.”



He opens his mouth to respond but a giant meatball that I’m sure is aimed for me comes out of nowhere and hits him in the back of the head. His hair and shoulders are covered with bits of meat and spaghetti sauce. Some of it has splattered onto me. While I start cleaning myself off a second meatball flies through the air and hits me square on the cheek. Oohs filter throughout the cafeteria.



I stand and wipe the side of my face with a napkin, anger coursing through me. In that instant I don’t care about my hands. They can shine as brightly as the sun, and Henri and I can leave this afternoon if that’s what it comes to. But there isn’t a chance in hell I’m letting this slide. It was over after this morning…but not now.



“Don’t,” Sam says. “If you fight then they’ll never leave you alone.”



I start walking. A hush falls over the cafeteria. A hundred sets of eyes focus on me. My face twists into a scowl. Seven people are sitting at Mark James’s table, all guys. All seven of them stand as I approach.



“You got a problem?” one of them asks me. He is big, built like an offensive lineman. Patches of reddish hair grow on his cheeks and chin as though he’s trying to grow a beard. It makes his face look dirty. Like the rest of them he’s wearing a letterman jacket. He crosses his arms and stands in my way.



“This doesn’t concern you,” I say.



“You’ll have to go through me to get to him.”



“I will if you don’t get out of my way.”



“I don’t think you can,” he says.



I bring my knee straight up into his crotch. His breath catches in his throat, and he doubles over. The whole lunchroom gasps.



“I warned you,” I say, and I step over him and walk straight for Mark. Just as I reach him I’m grabbed from behind. I turn with my hands clenched into fists, ready to swing, but at the last second I realize it’s the lunchroom attendant.



“That’ll be enough, boys.”



“Look what he just did to Kevin, Mr. Johnson,” Mark says. Kevin is still on the ground holding himself. His face is beet red. “Send him to the principal!”



“Shut up, James. All four of you are going. Don’t think I didn’t see you throw those meatballs,” he says, and looks at Kevin still on the floor. “Get up.”



Sam appears from nowhere. He has tried to wipe the mess from his hair and shoulders. The big pieces are gone, but the sauce has only smeared. I’m not sure why he’s here. I look down at my hands, ready to flee at the first hint of light, but to my surprise they’re off. Was it because of the urgency of the situation, allowing me to approach without preemptive nerves? I don’t know.



Kevin stands and looks at me. He is shaky, still having trouble breathing. He grips the shoulder of the guy beside him for support.



“You’ll get yours,” he says.



“I doubt it,” I say. I’m still scowling, still covered in food. To hell with wiping it away.



The four of us walk to the principal’s office. Mr. Harris is sitting behind his desk eating a microwavable lunch, a napkin tucked into the neck of his shirt.



“Sorry to interrupt. We just had a slight disruption during lunch. I’m sure these boys will be happy to explain,” the lunchroom attendant says.



Mr. Harris sighs, pulls the napkin from his shirt, and throws it in the trash. He pushes his lunch to the side of his desk with the back of his hand.



“Thank you, Mr. Johnson.”



Mr. Johnson leaves, closing the office door behind him, and the four of us sit.



“So who wants to start?” the principal asks, irritation in his voice.



I stay silent. The muscles in Mr. Harris’s jaw are flexed. I look down at my hands. Still off. I place them palms down on my jeans just in case. After ten seconds of silence, Mark starts. “Somebody hit him with a meatball. He thinks it was me, so he kneed Kevin in the balls.”



“Watch your language,” Mr. Harris says, and then turns to Kevin. “You okay?”



Kevin, whose face is still red, nods.



“So who threw the meatball?” Mr. Harris asks me.



I say nothing, still seething, irritated at the whole scene. I take a deep breath to try to calm myself.



“I don’t know,” I say. My anger has reached new levels. I don’t want to have to deal with Mark through Mr. Harris, and would rather take care of the situation myself, away from the principal’s office.



Sam looks at me in surprise. Mr. Harris throws his hands up in frustration. “Well then, why in the hell are you boys here?”



“That’s a good question,” says Mark. “We were simply eating our lunch.”



Sam speaks. “Mark threw it. I saw him and so did Mr. Johnson.”



I look over at Sam. I know he didn’t see it because his back was turned the first time, and the second time he was busy cleaning himself off. But I’m impressed at him saying so, for his taking my side knowing it will put him in danger with Mark and his friends. Mark scowls at him.



“Come on, Mr. Harris,” Mark pleads. “I have the interview with the Gazette tomorrow, and the game on Friday. I don’t have time to worry about crap like this. I’m being accused of something I didn’t do. It’s hard to stay focused with this shit going on.”



“Watch your mouth!” Mr. Harris yells.



“It’s true.”



“I believe you,” the principal says, and sighs very heavily. He looks at Kevin, who’s still struggling to catch his breath. “Do you need to go to the nurse?”



“I’ll be fine,” Kevin says.



Mr. Harris nods. “You two forget about the lunchroom incident, and Mark, get your mind straight. We’ve been trying to get this article for a while now. They might even put us on the front page. Imagine that, the front page of the Gazette,” he says, and smiles.



“Thank you,” Mark says. “I’m excited about it.”



“Good. Now, you two can leave.”



They go, and Mr. Harris gives a hard look at Sam. Sam holds his gaze.



“Tell me, Sam. And I want the truth. Did you see Mark throw the meatball?”



Sam’s eyes narrow. He doesn’t look away.



“Yes.”



The principal shakes his head. “I don’t believe you, Sam. And because of that, here is what we are going to do.” He looks at me. “So a meatball was thrown—”



“Two,” Sam interjects.



“What?!” Mr. Harris asks, again glowering at Sam.



“There were two meatballs thrown, not one.”



Mr. Harris slams his fist on the desk. “Who cares how many there were! John, you assaulted Kevin. An eye for an eye. We’ll let it go at that. Do you understand me?”



His face is red and I know it’s pointless to argue.



“Yep,” I say.



“I don’t want to see you two in here again,” he says. “You’re both dismissed.”



We leave his office.



“Why didn’t you tell him about your phone?” Sam asks.



“Because he doesn’t care. He just wanted to go back to his lunch,” I say. “And be careful,” I tell him. “You’ll be on Mark’s radar now.”



I have home economics after lunch—not because I necessarily care about cooking, but because it was either that or choir. And while I have many strengths and powers that are considered exceptional on Earth, singing is not one of them. So I walk into home ec and take a seat. It is a small room, and just before the bell rings Sarah walks in and sits beside me.



“Hi,” she says.



“Hi.”



Blood rushes to my face and my shoulders stiffen. I grab a pencil and begin to twirl it in my right hand while my left bends back the corners of my notepad. My heart is pounding. Please don’t let my hands be glowing. I peek at my palm and breathe a sigh of relief that it’s still normal. Stay calm, I think. She’s just a girl.



Sarah is looking at me. Everything inside of me feels as though it is turning to mush. She may be the most beautiful girl I have ever seen.



“I’m sorry Mark is being a jerk to you,” she says.



I shrug. “It’s not your fault.”



“You guys aren’t really going to fight, are you?”



“I don’t want to,” I say.



She nods. “He can be a real dick. He always tries to show he’s boss.”



“It’s a sign of insecurity,” I say.



“He’s not insecure. Just a dick.”



Sure he is. But I don’t want to argue with Sarah. Besides, she speaks with such certainty that I almost doubt myself.



She looks at the spots of spaghetti sauce that have dried on my shirt, then reaches over and pulls a hardened piece from my hair.



“Thanks,” I say.



She sighs. “I’m sorry that happened.” She looks me in the eye. “We’re not together, you know?”



“No?”



She shakes her head. I’m intrigued that she felt the need to make that clear to me. After ten minutes of instruction on how to make pancakes—none of which I actually hear—the teacher, Mrs. Benshoff, pairs Sarah and me together. We enter a door at the back of the room that leads to the kitchen, which is about three times the size of the actual classroom. It contains ten different kitchen units, complete with refrigerators, cabinets, sinks, ovens. Sarah walks into one, grabs an apron from a drawer, and puts it on.



“Will you tie this for me?” she asks.



I pull too much on the bow and have to tie it again. I can feel the contours of her lower back beneath my fingers. When hers is tied I put mine on and start to tie it myself.



“Here, silly,” she says, and then takes the straps and does it for me.



“Thanks.”



I try cracking the first egg but do it too hard, and none of the egg actually makes it into the bowl. Sarah laughs. She places a new egg in my hand and takes my hand in hers and shows me how to crack it on the rim of the bowl. She leaves her hand on mine for a second longer than is necessary. She looks at me and smiles.



“Like that.”



She mixes the batter and strands of hair fall into her face while she works. I desperately want to reach over and tuck the loose strands behind her ear, but I don’t. Mrs. Benshoff comes into our kitchen to check our progress. So far so good, which is all thanks to Sarah, since I have no idea what I’m doing.