B003J5UJ4U EBOK (3 page)

TRASH
,
THE NAME
slipped into Martin Anderson’s mind like someone had shouted it from two blocks away. Martin glanced toward the living-room window. But he wasn’t looking at the street. He was looking toward the past. The sadness lingered. But he couldn’t think about that right now. Someone else was shouting, much closer. Too close, and far too familiar.

“Are you listening to me?” his father yelled.

Martin turned his attention back to his screaming parent. “Sure. It’s my hobby. I love hearing you shout. I’m happy any time I can see your tonsils. Just like you’re happy when your boss yells at you for messing up.”

I gotta get out of here,
he thought as the angry lecture resumed.

WILLIS DOBBS
—“
FLINCH
” to his friends—paused in the middle of a sentence as the name flickered into his mind.
Trash.
Eddie’s nickname at Edgeview. Flinch lowered the microphone and stared at the ancient tape recorder in front of him, watching the cassette reels turning.

“How can I be funny now?” he said out loud. He swallowed against the lump that swelled in his throat.
It still hurts.

But the best comedy sprang from tragedy. He knew that. He took a deep breath, and continued practicing.

DENNIS “CHEATER” WOO
had been staring in the mirror, trying to work on his bluffing face, when the name hit him hard.
Trash.
Cheater was used to thoughts invading his head—both his own and those of other people. Just the simple act of looking at a mirror filled his mind with everything from the basic principles of optics to trivia about
Through the Looking Glass.
But he wasn’t used to thoughts arriving with the force of spoken words. He dropped the cards and blinked hard as he remembered his lost friend.
Trash.
It had all been so horrible. So senseless. So … stupid.

This was a dangerous world, full of violence and anger. He’d been inside far too many minds, and heard far too many angry thoughts, to believe otherwise.
Maybe I shouldn’t go to the game.
He didn’t know these kids. But he had to go. He had to prove he was the best.

PHILIP “TORCHIE” GRIEG
was usually happy. Today, a rare frown crossed his lips. He paused in mid squeeze, letting the note from the accordion die in the air as he thought about his old friend.
Trash.

Across the road, a stray dog stared at him, as if startled by the sudden silence.

“It’s okay, pooch,” he told it. He sighed, checked the dry
grass around him to make sure he hadn’t accidentally set it on fire, then played a sad song.

THE VOICE WAS
nearly lost among all the others. Dominic “Lucky” Calabrizi only noticed it because it was different. More urgent. More connected, somehow, to his life. Not hollow and masked by the medicated numbness that swaddled him like ten miles of bandages. Another voice was the last thing he needed. Even worse, this voice carried sad memories.
Trash.
He clamped his hands over his ears. It didn’t help.

medicine dropper

THERE WAS NO
way I was going to swallow any more medicine. If my power was working, I could fling the chair at the guy and make a run for it, but I didn’t know how many people were here, and I definitely didn’t want to get shot in the back as I was racing down the hall.

I needed to get rid of him without raising any alarms. I had an idea, but my timing needed to be perfect. That wouldn’t be easy, since I still felt like someone had whacked my head a couple times with a two-by-four.

As the guy stepped toward me, I pushed his toe down just the slightest bit so it caught the floor. It worked. When he stumbled forward, I tugged at the tray. Again, just the slightest bit. It all had to seem like an accident. When he tried to catch his balance and grab the medicine, I slid the cup toward his fingers. He swore as the cup bounced from his grip. The liquid spilled over the tray. A drop splashed on my lip. I licked it without thinking, then braced myself for the bitterness.

That was weird … it tasted like water.

Cursing, the man wiped his hand on his pants and
stomped toward the door. He pushed his palm against the plate and stepped out. There was no click from the bolt when the door closed behind him. I hoped he was annoyed enough that he didn’t notice.

I kept my concentration on the bolt as I walked to the door. It was easier to hold it back than to try to figure out how to trigger the mechanism once it closed. I opened the door and peered out.

From what I could see, the place wasn’t very big—just a short hall with a couple rooms on each side. No windows. It had the damp, musty smell of a basement. I heard the clink of someone grabbing a bottle from a room at the back of the hall. Probably the guy getting more medicine.

I raced up the stairs at the other end of the hall, trying to move silently. I stumbled once, but managed to catch myself. There were four open doorways on the first floor. I peeked into the closest one to make sure nobody was inside. It looked like some kind of lab with all sorts of electronics stuff. I dashed past it. The next room was an office, with file cabinets and desks. I wasn’t going to stick around to examine anything—not when I could see the front door ahead of me.

“Hey!” The shout came from downstairs. I guessed the guy had gotten back with the medicine already.

I blew past the other two rooms, slipped outside, and braced myself for a blast of cold air. Though the sun was low in the sky, the weather was surprisingly warm. I blinked and looked around, feeling like a bear coming out of hibernation. But I wasn’t at the mouth of a cave in the woods. I was
in the middle of a city block. There were narrow two- and three-story houses in both directions. Across the street, I saw a couple small stores and a coffee shop. I could hear car horns in the distance, and an ambulance siren farther off.

The fresh air helped lift some of the fog in my head. I jumped down the three porch steps, landing on the sidewalk. I knew I had to get away from the house immediately. As my mind cleared, and the sting of impact spread across my bare feet, I realized something else. I was about to attract a lot more attention than I wanted. In my rush to escape, I’d made myself highly visible. I guess I’d been living in them so long, I didn’t even think about the fact that I was wearing pajamas.

It was like one of those dreams you’re really happy to wake from. I was on a city street in pajamas, running from a monster. But this wasn’t a bad dream. It was a bad reality.

A scruffy guy in jeans and an Eagles t-shirt stared at me as he walked by. I started to hunch down, but that brought back another strong memory. For years, I’d shuffled through life like some sort of human turtle, trying to duck beneath the radar of the real world. I wasn’t going to do that anymore. I glared at the guy.
Look, man, the only real difference between you and me is that you’ve got underwear. And it’s probably not all that clean.
The instant I caught his eye, he quit staring and hurried off.

I didn’t stop to enjoy my victory. I had to get away. As I headed for the corner, I tried to act like it was the most normal thing in the world to jog down the street in pajamas, but I could feel my face flushing. I checked over my shoulder just
in time to see a door fly open. A little girl raced down the steps, followed by her mother.

Wrong house.

Tell that to my heart. It didn’t matter. The lab door would open any second. I spun around the corner, ignoring the pain of city grit abrading my feet.

I hurried a couple more blocks, turning corners at random, expecting to hear shouts of pursuit at any instant. When people stared at me, I stared right back. But I wasn’t planning to spend the rest of the day dressed like a sleepwalker. I needed clothes. Right now. Which meant I needed money.

I stopped walking and tried to think up a way to get some quick cash. I could beg. But who’d give me money looking like this? I didn’t have anything I could sell. As I stood there, a guy bumped into me, jolting me out of my thoughts. I glared at him, but he didn’t even look back.

Jerk.
His wallet was jutting halfway out of his back pocket. The next thing I knew, it was sitting in my hand. I’d floated it over before I even realized what I was doing.

The wallet was bulging with cash. There was more than enough money to buy everything I needed. Instead of relief, the sight of the cash made me gag. I fought back the sour flood of nausea that burned my tongue.
What’s happening to me?

I caught up to the guy and tapped him on the shoulder. “Hey, Mister,” I said as he turned toward me. “You dropped this.” I thrust out the wallet.

He slapped his back pocket, then snatched the wallet out
of my hand. For an instant, he glared at me suspiciously, but then relief took over. “Thank you. Thank you so much.” He reached in and pulled out a twenty. “Here, I want you to have a reward.”

“You sure? I don’t really deserve this.” I stared at the money, afraid to touch it.

“Take it.” He practically shoved the bill into my chest.

I took the money. My gut twitched, but didn’t make a major protest. I looked down at the twenty-dollar bill in my hand. Like it or not, I knew how I was going to fund my shopping trip. I crossed the street and spotted another jutting wallet.
It’s not stealing. I’m giving it right back.
That thought helped a bit.

“Why are you wearing pajamas?” the second guy asked as he handed me a reward.

“I’m going to a sleep over.”

The third wallet was easier. I didn’t feel great about getting money this way, but I only took wallets that were already in danger of getting snatched. So I guess I could say I was giving people a cheap lesson in protecting their valuables.

I thought about how Lucky got in trouble. He’d find wallets, keys, jewelry, and all sorts of other stuff. That
was
his hidden talent—he could hear lost things calling out to him. He tried to return them. After a while, everyone thought he was a thief. I wonder what he’d think if he could see me getting rewarded and thanked?

Nine wallets later, I had almost one hundred and fifty dollars. I looked around for a place that didn’t have a
NO SHOES, NO SHIRT, NO SERVICE
sign. Finally, I found a thrift
shop, where I bought pants, underwear, a t-shirt, and a cheap pair of sneakers. When the girl at the checkout stared at me, I shrugged and said, “I thought it was pajama day at school. Boy was I wrong.” She gave me a
whatever
look.

I put the sneakers on right there, then changed in a McDonald’s bathroom and stuffed the pajamas into the trash can. Perfect. I could blend in and go anywhere now. I felt a bit less like I had a large, blinking arrow pointing down at me. But as I walked out of the bathroom, a guy in a dark blue suit rushed through the door and bumped into me. I screamed and jumped back, ready to run.

“Sorry, kid.” He edged around me.

It’s not him. Get a grip.
I scurried out of there.

Based on the street names and the large number of Eagles shirts and Phillies caps I saw all around me, I figured out I was in Philadelphia. That was good. I only lived about twenty miles away. After hunting around for several blocks, I found a pay phone that wasn’t broken. I checked my loose change from the clothing store. I had just enough coins to call home. I couldn’t wait to hear Mom’s voice. Or even Dad’s. They’d tell me what was going on.

The phone rang and rang. The answering machine didn’t even pick up the call. I tried Mom’s cell numbers, but got an out-of-service message. I tried to dial Dad’s number, but my hand was shaking too much to press the right buttons. I wedged the receiver against my ear with my shoulder, then steadied my left hand with my right and tried again.

Out of service? No way. That can’t be right. Dad never leaves the house without his cell phone. He even takes it with
him when he goes out to the back yard. I can see him, sitting by the gas grill, letting it ring. Once. Twice. He’d pick up on the third or fourth ring. “Never act too eager,” he’d tell me. “Not if you want to come out on top.”

I tried all three numbers again, just to make sure. The result was the same. Did they know where I was? I wasn’t even sure how long I’d been gone, but it definitely wasn’t winter anymore. I went to a corner newsstand and checked the date on the paper.

It was June sixteenth—a bit more than a month before my fifteenth birthday. Why did I keep thinking it was winter? I shuffled through my memory. I’d gotten out of Edgeview right before school ended last June. Then, in September, I’d started my freshman year at Sayerton High. The teachers were a bit weird around me at first, because of my reputation for breaking things. I suppose they expected trouble. But, thanks to Martin, I was no longer a victim of the telekinetic power that had nearly ruined my life and given me my nickname. Instead of letting my talent run wild, I was learning to do all sorts of things with it.

And I guess that was the problem. I’d played around too much. Someone had discovered my secret.