B003J5UJ4U EBOK (7 page)

I needed to find out what I was dealing with. Whatever agency Bowdler worked for must be pretty powerful. They’d kidnapped me and faked my death. I had no idea what else they might do. I figured I shouldn’t even try to e-mail Martin or Cheater or any of my friends. Stuff like that left too much of a trail. I didn’t use the phone or even turn on my computer. They could be watching all of that. I really wanted to get in touch with Martin. But that would have to wait.

I also needed to catch my breath and calm down. I felt like I was on an amusement-park ride that spun in every direction at once. I was so tired the whole world seemed fuzzy. I decided to stay here tonight and sleep in my own bed.

When I went to the bathroom, I almost flipped on the light, but caught myself in time. That was the toughest part—watching every move I made. I wondered if that’s what life was like for Flinch. I hoped not. It was exhausting. Cheater
had shown us a trick once. Ask someone to write a sentence without dotting any i’s or crossing any t’s. It’s almost impossible. We’re all bound by thousands of habits.

Starving, I went to the kitchen, hoping there’d be something in the fridge. I unplugged it before I opened it, so the light wouldn’t go on. But it was empty. I guess my folks had cleaned it out before they left. I found corn flakes in the cabinet. There wasn’t any milk, but I didn’t mind dry cereal.

It was strange moving through a darkened house. But at least I was home. Though it felt empty without my parents here.

Tomorrow, I’d figure out what to do. Tonight, I just wanted to lose myself in mindless sleep and hope I was tired enough so that the dreams of snapped ribs and flowing blood would stay away.

where it is seen that
trash isn’t the only one
having an eventful Wednesday

cheater misplays the
hand he’s been dealt

“
I’LL TAKE TWO
.”
Cheater pulled the seven of clubs and the three of diamonds from his hand and slid them facedown toward the dealer. He was glad his nickname hadn’t followed him from Edgeview. It would be tough to get anyone to play poker with a kid called
Cheater.
And it would be impossible if they knew he could hear their thoughts. But that wasn’t a problem because these guys at the table—a group of older kids playing high-stakes dealer’s choice—had no idea what they were facing.

He was also glad to be out of Edgeview. Now that he understood his talent, he was able to avoid trouble. Martin had shown him how. But his talents came with a price. Knowing what people thought—that was brutal. He still couldn’t believe how much the smart kids hated each other. It was like an undeclared war among a dozen small countries. They all wanted to see each other crash and burn. Even the nicest kids had terrible thoughts. Cheater admitted he wasn’t any different. Sometimes he’d think dreadful stuff, especially when the bigger kids pushed him around at school. But right now, the only thought in his mind was cleaning out these guys.

He got a nine and a three of spades. No help for his pair of kings, but it reduced the odds for the kid across the table who was probably trying for a spade flush. Things were looking good, even without another king. The player on his left was bluffing with queen high, and the player on his right was holding two jacks. The two guys farther away were harder to read—one kept thinking about spades, and the other had a high pair—but Cheater was pretty sure he had them beat.

Despite all his advantages, he knew he stunk at keeping his face from revealing his hand. He practiced every day, but it didn’t make a difference. His opponents always folded when he got good cards, until he discovered the obvious solution. If he couldn’t hide his excitement, he needed to be excited all the time. That was easy enough. He knew plenty of interesting facts. As long as he was enthusiastic about sharing them, he could conceal his reaction to his hand.

He pointed to a bowl of chips on the corner of the table. “Hey, did you know a Native American invented them? How’s that for a cool fact? George Crumb. At least, that’s what the stories say. Though the stories could be apocryphal. That’s a great word. It’s what you call a story that might not be true. Like Washington and the cherry tree. Anyhow, this one is probably true. It’s pretty interesting. The guy was a cook up in New York State.” Cheater chattered away about the origin of the potato chip while the dealer gathered the discards.

He was up enough to bet big. The bluffer folded, along with the player trying for a flush. The kid with jacks stayed in. So did the guy who was running the game—a senior named Fritz
who’d somehow gotten a key to a room in a cheap motel where they could play all evening undisturbed. The place was only half a mile from Cheater’s home, but the run-down neighborhood seemed half a universe away.

Nice pot.
Cheater met Fritz’s raise and bumped him the limit. If he won enough tonight, he’d be able to stake himself at one of the hold ‘em games he’d heard about over in Philly. He really wanted to go to Philly, one way or another. All afternoon, he’d been thinking about it.
I could stay with Uncle Ray,
he thought.

“Let’s see what you got,” the kid with the jacks said.

“Beat this.” Fritz laid out his hand. He had kings, too. But Cheater had kept an ace, which beat Fritz’s ten.

“Close one,” Cheater said as he reached for the pot.

“Too close.” Fritz clamped his hand around Cheater’s wrist.

“Hey, what are you talking about?”

“You’ve won every hand where you didn’t fold,” Fritz said.

Cheater shrugged. “Guess I’m lucky.”

“Guess I’m lucky,” Fritz said, mocking Cheater’s voice. “Nobody is that lucky. You marked these cards.”

Cheater’s pulse sped up as the players’ thoughts flooded his mind. They believed Fritz. None of them could accept the possibility of losing to a skinny little kid with glasses. Each person at the table knew he was the best poker player in the world.

“You brought the cards,” Cheater said. “And you dealt that hand.”

Fritz tightened his grip and yanked Cheater halfway
across the table, scattering the neatly stacked piles of chips. “How’d you do it?”

“I didn’t do anything,” Cheater said. He picked up a clear thought from Fritz.
It’s the glasses.

“These are just normal glasses.” As the words tumbled out, Cheater realized his mistake. Nobody had mentioned the glasses out loud. Now, he’d given them a reason to be suspicious. His only hope was to prove his innocence. He pulled the glasses from his face and held them out. “See for yourself.”

Fritz snatched the glasses from Cheater and stared through the lenses. “These aren’t any kind of prescription.” He dropped them on the floor. “You must be using them to cheat.”

“I have a mild astigmatism,” Cheater said. It was true—his glasses only made a tiny correction. But he felt he needed them. He used his eyes so much. He read constantly. His brother kidded him about it, calling him a book sucker. He wished his brother was here right now. Or his friends from Edgeview. He wished anybody was here besides these four angry poker players.

Fritz stomped down on the frames. “I guess we’ll have to beat the truth out of you.”

Cheater closed his eyes as more thoughts tumbled toward him, crackling with enthusiasm and anticipation.
Let’s kick his butt.

flinch prepares for battle

“
FOLKS, PLEASE WELCOME
Willis Dobbs.”

Flinch stared out at the crowd as the applause came to an end. He loved the thrill of starting a set. He loved the applause. He loved the laughs. But he loved the combat most of all. At least, the verbal combat. He couldn’t help clenching his teeth when he thought about other forms of combat. Last summer, right after he’d gotten out of Edgeview, he’d used his talent for a different type of battle. It hadn’t been pretty.

There’d been a boxing program at the Rec League. His mom had fussed a bit when he’d asked permission, but she’d finally given in. He’d signed up, figuring his talent for seeing slightly into the future would make him unbeatable. Up until Edgeview, his talent had done nothing but get him in trouble. He interrupted his teachers whenever they talked to him, and seemed distracted and jumpy all the time. Everyone thought he was twitchy and weird, but all he’d been doing was reacting too soon. Now, he hoped to use his talent to fit in.

The first time he stepped into the ring to spar, he was matched up against a scrawny kid named Juan who lived
right down the block from him. Juan was always walking around with his nose in a book. He reminded Flinch of Cheater.

“You trying to be tough?” Flinch had asked after they’d put on their gloves. He wanted to take slow, deep breaths, but his lungs wouldn’t cooperate.

Juan grinned. “Sure. Why not. Just don’t hurt me too much.”

“No problem. I’m totally new at this, too. So don’t hurt me, either.”

“You’ve got a deal.”

The bell rang. Buzzed with adrenaline, Flinch had sidestepped Juan’s first awkward punch and thrown a counter-shot to the jaw that dropped him like he’d been zapped with a stun gun. Juan wasn’t the only one stunned. The whole gym went silent as heads turned toward the ring.

Flinch had looked down at Juan lying there with his eyes rolled halfway back in his head. He waited to make sure Juan was okay. Then he climbed out of the ring. He felt like he’d just done something dirty and shameful.

“Hey,” the trainer had called. “Where you going? You got the stuff, my man. I can make you a champ.”

“Takin’ my stuff elsewhere,” Flinch said.

He’d tried baseball, basketball, and even fencing. He wanted to find something to help ease the stress of constantly keeping track of his actions. But there was no joy when you knew ahead of time exactly where a pitch would cross the plate. The first hit or two felt good. Pretty soon, it all started to feel cheap and easy. Worse, it got boring—like
playing a game of cards when you could see everyone else’s hand.

But there was joy now, because victory wasn’t guaranteed. He lived and died not just by his hidden talent, but by his true talent. Flinch reached out and pulled the mike from the stand. Then he smiled at the crowd.
Bring it on,
he thought.
Give me your best shot.