Power to Burn (2 page)

‘I'll have my eggs sunny-side-up and my hash browns right on top,' I said in the fake American accent I use when I'm trying to be cheerful. If Mum
really
knew me, she'd know the moment I opened my mouth that I was scared brainless and in need of a laugh.

But her face twitched. ‘
Uffà!
Your muesli is there on the table like it is
sempre
– always! You know you can't eat eggs first thing in the morning. You and your
jokes
,' she tsked, as if humour was as unnecessary as the human appendix.

Somehow I got through breakfast without throwing up, and walked to school. I knew it would be no good to wag that day, because I'd just worry myself into a psychosis. I'm sure that anticipation is worse than the real thing (unless Pig has hired a professional killer).

Pig stared at me all through English and Science. I felt like an insect under glass. At lunchtime I hid in the library behind
Fantasy through the Ages
.

When the bell went at 3 pm my heart started jumping like a jack hammer. I looked down at my skinny legs, at the bruise on my knee (from pacing the floor in the dark the night before) and felt a surge of affection for them. They'd carried me around all these years, and never been broken.

As I walked slowly out of the school gate I wondered if the Indian woman's heart had been thumping like this before she combusted. The blood must have turned to liquid fire, zooming around her chest and into her throat.

I could hardly swallow by the time I saw Pig and his black-shirts. The trouble is, I
hate
being hit. I've got this thing about blood and cracked ribs and pain. It's just a peculiarity of mine, I guess.

As I looked at them coming toward me my mind suddenly flashed on a medical magazine I had seen at the doctor's. There was a photo of a leg flayed open on a table, the muscle all pulled away with the white bone gleaming below like lobster flesh in a salad. Suddenly I felt as mushy and boneless as a sea creature without its shell. I wish I'd done weights.

Pig stood in front of me. He was so close I could smell eggs on his breath. He had a pimple coming up on his nose, right in the centre.

‘Do you believe in internal combustion?' I gabbled. (I can't believe I said that.)

‘What?' said Pig.

‘Turn widdershins and jump into the air three times.'

I was going mad. Words and pictures were coming up to my mouth from deep inside, like dreams, as if I was talking in my sleep, and the everyday part of me was watching, gagged.

‘This guy is wacko,' one of the black-shirts said happily.

‘Wants to have some sense knocked into him,' said another.

Pig laughed. ‘Nah – bookworms just get squashed flat,' he spat.

‘The Indian woman felt the pressure build up inside her chest and explode into her brain.'

‘You'll feel this explode in your face right now,' shouted Pig and he swung his meaty fist.

I watched his knuckles whiten and as I looked the air blurred and held still like the sea when the wind drops. There was absolute silence and then something opened deep in my mind like a whale shooting up from the depths. A fountain of power rose up and surged out through my eyes, filling the silence and my fingers tingled till they stung like fire. I saw Pig's eyes widen as I opened my fists to the sky and flames shot into the air.

Pig sprang back and still the flames were coming. Sparks reached his hand and his arm, as he covered his face.

There was a smell of smoke and singed hair and I felt every cell in my body wake up and shout. I was tingling all over, way down deep where now I knew I had muscles, and rivers of blood tumbled from my heart down into my guts and I was as strong as a bear, and I loved it!

Suddenly I wanted to hug Pig. I wanted to wrap him in my big bear paws and share the joy and power of me.

The flames died as I crushed Pig's greasy face into my shoulder. The black-shirts stared and started backing away, their faces pale and amazed. I felt Pig struggle against my chest and I closed my eyes for a moment. In the blackness I saw myself towering, as huge as a giant and as old as a wizard, but as I concentrated the image began to shrink and slide until it was no more than a small light in the corner of my eye.

It was over. Pig pushed me away and stood staring blankly for a moment. Then he turned and ran.

I looked at old Pig haring down the road until he disappeared into Eddy Avenue. Then I picked up my bag and headed for home.

On the way I bought some scallops to celebrate and I sat down in the old bus shed to eat them. I had never tasted anything so delicious. The tastebuds on my tongue sat up and danced and I ate five scallops in about two seconds. There was graffiti all over the walls and a broken bag of prawn heads in the corner. But even that didn't smell so bad.

‘Today is the first day of my life,' I said to the bus shed. It was as if a spell had been broken.

I waited until dinner that night to tell my news. It was roast lamb (Tuesday). The TV was blaring and Dad was going on about the girl in the shampoo ad, and didn't we
know
her? Didn't she look like that friend I had way back in second grade, the one that was the daughter of the dentist who shot himself? I very nearly dropped off to sleep waiting for him to stop rabbiting on.

When I had convinced him that the girl wasn't my old friend, and anyway the father was a mechanic who'd fallen under a car, he finally let me change the subject.

‘Something happened at school today,' I said casually.

‘These beans are very good, Cornelia,' my father said approvingly.

‘
Grazie, caro
, and they were on special, too.'

‘This afternoon I burst into flames,' I said loudly.

‘
Dio mio
, not the Indian lady again,' my father groaned. ‘Won't she ever die?'

‘No, really, I was about to have this fight with Pig Rogers and flames came shooting out of my hands.'

My father coughed and wiped his mouth with his napkin. ‘Flames came shooting out of your hands.'

‘Yes. And I felt this tremendous rush of energy.'

‘You felt a tremendous rush of energy.'

‘Oh, don't do that parrot trick again. It drives me
crazy
!'

Last week Dad found another article about ‘How To Bring Up Your Adolescent Son'. He reckons my tottering sense of security will be strengthened if he ‘confirms my reality'. That means he has to repeat every dumb thing I say.

‘Anyway, there I was with these flames and I felt as strong as a bear.'

Dad looked at Mum and shrugged.

‘Oh what's the use!' I shouted and flung down my fork. ‘So I killed Pig Rogers and hung him up on a stake to dry.'

‘So you killed Pig Rogers –'

‘Oh, Giorgio,' cut in my mother, ‘can't you see he's just teasing you now? He's having one of his
jokes
again.'

‘Well I can't see the point of this joke,' said Dad cautiously. ‘Is that Peter Rogers you're talking about, the butcher's son?'

‘Oh, just forget it, Dad, it doesn't matter.'

There was silence while we all attacked our lamb.

I could hear every little swallow that my parents made. Boy, did that irritate me. They were swallowing loud, and hrr
hmm
ing to break up the silence. But I saw my mother couldn't leave it alone.

‘Why do you say these stupid things? Stupid
nasty
things,' she said.

‘Because they happened, that's why. And sometimes, in my crazy moments, I think you might be interested.'

‘Of course we're interested in what you think,' Dad said kindly. ‘But just because you
think
things, it doesn't mean they happen. That's only in those fantasies you read.'

‘He reads too much, that's what's the matter with him,' my mother said smugly, as if she'd just summed up the universe.

‘You sound like Pig Rogers!' I yelled. ‘Oh no, I'm surrounded by neanderthal pigs!' and I jumped up and began running around the room snorting and oinking and snuffling and then Lady, our dog, came into the room and she started rushing around the table barking in this demented way and tipped over my plate and sent the lamb flying.

‘Go to your room,
disgraziato
!' Mum shouted and stood up.

‘I'm not five years old any more,' I yelled back.

‘You act like it, now get to your room until you grow up!'

It's just as well I like my room, as I spend a lot of time up here. My walls are lined with bookshelves so it looks quite studious and interesting. The only annoying thing is that any time someone comes to visit me up here they always say, ‘Geez, have you read
all
those books?' as if I'm some kind of freak.

Now my eye skimmed along the shelf and stopped at
Irish Fairy Tales
. I bought that book with three months' pocket money when I was nine. I spent the rest of the year rehearsing exactly what I'd say when a leprechaun stopped me on my way to school and gave me my three wishes. I didn't want to be caught unprepared.

I lay on the bed and closed my eyes, searching for the feeling I'd had this afternoon. I could taste it now, but was it memory or the real thing, still hiding there? I opened my eyes and looked at the books around me.
The Wizard of Moonwater, Witches and Goblins, Tales of Mystery and Magic
.

I had the sudden feeling that the characters in these books were my
real
family. These old wizards and witches, harpies and dragons, with their potions and vengeance and age-old rages could tell me more about myself than those two people eating dessert downstairs. Suddenly I felt rich with wise cousins and great aunts and uncles. I knew I was one of them now.

Because I had the power, too.

I must have dozed off because I woke up with a dry throat and my school shirt all rumpled. I padded over to the door and saw the light on downstairs in the living room. That was strange. It was 12 o'clock and my parents were still awake.

I hung around at the door to see if I could hear anything. There was a dull drone and then Dad's voice grew louder.

‘He's a teenager, for heaven's sake – they all go through this stage. He's just testing us. Look, it's all here in this magazine.'

‘No,' said Mum, ‘
Che faccia che aveva
– did you see his face? He said “
flames
”. His fingers were on fire, Giorgio! How could he make that up?'

‘He's always had a vivid imagination.'

‘No, it won't work, Giorgio. Fire, that's how it starts in men. For girls, it's different. I ought to know! In girls the power is gentler, easier to control.'

‘Your mother controlled you with an iron hand, but she didn't have it so easy with your sister!'

‘We're not discussing my sister. For all I know Lucrezia is dead and buried, God rest her soul.'

‘Well I won't believe it.' Dad's voice rose higher. ‘I won't have you pushing your old family history onto our boy. He's just a normal kid.
Madonna
, haven't we tried to make a normal life for ourselves here? We go to work, we do the shopping,
sempre la stessa cosa, ogni maledetto giorno
– the same thing every damn day! Maybe we've made it
too
normal. Don't you think Roberto might just want a bit of excitement in his life?'

‘No,' my mother said softly. ‘Roberto has the power. I know it.'

It was so quiet now that I could hear the big clock in the kitchen ticking away. It struck 12.30 am and I thought: I'll always remember this moment. The crack in the wall that looked like the map of India, the faint smell of stale water from the vase of dead flowers on the table next to me. Everything seemed important, as if a spotlight had been turned on overhead.

‘We've tried so hard to forget,' my father's voice sounded as if it were full of tears. ‘Ever since we came here we've tried to be like other people. Or at least how we
think
other people are. People without tragedies, without something to hide. We've made normality a religion.'

‘Well I know what happens when you step outside the circle,
caro
. There's no limit, only chaos.'

I had to lean out further over the landing to hear my Dad's voice. It had gone all quiet and resigned, as if the energy had seeped out of him.

‘So what are we going to do about it?'

‘We'll have to send him back for a while.'

‘Not like the other one! No, Cornelia. I won't have it!'

‘No, no, Giorgio, not forever, just for a little while.
Una piccola vacanza
. Roberto should go to Italy and spend some time with his grandparents. The Christmas holidays are coming soon, and Nonna would love to see him. Please, Giorgio.' Mum's voice was shaky, I'd never heard it so nervous. ‘Please, Giorgio, I know how much it will cost, but he has to get this out of his system. Mamma could talk to him. Tell him about us – explain things. And Papa would get him under control. It's too hard for us to do. How could
we
possibly tell him now?'

There was a silence and I could feel, down there in that living room, my parents actually facing each other.

‘I'll think about it,' said Dad, ‘but now I'm going to bed.
Basta
.' I heard him stand up and scrape back the chair.

I stumbled back into my room and closed the door.

‘L
ucrezia, where are you? La professoressa Bon-giorno is here to see you! Luc
rezia
!'

I could hear Mamma's voice floating down from our flat.
Dio mio
, why does she always have to come at the worst possible moment?

I'd just pumped up my bicycle wheels and strapped my Latin books onto the back. I was going to Fabio's place to study, and then if he asked me (please,
please
!) I'd stay for dinner. His mother makes a wonderful
pasta al forno
, not that I'd be able to eat a mouthful, I suppose, with Fabio sitting right there beside me. It's hard to eat when you're in love! And we have so little time left together.