Wow, it's been awhile. Here's a new story; I'm trying to break away from my usual boy meets boy story with some added supernatural elements. Hope you like. Note: Each line break denotes a new POV. (If you don't like multiple POV stories, I ask you to please stick around a bit, because I've tried extra hard to make each new POV unique and discernable.) Only this chapter, the next, and maybe the one after that will have multi POVs. The rest will be a single first person POV per chapter. Oh, and the first words of each POV are months, not names, just FYI. Much appreciated!

May

I was kicking up a little dust devil on the porch using Auntie Trish’s ancient broom when Janey stepped outside. I waved to her from across the small strip of brown, crinkly grass that separated our mobile homes. She waved back hesitantly, more of a jerk of the wrist than anything. The straight line of her mouth didn’t curve upon seeing me. The dark wrinkles under her pink-tinged eyes were as noticeable as they had been since her grandma had been confined to bed due to a sickness. That was months ago. The old woman had finally passed on just last week.

Janey appeared to be doing okay, though. She readjusted her baby girl in her arms and quickly stepped down her tiny stoop, hurrying to her rusty car. Maybe she was in a hurry to get where she was going. Or maybe I still scared her.

I’d seen her grandma die. I hadn’t been in Janey’s place when it had happened though, not physically anyhow. I’d been holed up in my own room that night as I usually was when I weren’t in school, trying to ignore the drowning-cat sound of my Pa and his latest girl going at it across the hall, when I’d unexpectedly been able to fall asleep before three in the morning.

I’d dreamed, but it’d been one of my special dreams, where I’m standing next to a nearly-departed, as Auntie Trish called them, people on the verge of death. But I ain’t really standing next to them, I’m more of a shadow on the wall, a whisper of a presence, a ghost etc. I can see and hear and talk as I normally do, but no one can hear me, and I can’t touch nothing without my hand going through it.

Anyway, my latest special dream had involved Janey’s grandma. I’d been next to her deathbed, just behind Janey and her husband, asleep on a couch, as the woman passed. I saw her soul or whatever separate from her and float up and up and up. I knew she’d gone before Janey had.

I woke up at around one, a bit relieved. The old woman’s death had been more peaceful than most I’d witnessed. I got up from bed, tiptoed down the hall, and took a handful of flowers from the bouquet my Pa had given Pam, his girl. I went outside quietly and lay them down in front of Janey’s front door.

I’d learned from my mistakes. I’d never again tell someone I was sorry for their loss before they even knew of it. Pa and I had moved more times than I can count because of my stupidity. (Then again, there were those few moves that resulted from Pa swearing and causing a scene because a pesky reporter wanted to know how his son was coping with the fact his Ma had jacked his hands up with a butcher knife however many years after the incident. I was doing just dandy, by the way.)

Janey’d still been weirded out by the flowers, though, despite my discretion. I was sitting on our porch-swing when she had come outside for air that morning, her face wet and makeup running. (I remember wondering why she’s bothered with makeup.) She’d stepped on the flowers at first, then picked them up gingerly, obviously bewildered by their presence. She’d glanced up to see me staring. I didn’t look away fast enough. There’d been a long moment of uncomfortable silence, and then she’d tripped back inside.

So I’m guessing she’d figured out I’d known, even though neither she nor her husband had told anyone yet. I don’t know how she thinks I knew, I just knew she had been acting strange around me ever since. Once word had actually spread around the park, she and her husband had gladly accepted condolence from everybody, including my Pa, but she had only given me a weird look before turning her head.

Presently, Janey’s rust bucket screeched away from the curb at the same time the phone began to ring. I laid the bundle if twigs barely passing as a broom on the porch swing and went inside to pick it up.

“Howdy, darlin’,” Auntie Trish crooned in greeting. “How’s my favorite sixteen-year-old?”

It took me a moment to recall that I’d had a birthday last month. Not much had been done in the way of a party because we were tight for money in a way we weren’t currently because my Pa’s girlfriend Pam was still around (a whopping ten and a half months now, a new record for Pa since Ma was sent to the Asylum) and had actually started to help pay some bills (another unprecedented event).

“Just the same as he was when he was fifteen, I’d imagine,” I replied, grinning. Auntie Trish’s good mood was always infectious.

“Well, bless his little heart.” Abruptly, her tone changed, not by much, but it held an edge of seriousness. “You been doing your hand exercises?”

“You know I don’t need to do those anymore.” I flexed the hand not holding the phone, the right one. The last two fingers, the ring and pinky fingers, were bent some and didn’t curve all the way into my palm when I made a fist. My left hand didn’t have a pinky, but I could still throw a mean punch with it when prompted. I also had some nasty scars on the outside and palms of both hands, but as usual, the “physical reminders of my traumatic experience” (as the newspapers had called them) were covered up with my black nose-picker gloves.

“Better to be safe than sorry, hon. Don’t want no stiff claws for hands, after all,” Auntie Trish tutted for about the millionth time.

“Yeah, I know.” Also said about million times.

“Is Paul ’round?” she asked after a few minutes of familiar small talk.

“Sure.” I pulled the phone away from my ear and pressed it to the crook of my shoulder. “Pa!” I hollered in the general direction of his room.

“What?” he caterwauled back.

“Your sister’s on the phone!”

“Dag nab it, can’t that woman go a week without chattin’ me up!” Pa slouched out of his room, scratching the pot-belly he sucked in when Pam was around, and took the phone from me. Despite his grumblings, he seemed genuinely pleased to talk to Auntie Trish, or least his “Hey, there Patty,” sounded pleased enough. (Trish was short for Patricia, but only I was allowed to call her that. Everyone else called her Pat or Patty.)

As Pa spoke, I went back outside, careful not to let the screen door slam, as the sound aggravated him something fierce. I made room for myself on the porch swing by propping the borrowed broom against the wall.

Ankles crossed on the railing surrounding the porch, fingers laced behind my head, I was feeling pretty comfortable as I gazed up at the clear blue sky. It was a nice day, not too unbearably hot. My eyes fluttered shut as the heat began to lull me to sleep.

“Hello there.”

I jumped, making the porch swing rock. Sitting upright with difficulty, I saw that it was a plain-looking guy in a business suit that had greeted me. He was standing on the bottom step of our stoop, touching the railing delicately with one hand, as if he was afraid of it or maybe afraid he would break it. “Excuse me, ah, James Fuller, is it?” he asked in an equally plain voice that could have been from California or some Midwestern state.

“Who’s askin’ and why do they know my name?” I asked as I stood up from the swing. I leaned over the railing a bit to get a good look at the guy. Sunlight glinted of his glasses and the sweat forming on his forehead.

“Call me Mr. Thomas. I work as a teacher and recruiter at the Larva Society for Extraordinary People. You should have received a letter of interest from us…?” he trailed off like it was a question.

I only vaguely recalled receiving such a letter. I remembered Pa and I having a good laugh over the boarding school’s weird name and the fact that they’d sent anything to me. I was far from academically extraordinary. “Yeah, I remember. I figured it was a mailing error, sending it to me.”

“Oh, no. It was perfectly intentional, I assure you. Did you read the letter?” Mr. Thomas asked. He cupped his hands over his eyebrows, shading his eyes from the afternoon sun and cutting off the glare from his glasses. His eyes and hair were the same, unremarkable brown.

I hadn’t read the letter, and neither had Pa, I was sure. “I skimmed.”

“Then you should be aware that you more than qualify, with your talent.”

I was taken aback by that. Maybe it was another mistake and they’d gotten me confused with some other, smarter, richer James Fuller. I tried to hide a flush of embarrassment by turning my head and walking over to the top step of the stoop in order to look at him straight as I said, “Okay, I give. I didn’t really read it. What is this talent I supposedly have?”

Mr. Thomas smiled gently, lowering his hands. Then the smile faded as he asked me, “Your mother’s name was Trina Cain, correct?”

I felt my face freeze up as it always did when someone brought her up. “It was before my Pa married her, yeah. And don’t bother continuing on that line of thought. I know what you’re trying to talk to me about. And frankly, I’ve talked about it enough. You want information on The Attack, you look into old news articles. Besides, what does she have to do with my so-called talent and your school?”

Mr. Thomas bowed his head, and if I hadn’t known better, I would have thought he was genuinely apologetic about bringing it up. “The Larva Society is full of children with stories similar to yours,” he began. I crossed my arms and leaned against the porch railing, knowing I was in for a story. “Just last week, I met with a family whose daughter had been severely beaten by classmates with piñata bats. Another family’s son must be homeschooled because he can’t go into a classroom without vomiting. A girl set her best friend’s house of fire by accident. And then there was the boy who blamed himself for his brother’s suicide, despite not laying a hand on him.”

“Sad stories and all, but they don’t sound much like mine.”

“True, at first they don’t seem connected. But every single one of them has a defining detail that brings them all together.”

“Which would be…?” I was interested, despite myself.

“All of those afflicted children I mentioned, and indeed, all of the people, children or not, that attend the Larva Society, have one form or another of extrasensory perception.”

“ESP? You gotta be joking.” I tried to sound casually mocking, like a normal person would be. I now understood what the Larva Society wanted with me. Auntie Trish talked a lot about stuff like ESP and ghosts and mind-reading. Mostly, I think, because she didn’t want me to think of myself as a freak. It didn’t change the fact that I was, that I saw things no one else I’d ever met could see, like old ladies dying without really being there to witness it.

The only question was, how did the Larva Society know?

It could still be a mistake. Mr. Thomas could still be talking to the wrong James Fuller. But somehow I doubted it.

“I most certainly am not joking. And I believe you know it, too.” Mr. Thomas still looked pleasant enough, but there was an edge to his voice that told me he knew. Everything. That this wasn’t some big mistake.

“Okay. Say I did have ESP or whatever,” I said, still trying to come off as a non-believer for whatever reason. “I still don’t get what that has to do with my Ma.”

“Your mother tried to kill you because of your talent. Your vision.” He paused, seeing the look on my face. “Forgive me if that came out too harshly.”

I wasn’t going to forgive him. “How the hell do you know that? No one knows that. We never told anyone that. The reporters all left us thinking she did it just ‘cause she was crazy. Which she was. No one else sides my Pa knows that she…”

“Thought you were a demon and attempted to crucify you, for whatever reason.”

“How the fuck do you know that?” I shouted it at first, but it turned into a strangled growl halfway through when I realized that Pa was still inside, on the phone. I didn’t want him to hear me, to know about this visitor. Not yet.

Mr. Thomas bowed his head again. “I’m very sorry. I always hate this part of the process.” He looked up again, and I could tell he wasn’t faking it now. “I don’t like how our staffed psychics look into people’s personal lives in order to weed the extraordinary out, but… There really isn’t any other way to know.”

“So… So what? You trying to tell me you’re a mind-reader?”

He surprised me by laughing. “Oh, no. Not me. I just receive information from them, regarding the child I’m meant to recruit.”

“So you work at a school for psychics, but you don’t have any powers?”

“That’s not what I said,” he answered, a mysterious smile curving his lips.

“What… Whatever.” I put a mangled hand to my forehead. “Okay. You caught me. I see dead people and all that. Why should I go to your damn school?”

Mr. Thomas reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a few pamphlets. As he handed them to me, he told me, “The Larva Society is designed to teach people to control their abilities. The boy I mentioned earlier, the one that couldn’t go to school without vomiting, couldn’t do it because he had the power of empathy.”

“Empathy?”

“His power allows him to feel every single emotion coming from every single person around him as is they were his own, at all times. He can’t control it, and it has ruined his nerves. He can’t go into a classroom filled with emotional teenagers because the onslaught of those emotions literally makes his vomit. His family agreed to send him to us because we promised we could teach him to be able to control it. He’s one of the more extreme cases, but we can teach you to control your vision, as well.”

“My… vision… don’t seem as bad as that guy’s problem.”

“True. But aren’t there times when you can’t control your vision? Times when you see violent deaths? Wouldn’t you rather be able to stop the flow of those visions?”

His saying it brought me back to my first murder death. I’d been, oh, maybe eight years old. I saw a man rape and kill a woman in a public park as if I was standing next to them. It was happening as I saw it, but I couldn’t stop it. I was right there, but I couldn’t stop the murderer from tying the woman’s own belt around her neck. I couldn’t stop it from squeezing. Tightening, until…

I’d woken up a crying mess that morning. I remembered it very clearly.

“Yeah. That would be nice,” I agreed. I looked down the tiny steps at Mr. Thomas as only saw sympathy behind those glasses. Not greed. Not the look of a man wanting to wring as much money out of my Pa as possible. I wondered what his power was, but it felt like the moment had passed and that it would be inappropriate to ask now. Instead, I fiddled with the pamphlets a little and informed him, “Oh, and my given name may be James, but please call me Nick.”

Mr. Thomas laughed kindly. “Nick. Right. Of course.”

I turned toward the front door, “We should talk about this proper with my Pa. I think he’d be interested to learn I’m eligible for a boarding school for freaks.”

“I prefer the term extraordinary.”

March

A frantic mantra filled my head.

I will not throw up. I will not throw up. I will-

Damn.

We’d been eating steak and potatoes. It hadn’t tasted nearly as good coming back up as it had going down.

But it wasn’t the cook’s fault. It was what our dinner guest, Mr. Thomas, called my “talent” that caused it. Some talent.

Empathy, he called it. Feh. Therapists have empathy. AA members have empathy. Oprah has empathy. What I had was not empathy.

It was an affliction.

An affliction that had just destroyed yet another layer of my esophagus. Fairly soon, I was certain, I would no longer have a throat, but a big, gaping tracheotomy hole.

In the middle of my musing, there was a knock on the door. “Are you all right in there, bubbalah?” my mother asks.

“Lo tov,” I muttered to myself, and then louder said, “I’m fine mom.” I punctuated it with the resolute flush of the toilet. Bon voyage, regurgitated dinner.

I got up off the floor as the porcelain throne made its turns and stood, only a bit wobbly, in front of the mirror. I looked awful, as usual. I splashed some water on my face and went back to the dinner table.

Mr. Thomas was concerned for me. I knew that for a fact, because I too felt concerned the second I sat next to him. I also felt worried, nervous, stressed, irritated and joyful. The first couple of emotions were from my parents. The last could have either been the cook or the neighbor’s dog, for all knew. I just felt it.

“Oh, Ronny, I’m starting to think we really should send our bubbalah to Mr. Thomas’ school,” my mother gushed in her familiar, nasally voice.

Mr. Thomas, of course, agreed with that. “You definitely should. It’s obvious how much his ability has racked his nerves. And here I was thinking I was doing a good job at keeping calm…”

“You were,” I assured him quietly, closing my eyes. “It’s just been a bad week for me.”

“Oh, Ronny, see? Poor Robert’s tummy is acting up over even tiny emotions now. He’ll end up in the hospital at this rate!”

I stomach gave a violent lurch at that. The hospital. So many emotions roiling through the air, mixing with the chemical smell. The anticipation and the happiness of expectant mothers. The concentration and stress of doctors. The fear, anxiety, panic, dread and hope of rest. Love.

I hated the hospital.

But whatever my feelings about the place, my father was still unconvinced. “I told you, I don’t want to have to pay boarding school tuition right after paying off the tutor. Robert should be fine if he’s alone with just one teacher. And I don’t want him only learning to control himself. He needs regular academic education, as well.”

“You know you can very well get a refund from that tutor-”

“Excuse the interruption,” Mr. Thomas said. My parents fell quiet, but their irritation with each other was still very much evident. My stomach gave another unpleasant stagger. “I’d just like to say that the Larva Society does in fact teach regular academic courses. If you agree to enroll him, Robert will be taking classes appropriate to his age group on top of the… extracurricular ones.”

“That seems like a lot of extra work…,” my mother murmured.

“Believe me, it’s not. Students choose their own hours for special classes. Only academic ones are regularly scheduled,” Mr. Thomas explained. This relieved a lot of tension on my mother’s part. My stomach calmed a little.

“Hmm. I still don’t know. Still seems a bit pricey to me…” If my feelings were correct, and they were, my father was on the verge of giving in. He was just bartering out of habit.

“What about that job opportunity you mentioned, Mr. Thomas? If my Robert here agrees to work for your school for awhile, we could pay off some of the debt that way, yeah?” my mother suggested, looking toward my father for approval.

Mr. Thomas nodded. “Oh yes, of course. He could work in the Student Store, or in the main office or library. Although usually, we reserve such an opportunity for lower income families…”

“Ach! All right!” my father cried.

Huh. He gave in sooner than I had thought he would. Watch me complain.

“I’ll admit that this school is what’s best for my son,” he continued, “If it will help his condition, it’s the best choice. I’m just not sure how it will be any different from any other school experience he has had, if he’s still being surrounded by other people. He’d still be picking up things from other kids and be right back where he started.”

I’d been wondering the same thing. But predictably, Mr. Thomas had a solution to that, as he had the rest of my parents’ concerns. This school’s competence was a bit eerie, admittedly. “There are a couple of teachers at the Larva Society that are… How should I put this? Shields. They have the ability to… cancel out a person’s ability, if only temporarily. I could arrange for him to be put specifically into classes taught by such people…”

“Oh, that’s absolutely perfect! Ronny?”

“…Oh, all right. Where’s that darned contract…”

I could feel my father’s mixed acceptance and reluctance. He sensed something odd about Mr. Thomas. I felt it too, without his help. And like my father, I couldn’t quite but my finger on what it was that caused such a reaction.

But, so what if he’s maybe meshugah? If he could help save my esophagus, then so be it.

April

To non-Wisconsinites, the name of my quaint home state conjures up one or both of these images: Cows and beer.

Let me be the first to say that there is so much more to Wisconsin. There is cow-tipping, polka, a high obesity rate, and charming dialectal phrases such as “hey, don’cha know.”

Wisconsin has also been the birthplace and home of many a famous personae, such as Joseph McCarthy, Ed Gein, and Jeffrey Dahmer.

All right, so Wisconsin basically sucks. It’s a snow-ridden wasteland 98.7% percent of the time with approximately two to three days of something akin to spring in between.

When accumulating cabin fever is the most common denominator for Wisconsinites, is it really any wonder why so many of us turned out crazy? Myself included.

A knock on my bedroom door snapped me out of my deliberation. Without looking up from my half-packed suitcase, I asked, “Who dares breach the sanctity of my unimpeachable fortification?”

It was my matriarch that opened the door without answering, arms akimbo, hands planted on her bountiful hips. She paused a moment, a rotund silhouette against the light from the hallway.

“Such a query necessitates a response, interloper,” I informed her from the darkness beside my bed when she continued to not answer. Of course I already knew it was she, but the question still stood.

“What are doing, sitting alone in here in the dark?” she inquired at length. One of her darkened hands moved toward the light switch. “You’d better not be masturbating, or else I’ll-”

Whatever it was she would have done to me had I truly been engaged in the act of self-gratification I did not find out, for when the lights flickered on in my bedroom for perhaps the first time that month, I reared back, a hand over my eyes. I hissed and made a good show of seizing on the floor.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Mark,” my matriarch heaved a sigh. Darkness enveloped the room once more, and all was at peace.

I got up, smiling at my victory, and sat down on my bed, next to my suitcase. As her night vision wasn’t as highly developed as mine, my matriarch had some difficulty crossing my clothes-strewn floor, even using the hallway light. I looked away just in time as she spread my dark curtains wide. Feeble morning light cast a gray tinge on everything. The day was overcast.

“Nice try, bub,” was all my matriarch had to say in response to my whimpering. She appeared resolute about not closing the curtains again, so I put on my sunglasses and cut my losses.

“Oh, quit pouting,” she requested as she took in what she would perceive as my pig sty. I perceived it as the physical results of my artistic laziness. “I can’t understand why you sit in the dark all the time. It’s not good for your skin.”

“It’s not good for human skin,” I corrected. “However, it is quite appropriate for a vampire.”

The hand went back to her hip. “Yes, of course. My mistake, Edward.”

I hissed, more vehemently this time. “Never say that name in my proximity nor equate it to me ever again, woman.”

Briefly, her lip curled, creating a dimple and then flattened. “I’m being serious, Mark. All this lurking in the darkness business is really beginning to worry me. Not to mention this room reeks of armpit juice.”

“Lies. Utter lies.”

She took notice of my half-full suitcase for the first time. Gesturing at it, she continued to badger me. “You’re packing for that school already? You still have just under a half a year left until you’re going, no need to get antsy.”

“What I do is my business.”

A meaty finger rose, pointed toward me. “Don’t you dare take that tone with me, young man, unless you’d like to spend the night outside.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“I would. It’s not snowing tonight, as far as I can tell. I reckon you’ll survive.”

“And leave me to starve?” Although she couldn’t see it beneath my sunglasses, I rolled my eyes. “I reiterate.”

“It’s not as if you eat much of anything, anyway.” She looked upon my painstakingly achieved emaciation with dislike. I much preferred it over the rest of my family’s stomach-turning bulk.

“I do not eat, I drink.”

“Enough of that vampire crap-” she began.

I’d had quite enough of her negativity today, so I looked over the rim of my sunglasses and looked her in the eye. “Leave me be, woman. And you’d better cook something vegetarian-friendly for lunch.”

My commands always took a moment to take effect, but as always, my words pulled through for me. My mother sighed and continued as if she hadn’t heard me. “You know what? Whatever. I’m tired of arguing with you.” She walked away from me, pausing in the doorway. “It’s almost noon. How do veggie burgers sound?”

I smiled. “Delicious.”

She looked at me a moment, then closed the door behind her.

Sometimes I wondered if people remembered when I gave them commands. If they did, they didn’t say it. Maybe that also was part of my… ability. Talent. Power. Mr. Thomas had used many synonyms for it when he had been here.

I glanced down at my suitcase. Now that I thought of him, I speculated on whether he knew that my parents had signed the contract enrolling me in the Larva Society for Extraordinary People while under the influence of my “power”. Whether he knew that no one in my family knew that I even had a power, and that they were under the impression that I would be attending a run-of-mill boarding school in September. Whether he knew about what I’d done to my brother.

I shook my head to release the thought. Mr. Thomas had mentioned that the Larva Society used psychics to track down “special” children, but I seriously doubted they would look that far into my past.

The sun slithered out from between the clouds. I stood up from my bed and shut the curtains.

June

“Excuse me- Miss Maldova!”

I sighed at the sound of that voice and leaned on our front gate, preparing myself for the inevitable speech. I had been on my way to my job at the movie theater when he’d caught up with me. I only hoped he hadn’t been waiting outside for me, because that would have been immensely creepy.

I looked at him as he slowed from his jog toward me. I was taller than him, despite being possibly one or two decades younger than him. That usually was the case with people I knew, since I didn’t know very many people above five feet and three quarters.

“Hello again, Mr. Thomas,” I said politely to him despite my annoyance with his presence. He’d been pestering me off and on for weeks about going to his fancy school for talented kids such as myself, but no matter how many times I said no, he still came back. Maybe it was time to drop the polite act…

“Ah, hello again, Miss Maldova.” He panted for a moment, recovering from his run, and then stood up straight. He offered his hand to shake as he always did.

Before he could say anything, I told him once again, “Mr. Thomas, I’m really in no position to go to your school, as I’ve said. I’m really very sorry, but I just can’t go.”

“I understand that you-” he started. He was interrupted by mi papá banging out the front door and hollering, “Andrea, este loco bothering you?”

“No, papá,” I told him, shaking my head. I turned around and started walking up the street to prove that I had the situation under control.

He yelled after me in Spanish, “Are you sure? Because I’ll cut his balls off for you if you like.”

Over my shoulder, I answered him in the same language, “No, papá, that’s really all right.” After I heard papá grunt and go back inside, I turned to Mr. Thomas, who was following me hesitantly. “I’m heading to work right now, Mr. Thomas, so I really don’t have time to talk. However, I will say that I really, truly cannot take you up on your offer. I appreciate the thought, but the answer is no.”

“Miss Maldova-”

“Andy.”

“Andy. I understand that your family is in no position financially to pay for your education at the Larva Society, and I also understand that they partially depend on your income to keep up your house,” he told me with that sympathetic look I had actually gotten used to because he’d talked to me so much lately. “But there are job opportunities available at the Society as well.”

“You’ve mentioned that before,” I reminded him. “And I’ve told you before that I’m perfectly happy with the income I get working at the theater and would be hesitant to give it up.”

“Yes, I remember that very clearly.” Mr. Thomas readjusted his glasses as we walked. “But I’ve also told you that most of the jobs at the Society would pay higher wages that your job at the theater.”

I didn’t reply for a long while. As we paused at a cross-walk, I told him, “Honestly, I think everything that you’re telling me about this school is a little seedy. You seem to have a solution for every problem I show you, up to a point where it looks a bit suspicious.”

Unexpectedly, Mr. Thomas laughed. “Oh, I see, I see.” He looked at me out of the corner of his eye as we began crossing the street. “You’re a very responsible girl, you know.”

“I’ve had to be, having four younger siblings,” I responded flatly.

“Yes…,” he trailed off contemplatively. “The Larva Society simply seeks to make its students as comfortable as possible. Ms. Dean, the headmaster and founder, designed the school’s job program around the fact that the students would be coming from all walks of life. ESP isn’t just for rich kids, of course.”

“Ms. Dean sounds like she cares a lot about kids with powers,” I admitted.

“Indeed.” He looked like he wanted to say more, but I had to interrupt him. Partially because I really wanted him to stop talking to me, and partially because I wanted him gone before we made it to the theater. I didn’t want anyone to see him with me and get the wrong idea.

“Mr. Thomas, there is another reason that I don’t want to go to your school,” I started in. He stared at me inquiringly. “Well, the Larva society is for kids that need to learn to control their extra abilities, right?”

“Correct.”

“And I don’t need to learn to control anything. I have my ability already in check. There’s nothing about it that I need to learn to control. So I just wouldn’t feel right putting my family in further debt for an education I really don’t need.”

Mr. Thomas was silent for a moment. I was getting a little nervous because we were now walking past a fast-food place that was only a few stores away from the theater.

“A very responsible girl, indeed,” he said at last. He stopped walking, and I stopped with him. We turned toward each other. “All right, then. Allow me one last enticement.”

I mulled it over. “Just one.”

“Are you very interested in law enforcement, Andy?”

It was an unexpected question, so I stuttered a bit over the answer. “Yeah, I guess.” That was an understatement. I loved that sort of thing, crime-busting and detective work. I watched shows like CSI and Cold Case as much as possible.

“The Larva Society has a very special offer for people with your interests. If you entered into it, after graduating from your high school-level classes, you would be enrolled in the college courses at the Society that are… Well, basically it’s Psychic CSI.”

“Psychic CSI,” I repeated. “As in, I would solve murders… with my ability?”

“Precisely. After the course was completed, you would most assuredly get a high-paying job working with the local police. The Society has a lot of connections with them.”

I thought this over as well. “What about the tuition debt?”

“If you signed up for that program, all debt would be withheld until you had passed the CSI courses and were able to use that income to pay it off.”

I didn’t know what to think about that offer. On the one hand, it seemed completely mind-blowingly awesome but on the other it only added to the suspiciousness of the Larva Society’s compliance.

“I don’t know… I’d still have to think about it,” I said reluctantly.

Mr. Thomas just smiled his reassuring smile. He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a white business card, which he handed to me. “Call me anytime with your decision.” He looked at his watch then. “I’m not sure when you start work but I suspect it’s getting close, so I’ll leave you be for now. I hope to speak to you soon.” He turned, waved and walked away, soon disappearing into the afternoon crowd.

I stood staring down at the mostly blank card. I already had an identical one at home, on my nightstand, one Mr. Thomas had given me on the first day that he had visited my family.

I remembered that it was mi mamá that had answered the door that day. Thinking Mr. Thomas was a Mormon or a Jehovah’s Witness because of his suit and tie, she had pretended not to be able to speak English in order to try and get him to go away.

I had seen that whole transaction via my Third Eye, as I called it. It wasn’t precisely a physical eye of course, this part of myself that I could thrust out into the world and use to see things that were far away that I normally shouldn’t have been able to see.

That day I’d used it to see mi mamá and Mr. Thomas talking from a bird’s eye point of view, just above the porch light. As Mr. Thomas had tried to get mi mamá to understand his purpose in being there, he had paused and then looked straight up to where my Third Eye had been.

He had been the first person to ever be able to see or sense my Third Eye and it still made me shiver, to remember that moment that realized he could see me watching him.

Suddenly I became aware of the time. I checked my watch, cursed and then hauled it to work.