“What, kid?” Neon prompts, and I grimace.
“That.” I jab a finger at her. “That’s what I’m talking about. If I was at a hundred percent, you wouldn’t be calling me ‘kid.’”
“You don’t like it,” Neon breathes, leaning back on her elbows and putting the cigarette back between her lips.
“No, I don’t.” I shake my head. “And I shouldn’t have to tell you that.”
“Maybe the electricity rewired things a bit,” Indah suggests, looking at Neon. “It’s happened before.”
“Excuse me, what?”
“Chill,” Neon says. “It’s temporary. A lot of abilities are based in the brain, so sometimes my little light show gets in the way. Neurons and all that shit.”
“Okay, seriously, who are you guys?” I say, exasperated, scooting to the edge of the couch. “How do you—I mean, how many people like us have you met?”
“A fair few,” Neon says. “Indah here is our little bloodhound.” She tilts her head toward Indah and smiles big. Indah just rolls her eyes.
“Explain,” I demand.
“I’m not like you,” she begins. “I’m not an Unusual. Or, at least, not in the strictest sense.”
“Okay…,” I say, urging her along.
“But I can sense you guys,” she continues. “I’ve always been able to. That’s how I first knew about Neon, and then she introduced me to Marley and we picked up a few more along the way, though mostly it’s just the four of us now. Well, when Blaze is around at least,” she finishes darkly.
“A few—what—who’s Marley?” I have a million questions and I can’t tell which one is most pressing because they aren’t answering before I can ask and it’s been so long since I’ve had to closely examine my own wanting process. Sometimes wants battle themselves, but usually one rises to the top, and then most of the time things just happen.
“Oh, you’ll meet Marley,” Neon says. “And probably others too, eventually. But what I want to know is: Why couldn’t Indah sense you?”
Neon pierces me with her dark brown eyes, leaning forward again and pointing her cigarette-laden hand at me. I guess it’s better than a hand covered in electric current.
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “I’m clearly new to all of this.”
“You’ve never told anyone about what you can do?” Indah asks.
“No,” I say automatically. “I mean, there are a few people who … no, no one knows.”
“And I’m guessing you’d like to keep it that way?” Indah prods.
“What, you think it’d be a good idea to up and tell people that you have the power to get them to do what you want?” I say mockingly. “How exactly would that conversation go?”
“I think that’s why,” Indah tells Neon, pointing at me. “If he didn’t want me to sense it and his power works the way it does…”
“Then his need to hide what he can do would trump your sensitivity.” Neon nods.
“You guys really have been around the block about this, haven’t you?” I ask, unable to keep the drop of awe out of my voice.
“It’s not all that different from an empath ability,” Indah explains. “I mean, no, it’s very different in terms of outcome, but—”
“Yeah, you could say that we know a thing or two,” Neon finishes for her.
“Jesus,” I sigh, collapsing back into the cushions. “This is…”
“A lot?” Indah guesses.
“Yeah.” I huff a laugh. “Yeah, this is a whole goddamn lot.”
Indah and Neon smile softly at each other and then at me. It makes me feel less alone and suddenly I need to know.
“Am I…,” I start. “I’m gonna be okay, right?”
“Yeah, kid.” Neon slaps my knee and it makes me hate the “kid” a hell of a lot less. “You’re gonna be fine. You’ll be back to normal in no time. Or, at least, your version of normal. Sorry I overloaded your circuit board there.”
“That’s okay,” I say, and mean it. “I’m just … you guys are cool with what I do?”
At that, they look at each other again, this time smile-less.
“It’s definitely more … unique than we’ve encountered before,” Indah says carefully. “But if all you’re using it for is to get free booze and stay in some swanky hotel, then…”
“Then screw the fat-cat capitalists,” Neon says, grinning. “Let’s have some fun.”
* * *
“Robbie, I just don’t understand what’s wrong with you.”
My mother is crying and I don’t know how to make it stop. I want it to stop. Why won’t it stop?
“What do you mean, Mom?” I ask, tears gathering at the corners of my eyes. I’m too old to cry. I’ll be in sixth grade in two months and middle schoolers don’t cry.
“There’s something not right with you, Robbie,” she sniffs. “Your father and I love you very much, but you’re scaring us.”
“I don’t mean to scare you,” I say, tears running freely down my cheeks. She usually brushes them away. Why isn’t she brushing them away?
“I know, baby, but then why did you make your father do that?” she pleads, and I wish that she would reach out and pull me into her arms instead of standing several feet away from me like I’m something toxic she’s afraid to touch.
“It wasn’t my fault.” I shake my head. “I just wanted my Frisbee.”
The tears are coming in full force now. I try to push them down, cry silently. I don’t want to wake my dad, upstairs napping in his bed with a broken leg.
“It wasn’t supposed to happen that way,” I whisper. “I just needed him to get my Frisbee.”
“But why did you make him jump off the roof?”
* * *
“Rob, this is Marley,” Neon says, gesturing toward the genuinely terrifying figure next to her. I have a heart-stopping moment where I think it’s the tall man from the party the other night. But after the initial double take, I realize that Marley is tall, yes, but broad shouldered and built. His blond hair is cropped close to his skull, making his unsmiling face strangely sharp in comparison to his impressively beefy frame. Add the extreme paleness of his skin to all that, and the result is like looking at the corpse of Frankenstein’s monster.
“Hey, man,” I say, shaking his enormous hand. “Robert Gorham. It’s good to meet you.” I want to bite back the words—the stupid Midwestern manners They instilled in me crawling their way out before I can come up with something cooler, more casual.
But for some reason the awkward, out-of-place politeness makes him smile, just a bit, and he keeps his eyes on me as he says to Neon:
“Where’d you find this one?” His voice isn’t what I expected. Instead of low and gruff, it’s strangely smooth and slightly higher than mine.
“At Lubitsch,” Indah says.