Fletch wiped his face on his sleeve. Bec gnawed a finger.
Harper looked from Mercy to me, and back again, then said slowly, “How does this sound? An anonymous tip from the school computer to the police, saying where the bat is, and that it belongs to Jason Davies. If it turns out to belong to some other Jason Davies Junior, they should be able to figure it out, and find any other evidence, but all that is police business. Does anyone disagree?”
Bec said, so softly I almost couldn’t hear her. “It’s not going to fix Michael. But at least he’ll know.”
And nobody would know about us.
Fletch said, “And how’s that going to make him feel? This whole thing is a total downer.”
Nobody disagreed.
Bec murmured, “I hope the next project is us finding out how we got talents.”
“As long as,” Harper said, “someone really powerful doesn’t find us.”
That pretty much killed the conversation. The three of them headed back toward their car in a gloomy silence.
Mercy rode next to me. We were also silent.
When we reached the intersection where I usually went one way and she the other, she slowed, and I slowed too. She burst out, “Here’s what gets me. Jason was always hanging around Kyle during middle school. If he really did it, I bet anything it was to butter up Kyle. And I bet Kyle is acting guilty because he feels sick about it.”
I looked down at my bike, totally depressed. I had been thinking about my expectations—that we’d all use our powers in some grand climax that would uncover the villain, that justice would somehow make things okay for Michael Abrams, but instead, if anything, there were more questions than before. About everything.
“Mystery talents or not, people suck,” I said.
Mercy looked around at the mini-mall, the gas stations, the palm trees, the hard, bright blue sky overhead, as if seeking an answer. Or waiting for a question? Then she said, “I found out when I was little that my great-grandmother Mercy had a saying. It’s from a Roman called Seneca: Non est ad astra mollis e terris via.”
“What does it mean?” I asked.
“‘There is no easy way to the stars from earth.’ When I first started dancing, I really thought that if I sprang high enough, my talent would take me to the stars.”
“That’s kind of cool,” I said.
“I think it’s pretty dorky.” Mercy made a face. “I mean, I love dance. I love to soar, just high enough so people feel that lift in here, because then it’s art.” She smacked her ribs. “But not too high, so they think it’s not normal. Like anyone knows what normal is.”
Her smile went crooked, and she looked at the palm tree. “Anyway, I got it wrong.” She looked at the mini-mall. “I think the saying is really about how you have to try more to overcome the suck.” She looked at the ground. “That’s what the group is really for, after all. Even if Harper thinks I’m a freak.” She glanced skyward, the crystals in her earrings winking and dancing in the bright sunlight. “Harper trusts me this much, at least.” She held up one hand, her thumb and forefinger about an inch apart.
The sun blasted the side of my face as we stood there in the hot wind, midway between our houses, and I thought, she doesn’t want to go anymore than I do. I was waiting for her to invite me over again, but it was my turn. Was she waiting for an invitation?
If you have a friend, you invite them over. It sounds so simple, but it was a big deal for me, almost too big.
Almost. “Want some limeade?” I asked, trying to sound cool. My voice squeaked in my own ears. I coughed. “My Mom Tate always makes it fresh.”
She didn’t look at me weird, or exclaim ‘Mom’ Tate? in a voice like Dracula? She said, “I love limeade.”
“It’s not actually just limeade,” I said as we started riding again. “It’s limeade and ginger ale and some other healthy stuff, but it doesn’t taste like a health drink…” I babbled stupidly all the way.
It was so late in the afternoon that they were all there.
“Dad, this is Mercy, from school.”
Dad looked up from reading the news on his tablet. “Hi, Mercy.” He added hopefully, “I don’t suppose you love math?”
“Math’s okay,” she said cautiously, turning to me.
“Family joke,” I gabbled. “Dad keeps hoping one of us will turn into a math geek. Like him. She’s a dancer,” I told Dad.
“Cool!” Mom Tate said as she brought out the jug and a bunch of mismatched glasses.
She and Mercy went from dance to manga art, which got into scanlation translations that were so bad they were a crackup. Mom Gwen bustled around getting ready for a night shift, putting in a couple comments about how much she loved the art in Miyazaki’s films, and the boys ran in and out again, impatient for dinner.
It was all boring little stuff. Everyday stuff. But somehow every bit of everydayness chipped at the ache I still felt about those big questions no one could answer.
It wasn’t like the big questions went away. Or the little ones—I expected that Mercy would probably ask about how I had two moms in the same house—but the way they were all talking, I figured she’d be okay with the answer.
And I began to feel okay, even a little dizzy, the way you get when at least some of those big questions turn into possibilities, and the ones that don’t are slightly less painful because maybe you’ve found a friend to share them with.
Zapped.
“C’mon,” I said. “Let’s go up to my room. I’ve got links to a couple new webtoons I don’t think you’ve seen…”
About the Author
Sherwood Smith is the author of a number of science fiction and fantasy novels, including the Wren series for Young Adults, the Exordium novels (with Dave Trowbridge), the recent Atlantis Endgame, a novel of the Time Traders series (with Andre Norton), Solar Queen novels (also with Andre Norton), and many others. She lives south of Los Angeles. You can sign up for email updates here.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Begin Reading
About the Author
Copyright
Copyright © 2015 by Sherwood Smith
Art copyright © 2015 by Junyi Wu
Sherwood Smith, Zapped
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