Old Magic(3)
Half the class laughs at Pecs’s sick antics, Mr Garret so far behind it all he may as well have never turned up for class this morning. He makes Pecs pick them up though, which Pecs does, making sure to smudge saliva-slurred fingers across both sides of the lenses. His mouth hangs open, thick tongue lolling heavily to one side of his protruding lower lip. His face betrays a hint of satisfaction. He’s really enjoying himself now. Uggh! He needs a mirror.
My mind sifts through the different number of spells I’ve recently mastered to some degree of success. The eternal body itch could be a goer. Now wouldn’t that be sweet justice? Giving Pecs irritating rashes on every conceivable part of his body. Of course Jillian would talk me out of it. She lectures incessantly about the dangers of tampering with nature. Right now I can’t remember one word she’s said.
‘What a moron, eh?’
I smile at Hannah’s description of Pecs’s personality. But the smile doesn’t last long. Something sharp hits my senses though I can’t place it. Something unnerving. I glance out of the window but see nothing but blue sky on a crisp autumn morning. I home in on Jarrod, careful not to probe past the outer ridges of his mind. It’s enough though. I feel his anger, and how he battles to control it. Fleetingly I want him to let loose. I have the feeling if he did these babbling idiots wouldn’t know what hit them. But my sensible side urges him to keep it hidden, not to draw more attention to himself. In this way I feel aligned to him on some unnameable scale. It’s how I live – skirting the edges.
Things start happening really quickly. Jessica Palmer, Tasha’s best friend, and one of the ‘trendies’, all highlighted blondes and sooty lashes, starts screaming hysterically as her half-filled beaker explodes. With the shattering of glass, chemicals spread a sizzling puddle across the bench, quickly slithering to the floor. Luckily for Jessica, her slender fingers, waggling crazily at the side of her head as she continues screaming, miss the scalding mess.
Mr Garret’s voice rises for the first time in a year, yelling at Jessica to calm down and start cleaning up. He has it all wrong of course. Jessica has nothing to do with that beaker exploding. She didn’t drop it or anything. It occurs to me that it’s probably better that Mr Garret thinks Jessica is responsible. I’m not being vindictive, Jessica Palmer has nothing to do with me. God, she probably hasn’t spoken more than three words to me in the past two years. But my senses are heightened, alarmed. Something strange is happening, something that borders on unexplainable.
Pecs blames Jarrod. Mr Garret shrugs it off as ridiculous. ‘Go back to your seat, Pecs, before I give you a lunchtime detention, and while you’re there help Jessica clean up that mess.’
Personally I think Pecs is right, but I’m keeping my mouth shut. Pecs can fight his own battles, and I secretly hope he loses every one of them.
But, as usual, the jerk can’t stop stirring trouble. ‘He did do it, sir, I saw him,’ he blatantly lies. ‘He threw something, sir. Yeah … he threw his … his …’ It takes him a minute to think of this. ‘His lighter!’
Jarrod shifts so that he can see Pecs better. From seemingly nowhere Pecs produces a small, plastic, fluoro-yellow gas lighter. Evidence. I realise by the shared secret smile he exchanges with his mate, Ryan Bartland, how the lighter suddenly appeared.
Unfortunately Mr Garret misses the smug exchange and starts examining the lighter as if he it were Exhibit One in a murder trial.
‘Why would I have a lighter, Mr Garret? I don’t smoke.’
These are the first words I hear Jarrod say, and though they are uttered softly, calmly, I can tell this seeming serenity is nothing but a screen. Swinging right around, he throws Pecs a hostile glare; and I see his eyes darken eerily, the navy blue circles merging perfectly into those vivid green irises.
The intensity in these eyes intrigues me, so I have to do it. Just once more I tell myself. Mentally I take a deep breath and start to probe, gently and as deep as I dare, but only for a few seconds. Alarm makes my nerves jump. The air around me suddenly thickens with a bizarre kind of power – restless with an uncontrolled aspect, like a tempest on the verge of breaking across a drought-stricken plain.
But most alarming is my instinct that this power is coming from Jarrod.
Mr Garret’s expression changes from disbelief to accusation, his voice slick with impatience. I’ve heard it before. It’s how he copes when schoolboy pranks continually disrupt his lessons. ‘Not a good way to start your first day, Mr Thornton. I hope this behaviour is not indicative of things to come.’ He’s trying to assert his authority, but who’s he kidding, really?