Fritz stomped down on the frames. “I guess we’ll have to beat the truth out of you.”
Cheater closed his eyes as more thoughts tumbled toward him, crackling with enthusiasm and anticipation. Let’s kick his butt.
flinch prepares for battle
“FOLKS, PLEASE WELCOME Willis Dobbs.”
Flinch stared out at the crowd as the applause came to an end. He loved the thrill of starting a set. He loved the applause. He loved the laughs. But he loved the combat most of all. At least, the verbal combat. He couldn’t help clenching his teeth when he thought about other forms of combat. Last summer, right after he’d gotten out of Edgeview, he’d used his talent for a different type of battle. It hadn’t been pretty.
There’d been a boxing program at the Rec League. His mom had fussed a bit when he’d asked permission, but she’d finally given in. He’d signed up, figuring his talent for seeing slightly into the future would make him unbeatable. Up until Edgeview, his talent had done nothing but get him in trouble. He interrupted his teachers whenever they talked to him, and seemed distracted and jumpy all the time. Everyone thought he was twitchy and weird, but all he’d been doing was reacting too soon. Now, he hoped to use his talent to fit in.
The first time he stepped into the ring to spar, he was matched up against a scrawny kid named Juan who lived right down the block from him. Juan was always walking around with his nose in a book. He reminded Flinch of Cheater.
“You trying to be tough?” Flinch had asked after they’d put on their gloves. He wanted to take slow, deep breaths, but his lungs wouldn’t cooperate.
Juan grinned. “Sure. Why not. Just don’t hurt me too much.”
“No problem. I’m totally new at this, too. So don’t hurt me, either.”
“You’ve got a deal.”
The bell rang. Buzzed with adrenaline, Flinch had sidestepped Juan’s first awkward punch and thrown a counter-shot to the jaw that dropped him like he’d been zapped with a stun gun. Juan wasn’t the only one stunned. The whole gym went silent as heads turned toward the ring.
Flinch had looked down at Juan lying there with his eyes rolled halfway back in his head. He waited to make sure Juan was okay. Then he climbed out of the ring. He felt like he’d just done something dirty and shameful.
“Hey,” the trainer had called. “Where you going? You got the stuff, my man. I can make you a champ.”
“Takin’ my stuff elsewhere,” Flinch said.
He’d tried baseball, basketball, and even fencing. He wanted to find something to help ease the stress of constantly keeping track of his actions. But there was no joy when you knew ahead of time exactly where a pitch would cross the plate. The first hit or two felt good. Pretty soon, it all started to feel cheap and easy. Worse, it got boring—like playing a game of cards when you could see everyone else’s hand.
But there was joy now, because victory wasn’t guaranteed. He lived and died not just by his hidden talent, but by his true talent. Flinch reached out and pulled the mike from the stand. Then he smiled at the crowd. Bring it on, he thought. Give me your best shot.
martin walks the walk
“DROP DEAD!”
The second he shouted those words, Martin knew he’d crossed a line. But there was nothing he could do about it. Life didn’t come with a backspace key.
As his father shouted back, veins bulging in his head, Martin stormed to the front door.
“Martin. Don’t go,” his mom called.
“Let him go,” his dad said. “Good riddance. Let him find out what it’s like in the real world. He’ll come crawling home soon enough.”
“He’s only fifteen,” his mom said. “We’re responsible for him.”
“Nobody’s responsible for him. And fifteen is plenty old enough for a dose of reality.”
There was more, but Martin rushed off, still fueled by anger, and let the words fade into the distance. He couldn’t believe what his dad had done. The phone had rung right after dinner. Martin reached for it, but his dad snatched the receiver and snarled, “Hello?” Then he frowned, glanced at Martin, and said, “Who wants to know?”
“Is it for me?” Martin asked.
His dad ignored him. “He’s grounded. No calls.” A second later, he shouted, “I told you, he’s grounded.” Then he slammed down the receiver.
“Who was it?” Martin asked.
“Nobody.”
“You don’t have the right to do that.”
The rest of the discussion did not go well. A moment later, just like that, he was a runaway. He didn’t even look back until he’d traveled half a block. No sign of his dad. His mom was on the porch, her hands clutching the railing while moths swooped at the light behind her. He hoped she at least wanted to chase after him. But it didn’t matter what she wanted to do. She wouldn’t step off the porch. His dad probably wouldn’t even let her call the cops. It doesn’t matter to him that I’m underage. Doesn’t matter if I keep walking and never come back.