“Yeah, Edgeview has pushed you over the edge,” Flinch said. “How’s the view from there?”
“I’m not crazy,” I told them. “It all makes sense—perfect sense. Think about it.”
“It’s getting late,” Cheater said. “It’s almost eighty-five.”
“What did you say?” I spun toward him. A tingle of excitement ran through my scalp as his words sunk in. Eighty-five.
FROM THE FRANKLIN CONCISE ENCYCLOPEDIA
(1963 EDITION)
BELIEVE ME ALONE
Cheater pointed to his watch. “I said it’s nearly eight thirty-five.”
“No, you said eighty-five. That was the number I was thinking of. Really. Look, I can prove everything. We can set up some tests. Okay?” I’d read about all kinds of tests for psychic abilities. Some of the tests used these cards with different patterns on them. I figured I could do the same thing with a regular deck.
If Cheater could tell what card I was looking at, that would prove he could read minds. And if Flinch could tell what the next card was before I turned it over, that would prove he could see the future. As for Torchie, all he had to do was set the deck on fire. “I’m sure someone has cards. Let me find cards and I’ll show you.”
“Maybe tomorrow,” Cheater said as he walked toward the door.
“Yeah, I’m outta here,” Flinch said. He started to follow Cheater. Then he jumped back. At that instant, Cheater yanked at the door real hard. It flew open and the knob slipped from his hand. If Flinch hadn’t jumped, he’d have gotten hit.
“See!” I shouted, pointing at Flinch.
Flinch glanced back at me. “See what? Nothing happened. Forget about it, Martin. It’s not funny.”
I watched them leave, then plunked down on my bed. “It’s true,” I said to Torchie. “Every single word I said is true. I looked it all up. It’s in the books.” I couldn’t understand why Cheater had gotten so angry. It didn’t make any sense at all. Maybe Flinch was angry about the milk. Okay. I could see that. But still, the stuff I was trying to tell him was way more important than a pair of wet pants.
Torchie sighed. “It would be nice if you were right,” he said. “I really didn’t start those fires. Honest.”
“I know,” I told him. “That’s what I’ve been trying to explain. But everyone acted like I was out of my mind. Don’t you see—this means you didn’t do anything bad. At least, not on purpose. You and Flinch and Cheater aren’t like the other kids at Edgeview. You don’t belong here. You’re innocent.” If I could convince Torchie, I figured I could get him to help me with the others.
But Torchie glared at me. “So the only person who believes me is a crazy kid. And he thinks I’m some kind of freak who can start fires with my mind. Wonderful. Maybe I can get a job in a circus.” He dropped down in his chair and picked up a magazine.
“But …” I didn’t know what else I could say to convince him. For a moment, I sat on the edge of my bed and watched Torchie. As he read, I could have sworn that I saw a small wisp of smoke rise up from the front cover of the magazine right where he held it. Maybe it was my imagination. I sniffed the air. There seemed to be a faint burnt odor, but our room always smelled like that. I kept watching, but there was no more smoke.
Why didn’t he believe me? It was so obvious. I thought about all the time I’d spent in the library. Couldn’t they see I was trying to help them out? I’d even missed lunch for them. The least they could do was think about what I’d said. And Torchie—who claimed to be my friend—had let me down the worst. All he had to do was start one stinking little fire while the others were watching and they’d know that I was right. One lousy stinking little fire—that wasn’t a lot to ask. But he hadn’t done it.
I looked at him, sitting there with his stupid magazine, moving his lips as he read. It was amazing—he was actually stumbling through life totally unaware of his abilities. I got off the bed and walked over to him. There had to be some way to make him understand. When I opened my mouth, the wrong thing came out. “If you were smart, you’d believe me,” I told him. “But I guess you’re not very bright. Face it—you’re probably not even smart enough to be called stupid. You’d need another ten or twenty IQ points to reach that level.”
Torchie threw down his magazine. He looked like he wanted to stand up and take a swing at me. I almost hoped he would. But he just said, “I’m as smart as I need to be.” He stared at me as if daring me to say another word.