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“YOU MADE ME LOOK LIKE a fool today,” Butch hissed in Hamilton’s ear. “Now it’s gonna be your turn to get all wet and look stupid.”
Ham and Pris had seen them separate at the front of the restaurant after holding a brief but animated discussion. Apparently, Mike still didn’t want anything to do with it, because he had left the building. That hadn’t stopped Butch from coercing or persuading his three lackeys to cooperate with his plan.
“Um, actually, Butch, I had nothing to do with you getting wet,” Ham tried in his most convincing voice. “The tree branch knocked you down. Did these guys not tell you that?”
“Yeah, they told me, but I know somehow you had something to do with it,” Butch replied, although by the confused looked on his face, even he was apparently struggling with the reasoning behind his conclusion.
“Look, Butch, if you want to get even with the reason you got wet, maybe you should go water the tree?” Ham suggested.
Butch was a credit to most muscle-heads in that he actually thought the idea through for several seconds. Then he leaned in close to Ham’s face and snarled, “Are you being a smart-ass?”
“No, not at all,” Ham replied innocently. “I was just applying logic to our discussion. If you want to repay your getting wet with wetting something, and the tree is what caused you to get wet, then the tree should be your target. Unless you think maybe the sprinkler system is actually to blame as it was the source of the water. In that case, you could...”
“Just shut up,” Butch barked. Heads turned from several booths around them, and at least one employee stopped sweeping to watch what was transpiring.
If my power only works when I get mad, this will never trigger it, Ham thought. I’m having too much fun.
“I’m done talking,” Butch said, and plucked a half-full pitcher of soda off an empty table. Holding it level with his face, he leered at Ham and said, “Let’s see how you feel when your girlfriend is the one getting wet.”
Extending his arm straight out from his side, he moved the pitcher over Priscilla’s head. Then just as suddenly, his arm bent at the elbow and he dashed the contents into his own face. He stood dazed for a moment, blinking to clear the stinging soda from his eyes. Then he held the empty pitcher out again and quickly bent his elbow, smacking himself in the face with the plastic vessel.
“Hey, stop,” he yelled, as he extended his arm and smacked himself again, this time causing his nose to bleed. “Stop,” he yelled again. “Make him stop.” A third time he bashed himself in the face, this time hard enough to crack the plastic container.
His three goons had stood watching, stupefied, until Butch began yelling, then all three of them grabbed his arms and held him fast. Butch struggled and twitched for several seconds, then broke into sobs. His retinue helped him to the front door, and they all went outside.
Pris had sat silently throughout the entire ordeal, and now burst into gales of laughter. “That was amazing,” she extolled. “Was that conscious, or just suggestive?”
“Shh,” Ham cautioned. “People are still watching us, and they can hear you.”
“Okay, roll over here and pretend to console me so we can talk quietly,” Pris suggested.
Once their faces were less than a foot apart, Ham admitted, “I just thought; he doesn’t realize he’s really only going to hurt himself, because once he dumped a pitcher of soda on a girl in a wheelchair, he’d probably get expelled, kicked off the football team, and maybe even arrested.”
“So you just suggested he was hurting himself, and then he actually did it?” Priscilla confirmed.
“So it would seem,” Ham replied. “And it wasn’t anything creepy like I was in his mind or seeing through his eyes. I just thought it, and he did it. I wasn’t even really thinking about him specifically; I was just waiting to see what happened if he actually dumped the soda on you.”
“Wait, so you weren’t trying to protect me?” Pris bristled.
“No, not consciously, anyway,” Ham started to answer before he saw the look on her face. “But as soon as I realized he was serious, I of course had to take drastic measures to prevent it.”
“Sure you did, Buddy,” Pris groused. “Sure you did.”
Marrisa walked up to the table and paused briefly. “I’m sorry, were you two having an intimate moment? I can come back in a little while,” she continued as she began to turn away.
“Mom, don’t be ridiculous,” Pris said sternly. “We just couldn’t hear each other over all the noise, and Ham moved closer so we didn’t have to shout.”
“Well, alrighty then,” Marrisa said in her best Ace Ventura.
“So, what did you win me, mom?” Priscilla asked. Marrisa had been holding one hand behind her back since she had arrived. She now produced a white, winged horse with a horn on its forehead; its wings were a glistening metallic blue.
“A pegacorn,” Priscilla exclaimed.
“Pegacorn?” Ham repeated questioningly.
“Sure, silly man; a Unicorn with wings, or a Pegasus with a horn, isn’t it beautiful?” she breathed as Marrisa set it on the cross brace on the front of the wheelchair.
“Actually, it is quite... unique,” Ham observed. But Pris wasn’t listening; her eyes were locked on her prize.
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IT HAD BEEN ON HER seventh birthday; her father had surprised her by bringing home a giant stuffed Pegacorn from a novelty store. She had fallen in love with it, and had sat on it for most of the remainder of the evening. It wasn’t many days before her weight had buckled the legs to the point it became, in effect, a low cushion. After some cajoling, Pris had agreed it would best serve as her guardian while she slept, so it took up permanent residence at the foot of her bed. She had named it Fred.
After the accident, during the more than a year Priscilla spent in the hospital undergoing reconstructive surgeries, Marrisa had sold their home and found an apartment with handicap access and amenities. When Priscilla had finally been released from the hospital, after the surgeons and specialists informed Marrisa there was nothing else they could do, Priscilla was shocked at her new home.
“Mom, why didn’t you ask me if I wanted to move?” Pris had wailed. “I want my old bedroom back, I want my backyard swing set, I want my treehouse Daddy and I built, I want to...” She stopped abruptly, as recognition dawned on her that she would never swing, or climb trees, or even get upstairs to her bedroom with assistance. “I just want to be left alone for a while,” she had finished.
And Marrisa had left her alone, for two weeks. At the end of that time, they had the first of their many fights. “You don’t have a choice, you have to eat,” Marrisa had chastised Pris when she refused to open her mouth to be fed.
“Fix it where I can feed myself,” Pris had demanded.
“You’re being unreasonable,” Marrisa had replied. “I don’t even know if that’s possible.”
“Have you even tried?” Pris had shot back.
“Young lady, let me explain how it is to you,” Marrisa had said crossly. “I didn’t want to sell our home, I had to. Even after all the insurance payments from your father’s company and the other driver’s company, we still owed the hospital over 250 thousand dollars. And the surgeons waived a lot of their fees mainly because what they had hoped would happen, didn’t. They offered to set up a payment schedule, but on my salary, we barely have enough for expenses.”
“How generous of them,” Pris had shouted in fury. “They wrecked my body; I can’t do anything except breathe, and they waived their fees? We should be suing them for malpractice or something.”
“Listen to me very closely,” Marrisa had said then, becoming very quiet and moving very close to her daughter’s face. “Those doctors saved your life. You were dead, for all intents and purposes. Your body was so badly mangled; they really didn’t think you’d pull through.” Tears had sprung into Marrisa’s eyes, but she dashed them away and struggled on. “I begged them to try anything, unorthodoxed, untried, experimental; I couldn’t bear to lose your father and you.” And then, she had laid her face in her hands and openly wept in front of her daughter for the first time.
Later that day, Marrisa had told Priscilla about the storage unit. “Most of your belongings, including Fred, are there,” she said. “We can get all the things you want to keep and sell or donate the rest.”
When Marrisa had wheeled Pris to the roll up door, in a borrowed wheelchair from the hospital, Pris had not been sure how she would feel. As the door went up, Fred was setting right on top of a stack of boxes in the middle of the small room. Memories of her father bringing it home, and playing with her on it, and teasing her about never getting off of it, all came flooding back. Priscilla had hung her head and wept, finally allowing herself to truly mourn her father.
Once she was cried out, they talked about what to keep. “I don’t think I can bear to have it around, Mama,” Pris had admitted. “Every time I look at it, I just want to cry again.”
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“IT’S TIME TO GET ON with my life, and make the most of it I can,” Pris had observed soon thereafter, and they had agreed it was time for her to return to public school. Now she had a new Fred, and a new friend, and a new life, restricted as it may be. And she felt like the best might be yet to come.
“Have you notice how everyone steers a wide berth around us?” Ham had mentioned the second week of school. “It’s like we’re suddenly respected.”
“More like either feared or loathed,” Pris had responded. “I don’t see respect in any of their colors,” she finished absently.
“What do you mean; their colors?” Ham inquired.
Oh, nothing,” Pris tried to quickly dismiss her slip. “I mean their complexions, you know, if they were respectful, they’d blush or show some sign of acknowledgement.”
“Nah, I’m not buying it,” Ham countered. “I’ve watched you with people for two weeks, and you seem to be able to pick the friendliest, most trustworthy, reliable students on the campus. How is that?”
“I’m just a little empathetic, I guess,” Pris deflected.
“Come on, now, I’ve exposed my superpower, it’s your turn,” Ham chided.
“Okay,” Pris sighed. “I can read people’s auras.”
“Sure, sure, you can...say what?” Ham stuttered. “You can read their auras, like their color signatures, you mean?”
“I don’t know what that is, but I’ve researched enough to believe I’m seeing auras,” she explained quietly.
They were parked under their favorite tree, having gone outside into the pleasant afternoon air after another boring lunch. Ham had taken to feeding her and himself with his good hand, and they were now seen as a couple on campus.
“So, what does her aura look like?” Ham asked of a passing girl.
“She’s pretty, right?” Pris had observed.
“Sure,” Ham acknowledged.
“Well, I’ve read enough now to interpret colors, and she’s a manipulative user, who is afraid of something or someone here at school,” Pris announced.
“How do you know all that?” Ham asked incredulously.
“Her aura is violet, not purple, with large gray masses in it, and has a heavy black halo around it. Violet means persuasive, intuitive, or visionary, but it can also mean manipulative,” she explained. “The gray means she’s afraid of or resisting something, something powerfully impactful in her life. And the black halo signifies she’s either grieving or has a grudge against someone. I’ve watched how she is with boys, and she uses her beauty and body to get them to do what she wants.”
“Do you suppose the fear and grudge could have the same source?” Ham asked.
“I’m not that good at this yet,” Pris admitted. “I’m still studying it, and there are a lot of nuances in the process. I’ve also learned auras can change from time to time, and even day to day if there’s something powerful influencing a person’s psyche.”
“So, you’re psychic?” Ham asked with wonder.
“No, I don’t think so,” she replied. “I can’t read minds or anything, I just see their colors. And something else I can’t find any reference to; I can also see a glittering, bright area around everyone’s heart. It’s different for each person. Some are almost so bright they hurt my eyes, while others are dim, or watery, like looking through cellophane.”
“And you have no idea what that is?” Ham replied. “It’s not something to do with their auras?”
There’s no mention in any of the literature I have access to, and I’ve read everything that even gets close to the topic,” Pris assured him. “I’m still looking, but I really don’t know what it is.”
At that moment, an older man walked hurriedly past, and Pris was shocked by what she saw. Her sharp intake of breath, and the way it caused her chair to jerk, was the only indication Ham saw, but he’d gotten to know her fairly well in the past two weeks.
“What is it?” he asked quickly.
“That man who just walked by, the older one?” Pris said, by way of identification. When Ham nodded, she said, “His aura is all black. I’ve never seen one all black, even the really dark ones have some color. And his glitter?” she paused. When Ham nodded again, she said breathlessly, “He doesn’t have one.”
“Excuse me,” Ham called to a passing student who looked to be older than most. The young man hesitated, then walked back and stood before them. “Do you know who that older man is in the gray coveralls, going across the common?” Ham asked, pointing.
The student looked to where he indicated and said, “That’s Mr. Jenkins, the head custodian. Nobody messes with him.”
When he started to walk away, Ham asked, “Why not?”
Hesitating, the young man drew closer and spoke softly. “They say he killed a man in a fistfight when he was young. Beat him to death with his bare hands. They say he spent 30 years in prison. The school only hired him last year, and a lot of the parents are telling the school to get rid of him. He scares everyone.” At that, the young man turned and walked quickly away.
Ham and Pris looked at each other, startled. Could there be some connection with his glitter and his crime? Then the bell rang for the next class period. As they rolled toward the building, Ham said, “Oh, hey, by the way. I didn’t really think you had super powers, I was just teasing. Thanks for sharing with me, okay?”