Brent couldn’t stop thinking about his initiation into darkness back in July of 1979. The innocence of it all. The stupid card “trick” wasn’t even about gaining control! It was just a stinking grab for attention! Something that was supposed to be fun! No torment! No voices!

As it turned out, Brent’s parents had been very impressed with what he’d done with the cards that first day. In fact, his father had gone so far as to sit down at the table with him and even reshuffled the deck himself. Then he arranged the cards on the table himself. Apparently, it had been time for a reevaluation of the card trick.

Brent had passed the test again, with flying colors. Though his dad couldn’t find them, he had been sure there were markings on the cards. There had to be. Right? Because, obviously, there had to be a naturalistic reason to produce such astounding results.

When pressed, a third time about how he’d done it, Brent simply said, “It’s a secret.” He was beginning to enjoy that he knew something that no one else could figure out.

However, as the days and weeks went on, his family and friends, who were initially very impressed with his ability, grew more and more indifferent. It was rarely brought up any more to brag about. Brent didn’t like the waning of interest in his ability and began to wonder what other attention-grabbers his giftedness could secure.

He tried the shell game that had originally been done on the sidewalk with Kim Cox. Yes, he’d been able to duplicate it, but to everyone else it just seemed even more a parlor trick.

He was getting frustrated.

Late one night while lying in bed, a few weeks into his new skills, he had the spark of a new idea. It was obvious to Brent that he was able visualize what he wanted to find and then find it, but what if he could visualize what he wanted to happen and then cause it to take place?

But how? If it was at all possible, he was going to find out.

Brent realized that this was the moment … this was the decision that had set a dark and dangerous new course for his life. He wanted to ebb the flow of memories; bring them ultimately to an end. He desperately wanted to stop reliving the beginning of his life’s end.

But the memories persisted…

Okay, what do I want to happen? It would have to be something…something so unusual that if it actually happened it would be obvious that I was the cause. He pondered the idea for several minutes, and then it struck him. Ohh… what if!

Michele.

Impossible! Now you’re just being stupid.

But … what if …?

If he were able to get Michele Atwell to go out with him, he’d know, without question, that he had a truly astonishing gift. Not one time had he been able to catch her eye. He didn’t understand why. He wasn’t exactly hideous to look at, and he was an athlete…

Okay …. I’ve got my goal. He smiled to himself. What if he were really able to make this happen? He would sure turn some heads at school with her on his arm!

Brent knew it was an impractical pursuit. It was ridiculously improbable. … Which made it the perfect test. The question was: How does one go about manipulating someone else’s desires? Would he have to be able to see her in order to throw a whammy on her? Could it happen as he lay in bed? Was there a way to study up on this?

He chuckled and shook his head. It’s a stupid idea! Idiotic!

Still…

It took a full day before he got past all the moral objections he had to manipulating another person’s will. First, he doubted that it could really be done. So what real harm would come as a result anyway? Second, if the impossible happened and she did go out with him, she’d be getting someone who wanted her for more than her body, though that body was certainly a perk! And who’s to say that in some cosmic sense it wasn’t supposed to happen anyway? After all, if it was a gift—a gift that had to have come from God, since he probably did exist—then wouldn’t he just be accomplishing what he was gifted to do?

Moral constraints out of the way, he began to practice. Practice was probably the wrong word to use since he didn’t have a clue what he was doing. But then, a lot of the practice he did on the basketball court to acquire his skills had been little more than trial and error; pretty much just like this.

He had one class with Michele; English Composition. He’d have to choose a seat somewhere behind hers. Then he could try to … well, do something. He’d figure it out then.

Monday morning Brent walked into his first period English Comp class. He got to the classroom early so as to get the best possible seat for getting a good look at Michele. The problem was that she never showed up. She wasn’t there the next day either. As it turned out, she was home, sick with the mumps of all things.

At home he resorted to Plan B. Okay, there really wasn’t a plan, but he was going to at least attempt to make some sort of headway. So, locked in his room he sat at his desk with his eighth-grade year book before him; and in it, a picture of Michele. He focused on the photo and strained to make his thoughts known to her.

You like Brent Lawton. You want him to be your boyfriend. Conjuring those two sentences in his mind was enough to cause him to laugh out loud. “Oh brother! Have I lost it.” But Brent felt a niggling to go at it again. So he did.

The more he said it, the more he also felt like he was making some sort of mistake. It wasn’t a conflict of conscience, but something else. He was doing something wrong.

He sat back with a sigh and rubbed his eyes.

“If you’re not sure that anything you’re doing is right to begin with, how can you be certain that anything you’re doing is wrong?” he asked out loud. He leaned forward and looked at Michele’s picture again. “I want this girl,” Brent murmured. “I need this girl.”

“I’m going to have this girl.”

He attempted again to speak to her mind—believing it had to somehow be possible—that she wanted him. Then a thought occurred to him, almost like a whispered voice. “You’re saying it wrong. She needs to believe the thoughts are her own.”

“Her own thoughts,” Brent mumbled. Yes! That’s it! She needs to think that the thoughts I’m sending are her own! Brent gave himself an I-could-have-had-a-V-8 pop to the forehead and looked again at her picture with renewed enthusiasm.

I like Brent Lawton. I want him to be my boyfriend.

The thought voice spoke to him again, “Out loud. Be more subtle.”

He stared into her eyes; willing himself to see their greenness; seeing more than a photograph. He was looking at the object of his desire face to face.

“Brent Lawton,” he began again in a whisper. “Brent Lawton.” He felt like he was drilling Michele’s eyes with his own. “Brent Lawton. I wonder why I never really noticed him before. Brent Lawton. Now that I think about him, he is kind of cute. Brent Lawton. I wonder why I never really noticed him before. Brent Lawton. Now that I think about him, he is kind of cute.”

The repetition of just his name and those two sentences went on for nearly an hour until Brent felt a rivulet of sweat travel down his back. The chill of it alerted him. He blinked and sat up. He blinked again and looked at his alarm clock. “What? No way.” He looked at his watch. “An hour?” He rubbed his eyes and pushed back from his desk. He felt weak, as though he had been through a hard workout.

“Okay, that was a little weird.” He stood up and went downstairs for a snack. “I need some protein.”

THE FOLLOWING MONDAY, again early for school, he sat at his desk hoping. The classroom was about half full when she walked in. Michele Atwell in all her long-legged beauty, looking none the worse for the type of ailment she had suffered through. She was laughing with a girl named … Hmm … He couldn’t remember. Michele’s best friend. A mixed pair to be sure: nerd and absolutely-not-nerd.

As Michele and friend started looking for seats, Michele turned toward the back of the classroom and caught Brent’s eyes. For a moment—a brief, glorious moment—her eyes widened in surprise. She caught her breath, smiled a quick smile, and darted her eyes toward the floor as she took a seat.

Brent’s heart skipped a beat. Maybe three or four beats! She had just noticed him! She didn’t just see him, as she’d done countless times, but she noticed him!

Brent nearly exploded in song! Nearly being the operative word. Good thing, too, because the only lyrics that erupted in his mind at that incredible moment were, The hills are alive with the sound of music!

Good grief! How embarrassing would that have been?

He smiled.

No, he didn’t … he grinned.

He grinned like a Cheshire cat!

BRENT AND MICHELE were now an “item.” Guys and girls alike throughout the school were either high-fiving him or looking at him in utter amazement. Good grief, he thought while walking to class one afternoon. Every girl in this school must have thought I was a total loser!

After a while, though, even the wonder of bagging Michele Atwell wore off in the minds of his classmates. And he was once again relegated to the life of the average.

Much like an adrenaline junkie, Brent needed his periodic “fix” of popular opinion. So he began making it a practice of learning more ways of exploiting his gift for glory.

It was becoming much easier to manipulate situations to his liking now that he was listening more attentively to his thought voice. It was a bit eerie at times, as he was growing to believe that it might really be a voice. And if it was a voice that was guiding him to do things he didn’t know how to do himself, was it his voice he had been hearing?

The question both troubled and fascinated him. That is, it fascinated him until one night, about four months into his relationship with Michele.

It was that horrific night that the thought voice said something that gripped him with fear.

“Hello, Brent.”