Scorpion Shards ss-1 Page 4

“Does that mean I’m expelled?”

  “We’ll talk about it in my office.”

  “Fat chance,” said Lourdes. She took one step at a time as she descended slowly toward her principal.

  Boom! The steps rang out as Lourdes planted her swol­len foot on them.

  Boom!

  In a moment she eclipsed the stairway lights, and Conroy’s face was lost in shadow.

  “I’m warning you, Lourdes . . .”

  Boom!

  As Lourdes approached, Mrs. Conroy seemed smaller and less powerful. Why, she was just a wisp of a woman after all, thought Lourdes.

  Boom!

  “Lourdes, I won’t let you past me.”

  “So try and stop me.”

  Boom!

  As Lourdes continued her descent toward the frail principal, Conroy unconsciously gripped the rail, already feeling Lourdes’s pull—her gravity, for Lourdes did have a gravity about her. When she was in a room, it was difficult not to find oneself leaning in her direction. If a breeze blew in through the window and scattered papers, they would all stick to Lourdes until she peeled them off. If you threw a paper airplane at her, it would curve around her and come back to you like a boomerang—and if you threw it just right, that airplane would continue to circle in orbit around her until it fell to the ground. Her class­mates called her the Planetoid, and she hated them all.

  “If you so much as touch me, Lourdes—"

  Boom!

  The final step. Lourdes stood right before Conroy, and the principal’s shoulder-length hair was falling forward across her face, reaching toward Lourdes. Her immense belly pinned the principal against the wall, and they looked into each other’s eyes. Fear was in the principal’s eyes now. Fear and disgust.

  “It’s not my fault I’m like this,” said Lourdes. With that the principal’s body began to crush inward, from Lourdes’s mere touch, collapsing in upon itself. Barely able to breathe, Conroy snarled out her words.

  “You don’t belong here,” she said, and Lourdes knew she wasn’t just talking about school. “Here,” for Lourdes, meant this world. She brushed Conroy away as if swatting a fly, and the woman gasped for breath, as if she had just escaped the crushing force of a black hole.

  Principal Conroy clutched the railing to keep from col­lapsing and shouted at Lourdes, but Lourdes didn’t listen. She just continued out of the stairwell and onto the first floor.

  ***

  The first floor hallway housed mostly English and history classrooms. The nearest exit was to the left, but the school security guard and guidance counselor were stand­ing there, blocking Lourdes’s escape route. At the other end of the hall stood the vice-principal and a whole legion of teachers. They all began to close in.

  Either she could run at them, hoping her momentum would take them out like bowling pins, or she could duck into an empty classroom. Since there were too many of them to bowl over, she chose the classroom. Once inside, she would be cornered, but at least she’d have an arsenal of things to throw at them as they tried to come at her. If it had to be her against the whole world, then the whole world would be made to suffer for what it was doing to Lourdes Hidalgo.

  She pushed into the classroom, and instantly caught sight of Miss Benson—the new English teacher—and Mi­chael Lipranski in the front of the classroom.

  Lourdes was not prepared for what she saw. Her eyes went wide and her jaw dropped open.

  Because Michael Lipranski was kissing his English teacher.

  The very sight of it distracted Lourdes a moment too long, and she was caught off guard when everyone burst into the room. With so many people trying to wrestle her under control, not even her crushing gravity could save her. In the end, she had to give up. Her only consolation was that Michael Lipranski was also caught, and he would be in as much trouble as she was. Maybe more.

  ***

  Michael Lipranski was an unlikely make-out king. Sure, he was attractive, but there was something about him that was unnerving, unclean and a bit slimy. He was a bit too thin, his dark hair was a bit too long—and al­ways damp. When he would look at you, you could swear that he was reading your most secret thoughts and think­ing great mischief.

  He wasn’t your typical stud—had no great muscles to speak of, and there was always a constellation of bruises over much of his body. Some of these came courtesy of his father, who was known to use his fists, but most were from fights around school. Michael wasn’t much of a fighter, but he had learned to defend himself in a world that turned out to be far more cruel and vicious than he ever thought it could be.

  Physically, the only thing truly special about Michael Lipranski was his eyes. He had these impossibly intense turquoise-hazel eyes, layered with rich coronas of color that made them seem as deep, warm and inviting as a Caribbean sea. The girls in school could lose themselves in Michael’s eyes, and often did. It happened last year in Baltimore, and it happened here in the Hamptons. Maybe that’s why all the guys hated him.

  And maybe that’s why no teacher wanted him in their classroom. For several years Michael could never figure out why this was so. He was friendly, funny and person­able. He made an effort to do the work. Still, he seemed to be an epicenter for all sorts of disturbances. Since seventh grade, Michael’s classrooms had always been remarkably unruly. He always assumed that this was normal. Kids hit puberty and turned into monsters, right? That’s what ev­eryone said . . . but the way his classmates acted wasn’t exactly normal.

  When Michael was in a room a clamminess filled the air that pulled at the edge of everyone’s senses like a smell so faint it was impossible to identify. Whatever it was, it usually attacked girls and guys differently. It made girls’ hearts race and made them suddenly feel like there was something that they desperately wanted. They would begin to sweat, and their eyes would constantly seek out Michael’s—for if they could look into Michael’s eyes, they would begin to feel just a bit better. And if they could move closer to him, they could feel relief. Close enough to smell his breath. Closer still, to taste it.

  Of course, guys didn’t generally feel that way. Instead they felt like beating Michael up.

  So when the posse chasing Lourdes Hidalgo burst into Miss Benson’s classroom, word got around at the speed-of-light squared that Michael “Lips” Lipranski had taken his smooth moves to new heights. Everyone acted sur­prised, but no one really was.

  ***

  While Lourdes sat in the principal’s office under tight guard, Michael had a pressing appointment with Mr. Fleiderman, the guidance counselor, who was everyone’s friend—or at least tried to be.

  The appointment wasn’t held in Fleiderman’s office, because when it wasn’t too cold, Fleiderman liked to hold his sessions out in the quad—the courtyard in the center of the large school. More relaxed, less threatening, Fleid­erman thought. It had never occurred to him that most kids didn’t want to talk to the guidance counselor in view of the entire school.

  When Michael crossed through the wall of steamy fog, it seemed that the rest of the world slipped off the edge of the earth into gray nothingness. It’s how Michael felt in­side too—lost, alone and confused—generally fogged in, but he didn’t plan on letting Fleiderman see that. Let him think I’m calm and in control, thought Michael as he ap­proached the over-eager counselor.

  Fleiderman shook Michael’s hand and invited him to sit with him in the moist grass. Michael refused to sit.

  “Why not?” asked Fleiderman, pleasantly. “I won’t bite.”

  Michael smiled his winning smile. “Standing is better, strategically speaking,” he said. “If you attack me and try to strangle me, I can run. And yes, you might bite, too.”

  Fleiderman laughed at the suggestion and decided to stand. “All right, we’ll do it your way.”

  They both waited. Michael leaned against a yellowing sycamore tree with his arms folded.

  “So talk to me,” Fleiderman finally said.

  “So talk to you about what?”

/>   “You know what. Miss Benson.”

  “What about her?”

  “You tell me.”

  Michael shrugged and looked away. “She kissed me. So?”

  “Don’t you mean you kissed her?”

  Michael smiled slyly. “What makes you so sure?”

  Fleiderman grunted slightly. Michael could see irrita­tion building in the mild-mannered man.

  “I want to understand where you’re coming from, Mi­chael.”

  “Baltimore.”

  “No, inside. I want to understand you.”

  That made Michael laugh out loud. “Good luck.”

  “I know you keep yourself pretty busy with the girls in school. I know you’re . . . shall we say . . . ‘active.’ "

  “Active?” said Michael. “Like a volcano?”

  “Sexually active.”

  “Oh,” said Michael. “That.” He looked away again and paced around to the other side of the sycamore. Fleiderman followed, and Michael noted how the guid­ance counselor’s irritation had already built into frustra­tion.

  “I make out a lot,” explained Michael. “I don’t go much past that. Second base, maybe. You know.”

  “Am I supposed to believe that?”

  “Believe what you want,” said Michael. And then Mi­chael smiled again, “but to tell you the truth, sex scares me.

  “Why?” asked Fleiderman. “Afraid you might ex­plode?”

  Michael shrugged. “Yeah. Or that the girl might.”

  Fleiderman laughed uncomfortably, but Michael didn’t. He became dead serious and noticed that Fleiderman’s hands had involuntarily tightened into fists.

  “Let’s get back to Miss Benson,” said Fleiderman. He reached up to wipe steam from his glasses.

  “What happened wasn’t all my fault, okay?” said Mi­chael, beginning to say more than he had really wanted to. “She didn’t have to keep me after class to talk about my book report. She didn’t have to come up to me and touch my shoulder like that—and she didn’t have to kiss me back when I kissed her.”

  Fleiderman gritted his teeth. Michael could see his anger heading toward meltdown. There was no logical reason for it; Michael wasn’t antagonizing him—Michael was, in fact, being honest and spilling his guts, just like Fleiderman wanted. Still the guidance counselor seethed with anger. “Miss Benson will be dealt with,” Fleiderman said. “But now we’re talking about you and your problem of self-control!”

  “How the hell am I supposed to control myself when all the girls in school are after me, and all the guys want to beat the crap out of me?”

  Fleiderman’s whole face seemed clenched as he spat his words out. “Oh, I see. Everyone either loves you or hates you. You’re the center of the universe and everyone’s ac­tions revolve around you.”

  “Yeah,” said Michael. “That’s it!”

  “Delusions!” shouted Fleiderman. He was furious, and Fleiderman never got furious at anything. Staying calm was his job. “It’s all in your head!” he shouted.

  “Oh yeah?” Michael took a step closer to Fleiderman. Michael was five-seven, Fleiderman closer to six feet. “What do you feel now, Mr. Fleiderman? Do you feel re­ally pissed off? Do you want to grab me and rip my head off? It’s like you’re turning into a werewolf inside, isn’t it? An animal. Everyone who hangs around me long enough starts acting like an animal out of control. They either want to kill me or kiss me. Actually I’m glad that you’d rather kill me.”

  Meltdown! Fleiderman lost it, and he lunged at Mi­chael, grabbing him by the throat. Michael pushed him away, but Fleiderman lunged again, growling—baring his teeth like a mad dog. Fleiderman smashed the boy with the back of his hand, then threw Michael to the ground; Michael tried to scramble away, but Fleiderman was too fast. He was on Michael, pinning him to the ground; he raised his heavy fist, ready to bring it across Michael’s jaw with a blow that would surely break it.

  “Stop!” said Michael. “They’re watching!”

  Fleiderman’s wild uneven breath gave way to a whine as he looked up to see that the fog had lifted just enough for the school windows to be seen all around them. Faces peered out from classrooms on all sides, as if this was a Roman circus and Michael was fodder for the lion.

  “Kill him, Fleiderman,” shouted some kid from the third floor. “Kill the creep!”

  Fleiderman could have—it was in his power, and it was certainly in his eyes; instead, the guidance counselor bit his own lip and continued biting it until it bled. Then he fell off of Michael and crouched in a humiliated heap, try­ing to find himself once more.

  “My God!” muttered Fleiderman. “What am I doing? What’s wrong with me?”

  “It’s not you,” said Michael, refusing to let his own tears out. “It’s me. I turn people crazy. I’m like . . . a full moon, only worse.”

  Fleiderman wiped blood from his lips as he crouched low, still unable to look up at Michael.

  “You won’t be going to this school anymore,” he told Michael, finally getting to the bottom line.

  “I’m being expelled?”

  “Transferred.” Which to Michael was the same thing.

  Fleiderman began to breathe hard, fighting back words of anger. Michael could tell because his face was turning red, and although Michael felt like kicking Fleiderman in the gut, he didn’t. Instead he dug deep within himself, to find a feeling that was decent, and when he found it, Michael took his hand and gently rested it on Fleiderman’s hunched shoulder.

  “It’s all right,” said Michael. “You can say it if it makes you feel better—it doesn’t bother me.”

  “I hate you!” screamed Fleiderman. “I hate your guts!”

  “Say it again.”

  “I hate you . . ."Just saying the words seem to release some of Fleiderman’s steam. He quivered the tiniest bit.

  Although those words hurt, they also gave Michael a sense of control. He could bring people down to their knees in love or hate, altering their very nature. He could turn a bright, sunny disposition into a storming fury. He could turn the heart of an ice-queen into hot steam. Such awesome power must be worth something.

  Michael patted Fleiderman’s shoulder and turned to leave. As Michael crossed the quad, his thoughts became a bit clearer and what fog was left in his own mind began to lift, along with the fog in the quad. Now that the worst was over, he felt relieved as he went back into school to clear out his locker.

  As Michael left the quad, Fleiderman began to feel his fury fading. In a moment, Fleiderman’s humanity came crawling back to him, and he began to condemn himself and obsess over this awful thing he had just done—for no reason he could figure out. He felt ashamed and terrified.

  Love and hate being two sides of the same coin, Fleid­erman began to wonder if the unfortunate Miss Benson also felt this way once Michael Lipranski had been removed from her company.

  ***

  That night, while the rest of the Eastern seaboard was densely padded with storm systems, a patch of clear sky stalled over eastern Long Island, making it a perfect night for the annual star-watch. After sunset, four dozen kids gathered to spend an evening on Montauk Point with their science teacher, peering through his telescope, draw­ing star maps by flashlight, and calculating the speed of the Earth’s rotation.

  Both Michael and Lourdes were advised not to come, which was more certain to assure their attendance than giving them a printed invitation. Michael, who had been sporting a fake license for almost a year now, drove up in his father’s van, and no one was quite sure how or when Lourdes got there; at times she was amazingly stealthy for a girl of her size.

  Montauk Point was a state park surrounded by cold, rough ocean on three sides, and the bluff beyond the light­house was the farthest east one could get in the state of New York. It was the tip of Long Island and simply as far as you could go. Unless, of course, you chose to take one step further east—off the cliff and into the sea.

  It was around eleven that night that Michael Liprans
ki stood at the tip of the lighthouse bluff, contemplating that final step east that would send him plunging to his death in the cold breakers.

  For Michael, the evening hadn’t begun with such thoughts, but it had begun desperately. The star-watch was a great make-out opportunity—and on his last day at this school, Michael felt compelled to take advantage of that.

  Upon arrival, Michael had set his charms on Melissa Brickle, who was, by nature, the school’s wallflower. One smile from Michael changed her nature considerably. He took her to the high bluff behind the lighthouse—the most easterly place—and there, to the sound of waves and the pulse of the spinning light arcing over their heads, Michael got down to business.

  Michael’s kisses were more frantic than passionate; more compulsive than romantic, but Melissa did not no­tice, for, as Michael knew, no one had ever kissed Melissa Brickle this way before, and her own new and overwhelm­ing feelings blocked out everything else. Michael could feel himself trespassing in the dark places of her mind, releasing those feelings like wild beasts from a cage. A thin ground fog carpeted the grass around them, slipping off the cliff in a slow vapor fall. The mist seemed to be flow­ing from the two of them.

  Through it all, Michael’s mind and body were explod­ing with emotions. Frustration, anger, confusion all fought for control—but what he felt more than anything tonight was futility. No matter what he did, no matter how many girls he lured into secret corners—even if he took them all the way and absolutely gave in to all of his urges—he still would not be satisfied. Instead his urges would only increase—they would grow and drive him in­sane. Michael’s grip on Melissa grew stronger as they kissed—so strong that it must have been hurting her, but she didn’t notice. She wouldn’t notice even if Michael re­ally did hurt her.

  “Tighter,” she said. “Hold me tighter.”

  And as he tightened his grip, Michael came to under­stand that this frenzied necking was a violation of the girl. He had, in some way, entered this girl’s mind—he made her want all the things that he could do to her, and this was a violation as real as any other. Michael was terrified of what he was turning into, and what awful things he might be capable of.