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Chapter 2

Almost a week has passed since the new girl's first day. It's lunchtime and, again, I'm leaning against my bike. Jake's bragging about his latest conquest. None of it's true though, a lazy dip in to his mind reveals. He just wants the kind of notoriety Ray and I have. Ray's the school bully - really, there's no nice way to put it. He preys on the defenceless then recounts his tales as if they'd impress us. In total there five of us who sit out on our bikes everyday. I wouldn't say we were friends, more like we all had one thing in common - we didn't give a shit.

People like to look at angry guys, some girls even like to approach us hoping to be the one to turn us in to submissive little lapdogs, but no one actually wants to be around when the anger escapes. Except other angry people. Because, who else needs a good fistfight?

Zed, where are you? Yves' irritated voice bursts in to my mind, Are you coming to band or not?

Sighing, I consider ditching but decide against it. I don't have a set of drums at home and I haven't been able to practice since before the start of the new term. I'm itching to play.

I stroll in, interrupting Keneally as he terrorises the new girl, and go and sit beside Yves, receiving only a sour look in return. Big Brother's loosing patience with me.

As if I were a murderer masquerading as a student, people shift uneasily in their seats like they can sense my pent-up rage and I can feel the wariness rolling off them in waves; I don't need to read their mind to know I have that effect on people. My reputation - which had recently gotten worse as I struggled to handle my anger - was enough to put people ill at ease. I know I've gotten worse but, for some reason, everyone else noticing has left me infuriated - a bull with a red flag flashing in front of it's eyes.

Of course, there was also the superficial girls who only saw my appearance. My brothers and I were all used to it; we aren't blind, we know we're not ugly. We were used to lingering touches from overly helpful shop assistants, eyelashes fluttering when we asked for the time, or the less subtle girls who stuck their chests out and boldly asked for our numbers. None of them my type. To be honest, I'm beginning to wonder just what my type is.

…getting sick of his macho-act. Just needs to grow up and deal like the rest of us. Maybe Mum's right, maybe we just need to find his soulfinder. The programme I've been working on isn't right though, too many variables…

My blatant gawking in to my big brother's head is interrupted by none other than Mr Keneally who glowers at me dramatically as if I'd taken a baseball bat to his precious piano.

Oh yeah, that's the second time I've been late to his class. This should be interesting.

'Mr Benedict, so kind of you to join us,' Keneally says sardonically, all humour leaching out of his eyes, 'All of us are thrilled you've torn yourself away from your no doubt far more important schedule to make music with us, even if your arrival is somewhat tardy.'

'I'm late?' I question like I hadn't noticed I'd burst in mid-lecture.

Yves strikes me in the stomach with his elbow, Zed, just apologise already. Some of us actually want to play.

'Yes, you are late. I believe it is custom in this school to apologize to the teacher if you arrive after they do.'

A part of me wants the tell him to go to hell and get out of my face. Another part wants to hit him over the head with Yves' clarinet. I'm raring for an all-out shouting match. I haven't properly released my anger in ages, what with Mum's grounding and my new reputation making people reluctant to even stand up to me.

'Sorry,' I force out after a short pause, ignoring my more violent desires.

I almost laugh at the amount of relief circuiting some of the students minds. Where's there sense of excitement? Who doesn't want to witness a teacher loosing it completely?

'You're not - but that'll have to do. Watch your step, Mr Benedict: you may be talented but I'm not interested in prima donnas who don't know how to treat their fellow musicians. You, Miss Bright, are you a team player?' Mr Keneally calls me out on my insincere apology before turning back to the new girl, who seems to be wishing she could disappear, 'Or are you afflicted with the same attitude as our Zed Benedict?'

'I…I don't know. But I've been late too,' she says hesitatingly, looking like a frightened lamb and I'm the Big Bad Wolf.

Mr Keneally turns his attention back to band without another word, cajoling the new girl in to playing the piano even though she clearly doesn't want too. Keneally's very full-on. He doesn't allow anyone to fade in to the background if they deserve the spotlight. Of course, he wishes I'd fade away.

'Zed, get over here.'

Looking up I realise Keneally's dished out the parts. Without asking I strut towards the drums: even if that's not where I'm supposed to be it's what I came here to play. Keneally will just have to deal.

We begin and, finally, I feel some of my anger repent, releasing me from it's stronghold. For a little while I'm Zed Benedict: musician, seventh son of Karla and Saul Benedict, member of the Savant Net and not this bitter husk of a person I've become. All to soon the music ends and, with it, my anger returns bubbling inside me as if to punish me for its absence.

'Very good, nay, excellent!' Proclaims Mr Keneally in true dramatic style, causing me to roll my eyes, before winking conspiratorially at the new girl, 'I fear I've just been bumped from the jazz band.'

Then Mr Keneally launched in to his annual lecture on rehearsal times and I gaze outside, mind-numbing bored. I've heard this lecture too many times - both because I've been present and because of my stupid future-telling gift. Grudgingly I admit to myself the new girl was good on the piano. Before I'd gotten bitter I might have even told her so, but now I glower like the though offends me.

I want to meet the new girl, Yves says telepathically, Please be nice.

No promises, I smirk, hanging back to wait for him.

'Hi. You're good.' Yves says, smiling friendlily at the new girl.

Shyly, she mutters her thanks before Yves drags me in to the conversation.

'That idiot's my brother, Zed.' He indicates me with a mocking roll of the eyes that pisses me off.

'Come on, Yves.'

'Don't mind him. He's like this with everyone.'

'You twins?' And there it is, the first words she speaks to me - well, first words that are semi-aimed at me. My scowl deepens.

It's not her fault really, I'm more pissed off that nothing spontaneous can happen in my life. Only my family can really surprise me now, seeing as my gift doesn't work too well on them.

I sift through the New Girl's mind, bored already. Huh, 'A fallen hero,' eh? She's more perceptive that I thought. By all rights I should be a hero: I'm a seventh child, I can see the future, read minds and I'm currently on the side of the angels. But I'm not a hero. Heroes are selfless, they want to help people and use their gifts for good. The fact I just shamelessly sifted through her thoughts proves that wrong. I know if I don't find balance soon I'll fall completely. Dad thinks the only way for me to find balance is a soulfinder but I disagree. Vick and Trace are balanced, maybe not happy, but definitely balance - they immersed themselves in work. Uriel and Yves immerse themselves in academics. Xav and Will have their pranks. Me? All I have is a penchant for motorbikes and a bad attitude.

'No way. I've a year on him. I'm a senior. He's the baby of the family.'

'Gee, thanks, bro. I'm sure she wanted to know that,' I snap, foot tapping impatiently.

All I want to do is get out of this stuffy room and away from this English girl. I wonder what she'd think if the roles were reversed - if she could read my mind. Maybe then she'd be able to tell me what the hell is going on inside my head.

My thought are interrupted by my gift. No matter how much I try to suppress it, it happens anyway.

It's dark, the new girl's walking…alone, I think. Two men. A scream. The glint of a knife. Her terrified face. The images flash through my mind with blinding speed.

Yves recognises my distant expression and begins to pull me away muttering a quick 'see you later.'

Ominously she hums an exit tune that sounds remarkably like the death march.