New chapter, final one for Chapter 3. Sorry if it isn't as good I was really trying to get this out before vacation

12: Stow It Part II

1

June 3rd 2020.

My second journal entry. I'm starting to get the hang of this thing, and I enjoy it. Somehow, being able to relive the memories — specifically with the inclination for my thoughts — makes me feel better. Have I not started with these notes, I would've been better off sleeping on that hill for another fifty days. That reminds me, I have to find him. I made a promise to keep him safe; I shouldn't drop it now. Him, I shouldn't mention for a while. Just to play it safe.

The day I got my powers, me and Lynn got into a little scuffle near Jefferstone Road. Wasn't a fight, but I got something stuck to my hand and enlisted her to get it off me. We both ended up on the ground. I was leaning up against the trunk of an oak tree, the smell of the trash receptacle next to me small but wretched. Lynn was a few feet away, she pulled it off and held it up with great triumph while lying in a pool of buckled grass. It must've been difficult — I don't exactly remember the moment she got it off. I was so focused on finding a way to control it and I thought I had it, but I didn't quite get there. A moment later we sat up, and I was still laughing. I don't know why, but I was, maybe it was with how absurd it had been. She questioned me, but I didn't listen. Finally she pulled me up and called me an idiot (which some adults did as well at their windows), and we both went to the bus stop at the intersection of Jefferstone and Foxdell Road.

When we climbed onto the bus, there was this big kid blocking the only free seats in the bus, clenching one of the yellow grab handles and picking at the pimples on his forehead. Peachy-blonde hair. Bouncy belly. Nothing much else I could say about him. Me and Lynn were pretty pissed because we didn't want to go up to him. He was at least 6'5" and weighed as much as a truck. Nobody wants to mess with that.

Maybe a younger Lynn would've wanted to, but nowadays she has more sense than that.

When we arrived, the blacktop schoolyard at the side of the school had been empty. There was a few kids out playing ball, but the school bell was less than 10 minutes from ringing, so calling them stupid was a safe bet. One of them, tall and lanky with greasy, corkscrewed brown hair, drove to the rim and overshot the layup. Not too long after the ball had rebounded into an opposing teammate's hand. A mocking falsetto sprung out of the sidelines: YOU CALL YOURSELF THE BONE COLLECTOR? YOU'RE THE TRASH COLLECTOR!

I opened one of the big double doors for the side entrance for me and Lynn. Almost immediately I felt hot air from the heater at the entrance inching down my shirt. A rush of students blew up and down the hall like autumn leaves. Lynn joined them, as if we were part of the same tree and she decided to separate. She slipped me a quick goodbye and I couldn't even say it back before she disappeared.

I went to my locker and there were some kids crowded around it. Turns out it was my neighbor's birthday and they wanted to surprise them. I asked them if they could step aside. They did so almost obediently. I stood taller than all of them, so I guess I did have a certain presence. About nine kids were there, sticking photos, Post-It notes and art pieces on that locker. If someone were to ask me, Lincoln, are you lonely?, right then and there, I would've looked at how many kids had gone out of their way to wish my neighbor a happy birthday. Then I would've turned back and said, "I suppose."

My lock combination went from one end of my head to the other, and suddenly the shackle jumped out of the body and the locker was open. I had three binders arranged at the top. It was the trinity: Math, Science and English. Those three were my first foot forward. Then below that shelf I fastened my backpack to a coat hook, a second shelf beneath. There I kept the other five binders. The schedule on the back of the locker door shimmered beneath the hallway lights; I didn't need to read it because I already knew what day it was and where I had to go. I took my English binder and accordion, then shut the door and locked it. Today I was going to see Clyde and them, Birtz too, and I was certain they'd be pissed that I wasn't there yesterday. Hopefully Zach would do his usual greeting and yell, "Hey—

2

—Linco!" Zach shouts, just as he always does.

Lincoln winces a bit and walks over to their table. The cafeteria has a certain atmosphere now; maybe because it isn't lunchtime, or because of the faint smell of cafeteria lunches at the back of the room, or because of the lights; which go from gold in the hallways to a dull baby blue in the cafeteria, almost as if this is a walk-in freezer. Most kids have already sat down, and a few kids turn their heads Lincoln's way. He moves rigidly, aware — too aware — that he is starting to feel lighter. Not one of these weird feelings again, he thinks, and finally reaches the table.

"Sup boys," Lincoln says with the twinge of an edgy 14-year-old streamer. He sits down next to Liam. "Anything new?"

Liam perks his head up, as if he hasn't noticed Lincoln's presence until now. His eyes look sunken. "Hey," he murmurs.

Rusty looks to be eating his chin. Not literally, but he has his entire face pulled in. And then it explodes. "Christ, he's alive!" Rusty blurts, and the trio giggles. "He has risen from the dead to come bless us once more!"

God, he sounds like an idiot. No offense, buddy.

For a second, Lincoln can swear that he's floating. He isn't, but he feels so light. It reminds him of the feeling he gets on a roller coaster. He wonders if this is another emotion he is sensing because he can read the relief on Clyde's features. Is this how the relief of others will make him feel? Or he is just losing his marbles to the spider bite? He sets his English binder on the table and throws it wide.

"No, some new assignments for Math and Science," Clyde says. He adjusts his glasses; two circular lenses and a black frame that pinches the bridge of his nose. Similar to stereotypical nerd glasses. "How about you?"

Science. That reminds him; the paper coming up, and Birtz. He isn't here. His eyes drift around the cafeteria, but he isn't anywhere. He can see Stella, she is sitting with some other friends today. But Birtz is nowhere.

Lincoln has been paging through his English binder. "Nothing big, I still have that paper coming up, but nothing to turn in for my other classes — for now. Probably gonna get a few more later."

The glasses on Clyde's face are now on the table, and in his eyes Lincoln reads worry; the little kid type he used to always hold. He toys with the frame nervously. "That's not good . . . uh, what's your thoughts on the movies?"

The movies, he has already made that promise. No saying, 'what are you talking about,' because they can just pull up their group chat and read out loud, 'hi everyone, wondering if would be interested in movies, me + Birtz thinking of going, we'd love it if you can come. Birtz want to know you guys better, plus, been a while since our last hangout. Planning on this Saturday. Imma be working things out with my parents.' He can only assume his parents would turn him away after what he has done, so maybe he should tell them that—

"Guaranteed. I'd move the whole freaking town to go," Lincoln says after a brief moment in which he runs over the question. "Hell, let's book our tickets tonight."

That wasn't supposed to come out.

Clyde smiles. "Sounds like a plan. Asked my dads and they were fine with it."

Dammit.

Zach's eyes gleam like a robot's beneath his lenses, which are probably thick enough to be windows. "I'll pool some money tonight."

Dammit.

"I have no money," Rusty says grimly. He socks the table with a clenched first. "I say we'll deal it out."

According to Rusty, 'deal it out,' is a euphemism for, 'someone's going to get a bunch of money and everyone else will be broke.' He uses a form of Pigeon Toss; you bring out a few coins (which coin it is doesn't matter, because you give them a certain value, whether 10 or 20 dollars, or something completely random) and you throw each of them towards the end of the table. Whoever gets their coin the farthest on the table wins; but if you lose, you need to give whatever bet you put on those coins to the winner.

Clyde arches a brow. "What do you mean, 'Deal it out—'"

"You're on, bitch," Zach challenges; standing up halfway and shuffling through the pocket of his new cords.

Great, it has been over three years and these two are still at this rivalry BS.

Lincoln stands up as well. He starts to feel light again, and his insides are in a flutter just as they were this morning. Nothing better than vomiting all over your friends in front of half the school. And . . . he doesn't want to subject himself to something like that. "I have to go to the bathroom."

There is no 'moment' of silence. Clyde immediately hops up, his arms splayed on the table, and Lincoln has a pretty good guess of what he is going to say. "I'm coming with you then, I wanna talk about something."

He was right.

12

"Are you finally done with that damn thing?"

Everything was fine until this guy felt the need to pester him. At a table near the back of the cafeteria, Arnold has been given the walkie-talkie from Nathaniel, or 'Nate,' his 'street' name. Just a term he makes up to seem cool; no it isn't your 'street' name, it is your nickname, dumbass. And giving him this walkie-talkie as a possible, 'new method of distanced communication,' for them, Xavier and Chandler has only reconciled him to his goddamn trash excuse of a brother, so thanks for that.

"No, I'm not," Arnold snarls. "Mind your own business, Schnot-nose; I'll be done when I say so."

Nate deserves to be called schnot-nose for that. For those who don't know, he has chronic sinusitis and hasn't yet gotten it cured. And obviously he has taken offense to it because his face has contorted disgustingly.

"Holy shit, go cool your balls off, dick," he shoots back, and his nose slurps back some mucus.

"Yeah, suck it back in. Need a box of tissues, little baby-waga-boo?"

"It's a condition, jackass."

"I know," Arnold grins wolfishly.

A small part of him feels satisfied; the guy very well knows everything about him, so what gives him a pass to bring up anything about (or related) to Adrian? Or maybe he is just overreacting and really is a dick. It is just a bad memory to think about. When he does, he can feel the skin around his ribs stiffen, and it feels as if someone is pushing into his sternum. And then he can almost feel his head aching again, and he can see the rock with his blood on it— okay, let's not dwell on this memory anymore.

However, it is going to come back up when his mom forces him to see Adrian in prison. But that can wait. For now, he hopes that for every single day in that joint, Adrian will get one of those prison cocks forced up his ass. The prick deserves to suffer.

Finally, someone speaks. "So guys, wanna do anything this afternoon?"

Xavier. Xavier Ferguson. The guy who puts them all to shame in looks; he is already 6'4" in his shoes and built like a Navy SEAL. He just needs to work out to bring out that muscle. You can call him the main piece, because he makes anyone want to batten down the hatches.

"Well I got some ideas, check this out," he continues.

With interest.

Arnold slides the walkie-talkie down the table and Nate intercepts it. Xavier has the phone canted in his hand, a bar of dim, blue light trickling onto his wrists. Arnold gives the table a few taps and cocks his head up with a certain expression. 'Let me see,' it says. Xavier doesn't hesitate and hands him the phone. Talk about trust.

The phone has something about gang violence near the city on the screen. Unnamed gangs, at least seven suspects ranging from 15 to 20 years old. The news article comes from the Daily Bugle. Arnold hates that company and the airheads who run it, but that aside this looks pretty legit. Scrawled at the bottom of the screen is, 'stay wary for these juveniles. They may be armed and extremely dangerous.' But the main thing that catches his eye is, 'They are mainly seen around the outskirts of Detroit, but have started to make appearances in nearby cities and towns such as Warren and Royal Woods.' So these asshats have the nerve to step foot on his home soil and start causing havoc? Yeah, he isn't having none of that.

"That looks fucking hardcore, dude." Something swims up inside him. "We gonna teach those punks not to mess with our territory?"

A daring grin carves itself onto Xavier's lips. "Hell, yeah—"

"Yo, shouldn't we be careful?" Chandler asks. The others have stopped their talking, and now stare at him, almost with bitterness, as if it was an attack. His lips in a half-frown, his eyes half-lidded, he continues, "I don't think it's worth it; just think about it, a murder last night, and now we have this info about gangs—"

"Nah, that happened a bit away from where this gang stuff is happening. The shooting-murder has to do with some company that I have no clue about. Maybe there's a feud between some businesses and they took it too far? Who knows," Nate says, looking pretty mystified. "Either way, someone's in some deep shit. One confirmed dead so far."

"So what do y'all say? Yes?'

Arnold reaches out, then Xavier, then Nate. Then they give Chandler cold stares until he finally crops his arm out like a shot, and now their hands are stacked.

"Let's do it."

13

"So Lincoln, you can tell me."

Gooseflesh running frantically along him, Lincoln cups his hand beneath a surge of tap water. He collapses the cup and water drapes down the backsides of both hands. "I . . . ugh, don't know," he says, almost unsteadily.

His heart feels icy-cold and heavy again. There is a certain pressure — and it immediately clicks. He has proposed that he can sense emotion earlier today. Worry seems to feel like ice-water in the heart, and that feeling has returned. And in Clyde's eyes, he can make out that child-like worry again. It is a match.

"Why not?"

Something about the way he has spoken makes Lincoln think mentally, should I really tell him? He lowers his voice down and keeps at an awkward pace. "I don't know Clyde. I feel like I shouldn't tell you."

Clyde blinks away a twinge of offense. "Lincoln. We've spent most of our lives being friends. You can, and I mean it, tell me."

Reaching for the soap dispenser, Lincoln's palm drives up against the pump. Violet soap ribbons into his cupped hand and he rubs it in until it gets sudsy. Then he runs his hands back under the tap until they're washed. Cycling through the ways he can go about telling Clyde, he can't single one out. A part of him declines it but a different part of him accepts it. Maybe he should give it a few more days to tell him, that way he can—

RING! RING! RING!

And the bell has just rung, time to go to class. At least he gets a bit more time to think it through. But suddenly Clyde fixes him in a hug. A hug that he hasn't gotten in years. "I've always cared about you, Lincoln," Clyde says.

That jabs his heart. "I do too."

Clyde continues, "I still want to talk to you later."

He leaves without an answer.