. This has been done for months. Reasons for not uploading? Sorry, but I have university priorities coming up and I find it's important that I dedicate as much time to my writing outside of FF for now. In the time between these chapters, a whole book has been finished, including a multitude of short stories and screenplays. There may be a slight hiatus. Sorry!

22: The Tarantula

The Tarantula, Lincoln imagined, would make all the headlines and rise above the fold on every newspaper to arrive on the doorsteps of Royal Woods residents.

His lead pencil poised at the ready, back uncomfortably hunched in a sickle-shape over the notebook which he has thrown wide on the highboy, he begins to sketch. The pencil makes thick scrawling noises in the small room. He finishes the outline first; perhaps there are a few miscalculations while stenciling the bridge between his shoulder blades. Those shoulders are thick, bulking whole centimeters over the base of his neck; an overestimation.

That is fine. He can make adjustments — in real life. The floor is waiting for the mad push of his palms. Push-ups. His feet are ready to take his legs (butt) to the max. Squats. Or he could buy a gym membership, quickly ease himself into the muscular body of a jungle man. He knows with experience. He has taken all 120ish pounds of Lincoln Loud to Royal Woods High without as much as a single exertion-heated breath.

Tarantula seems to build himself on the lined sheet of paper, staring, tearing, whispering . . .

"Lookin' good," Lincoln says to himself. Then he chuckles and muses: "Only missing the colors."

The red cap of the sharpie drawls to the other end of his dresser like a marble. And Lincoln begins to make the web-patterns, working with the frowned concentration of an artist at his best work. Both lateral fields of the back of the silhouette are spiderwebbed with maroon sharpie. Its legs are crawling with them, from the calves up, as if the heavy duty tires of a muddied-up Toyota. Red — almost bloody — marks circle the undersides of Tarantula's eyes. And those eyes; the only blank thing of the page apart from the backdrop. They stare. They stare greatly, all right. Almost enough to get Lincoln sweating.

He pulls from his dresser, the face staring wildly back at him. A blurry drove of April clouds peer into his room from the circle window. Flashing, he goes to the window, pitches the thing open, where his hand nearly smokes from the temperature change. He drew all that (the figure, the colors, the webs, the eyes, the Tarantula) really fast. This, Lincoln realizes, is the first time he is heartily considering the Tarantula. He does not understand, why something of his own imagination, only just created — no, the Tarantula was not created, simply put to paper — frightened him so much.

His heart beating richly, Lincoln goes back to the wooden highboy, the typewriter keys wedged back into their accorded spots, the alarm clock he destroyed not here anymore (the latter met his-her end in the fetid stomach of the can this morning), his aching hand drawn balefully to his chest. The Tarantula, still looking wildly at him. Shivers break sickly along the small of his back. Something is wrong — he can feel it.

But still, he can not understand it.

Frustration settles in his stomach with dazzling viridescence. Lincoln figures he has dealt with confusion enough. Hell, the last few days were nothing more than a riot of questions and uncertain happenings. Just thinking about the sixth and the consecutive morning of the seventh has feather tickling at the back of his throat. Might as well have the vomit running again. God, Lincoln is not sure if he can put up with vomit again. This phenomenon has both happened and been threatened many times.

Lincoln hurriedly caches Tarantula inside one of the drawers of his dresser, beneath a pile of socks. He needs to figure this out. Hopefully in time, this deadly intuition will dissolve to nothing. If the fear of drawn character is mixed into his bag of powers, he ought to kill himself next time he finds Lana watching SpongeBob SquarePants on the television. Making the wrestling attire would be impossible, as well. Might as well send yourself out in a hoodie and trackpants.

"That'll surprise them, though." And he manages to laugh.

His suspension will expire on the tenth of April, though his return to school would not happen until the thirteenth. Struck gold. The entomology paper is due on that day, and he is exactly sure of what to write. Perhaps . . . the discussion of DNA transmission from insects to other organisms? Interesting concept, and recently that one warrants an A. If done properly, that is.

At school, it is around lunchtime. The Michigan sunshine has likely peaked, and the shafts make golden bars through the window. At school, Birtz and the gang are heading to lunch. Maybe they can call. Discuss the project. Discuss what happened the other —

No, he should not talk about that. He was not meant to do what he did yesterday. The wild extent of his powers were to remain completely hidden, at least from Lincoln Loud, that is. They belong to Tarantula, him only. He is still unsure of the consequences, if it is found out that he "stole" the powers . . . or killed the spider . . . or another narrative that is equally stupid.

He unlocks his phone, skips to the messaging app. The group chat is laid out at the top in its austere chatbox beauty. He types a message in there, not thinking much of what he's about to say. His lips perk up with a sun-on-mica smile. He chooses the words without much carefulness: "Hi eyerone how;s ytour day."

Lincoln sends the message out and is unpleasantly surprised when two minutes later, a text has not been sent back. He loops back around to his bed and sits down, its spring-box mewling. Sunlight keeps pouring through the dust-sheeted window. Its hairy worm shadows are casted onto the floor. Soon, when he gets up and drags his shuffling feet over them, a plethora of bristly shades will be printed onto his face.

Then a ding . . . for a text message has been returned. That sun-on-mica smile brightens, very radiant, very unusual. He leaps off the bed, shuffles over the hairy worm shadows near the window, a plethora of bristly shades cast on his face. His thumbs work on the screen again. The person who texted is Stella. Her message: School is school.

He frowns a little, finding this not interesting. Then another message fills the screen like a clown-in-the-box. This new message reads, How's your suspension? We've been worrying a looooott

Lincoln exercises this question over his mind, his tongue furrowing his cheek like an agonized rootlet searching for water, his eyes hazing and disappearing from the world. The suspension has been alright, he supposes. The punishment has been wholly reduced to paying what is due for the bathroom. He has to find a job, fast. The Tarantula should do him some justice — if he can pull it off, that is — but he should not depend on that. If he piles all of his reliance onto that stupid drawing, which has succeeded more in acting as a bottle of Ipecac syrup, he might not crawl out of this flytrap alive. Then his heart seems to freeze beneath his ribcage— the suspension will be on his track record . . . forever. There is no climbing out of this. All colleges will see that mark, this blemish on his name. His chances at an education are about as tender as the kiss of an abused show lion.

He types a bit — not bad, a bit disappointed that my record isnt super clean anymore but — then rams the backspace bar into the lot of the words, ushering them off the screen. He decides to give calling a shot instead.

Lincoln pegs the button with his thumb. The phone rings. It produces that stupid, burpy croon sound. Then someone picks up . . . shuffling, on the other end. Then there is the whisper of the phone dragging along something, and someone picks up! It is Rusty who has answered, the ol' reliable, the man of the BMX himself.

"YOOOO," the static-drowned voice on the phone hoots, "NO WAY! YOU'RE NOT DEAD!"

The smile cleaves into Lincoln's face with ease. "Hey Rusty, what's going on at school?"

"You've missed too much," Rusty says. "You're king of the hill down here. Everyone's talking about you. They can't believe that," Rusty then shifts his voice into a mocking, abysmal falsetto, "skinny kid wolfed down the big guys. Of course all the sophomores and seniors and everyone else are giggling about it. Saying they knew those guys were nothing."

Lincoln laughs, though he fails to keep a green ripple of nausea from exploring his stomach like a fervid adventurer. "That's cool, Rusty."

"Also I've gotten word from my dad. So my aunt was near a shooting downtown and . . ."

The laughter tapers off into silent amazement. "Really? You're not pulling my leg, Rusty?"

"Nope. She's alright, of course. But I overheard my dad wishing that it got him . . . you know what? Forget that. Just listen, I know you and Birtz when down to Detroit not too long ago. I'm just a bit spooked. Could've been with you guys." His squawky voice leaps nimbly into silence. Then he begins again, "Did you hear where the shooting was?"

Lincoln does not recall seeing any news about a shooting. "Not at all."

"This place . . . Herman Industries?"

Now his heart begins to drum thunder in his chest. "Are you serious? Is Birtz there?"

The static-drowned voice pauses a long and thoughtful pause. "He was but just left a minute ago, why?"

"His dad owns that business, Rusty. Listen I'll call you back, alright?"