A Little Bit Langston

By Andrew Demcak

The Elusive Spark: Book One

Being different can be dangerous, and discovery can be deadly.

High school freshman James Kerr is finding out he’s not quite like his classmates. Around the time he realizes he’s attracted to his best friend, Paul Schmitz, James starts channeling a dead writer’s poetry and also discovers he has an ability to manipulate energy—a super power. Before James can figure out why this is happening to him, tragedy strikes in the form of Paul’s abusive father, and James is sent to a government-run school, The Paragon Academy, which specializes in juvenile paranormal research. There, he meets Lumen, the daughter of a famous Korean actress. Lumen's psychic ability might be the key to helping James understand both his poems and his own power.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Harmony Ink Press
• Release date: Dec 3, 2015
• ISBN: 9781634762748

Andrew Demcak

Andrew Demcak is an award-winning American poet and novelist. His books have been featured by the American Library Association, the Lambda Literary Foundation, the Best American Poetry, Verse Daily, and Kirkus Reviews. He has an MFA from St. Mary’s College in Moraga, CA and is currently the Senior Librarian in Collection Development for Oakland Public Library. He lives with his husband, Roland, in the San Francisco Bay Area. Website: www.andrewdemcak.org Connect with Andrew: [e-mail]

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Readers love Ghost Songs

by ANDREW DEMCAK

 The book was fast paced and it definitely stood out like no other novel. I would never be able to forget this novel even if I tried.

—MM Good Book Reviews

I totally loved this book, and it is one of those books that you just have to keep reading to see what happens…

—Rainbow Gold Reviews

Thanks to the author who has provided me with this book, I am so grateful for being able to pick up this work of art.

—Ethereal Book Reviews

Published by

HARMONY INK PRESS

5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886  USA

[e-mail] • harmonyinkpress.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of author imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

A Little Bit Langston

Cover Art

© 2015 AngstyG.

www.angstyg.com

Cover content is for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted on the cover is a model.

All rights reserved. This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of international copyright law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. Any eBook format cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Harmony Ink Press, 5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886, USA, or [e-mail].

ISBN: 978-1-63476-272-4

Digital ISBN: 978-1-63476-274-8

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015906699

First Edition December 2015

Printed in the United States of America

This paper meets the requirements of

ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992 (Permanence of Paper).

For my first love,

J. P. T.

(1967—2000)

&

For you, Roland

AUTHOR’S NOTE

THIS IS a work of fiction.

Some characters are amalgamations of several living and/or dead people.

Apart from public persona, any similarity to living persons is purely coincidental.

I say the human soul is electric—don’t you agree?

Look, there—it can light up a room.

EBE, Roswell, NM

1.

I’M GLAD I can keep my Halloween candy here at your house. My mom would just throw it all out when she found it, I said.

I can’t believe she still does that, Paul said.

Every year. Now she says we’re too old for Halloween anyway.

Too old? No one is too old for free candy.

Anyway, my mom thinks sugar is bad for you at any age.

Sounds like a bunch of bullshit to me.

Yeah. Me too.

An enormous pile of miniature Snickers, Mounds, Milk Duds, Junior Mints, Mike and Ikes, and Almond Joys spread across Paul’s twin mattress in front of us. Paul and I were both ninth graders at Hardwick School, which, I admit, really did make us too old for trick-or-treating. I guess I was feeling a little bit guilty that we’d just fleeced the neighborhood of all this candy. We began to separate it into colorful piles.

Ouch! I said as Paul’s hand brushed mine and a green spark of electricity snapped between us.

That must be from the carpet.

Or my electric personality.

Yeah, right!

That’s so weird too. It always happens to me.

Really?

Yeah. I wonder how many volts it was, I said.

Who knows? Let’s finish this up.

Paul was fifteen already, a year and two weeks older than me. He’d been held back in the second grade at Silver Star Elementary School, and ever since then, we were both in the same grade together. Paul had grown much bigger than me too: puberty kicked in early, his vital glands making him taller, broader, and more muscular. In spite of his size, his dad still wanted to toughen him up. He made Paul lift weights three nights a week on a rickety exercise bench in their overpacked garage.

What the hell are you two doing in there? Paul’s father shouted as he banged his angry fist on the locked bedroom door.

Paul and I jumped up off the bed, startled by the loud sound. The doorknob rattled, turning left and then right, again and again.

Nothing, Dad! Paul answered as he rushed over to unlock the door.

Open this goddamn door! Paul’s dad yelled and pounded his fist again.

Paul’s father stood in the hallway staring daggers down at us, an open beer can sweating in his left hand. He looked big for a short man, tough and muscled. He had a tanned, leathery face from standing in the sun selling cars all day. On top of it all: he was just a mean son of a bitch.

I waited next to Paul’s bed paralyzed with fear.

I warned you not to close this door when you had someone over!

Yeah, Dad, I know, but I didn’t want Tiffany to see what we were doing.

What’s your little sister got to do with it?

She’s always stealing things from me. I didn’t want her to see all the candy.

Paul’s father looked at me, the candy, and then at Paul.

No more closed doors, and it’s almost 8:00 p.m., time for your little pal, James, to go home.

Okay, Dad.

I knew Paul’s dad didn’t like me at all. He walked in on Paul and me constantly, always checking up on us. He was waiting for something to happen. But I could never figure out what. And the way he looked at me, like I came from another planet. I guess he thought I was a bad influence, even though Paul and I had never gotten into any real trouble or anything, at least not that his dad knew about. Paul wanted me to start lifting weights with him too, but his dad thought I was a weakling. Paul said his dad even called me a sissy. So we still hadn’t started any weight training. I doubted very much we ever would.

His dad was a total asshole.

Well, you heard him. He wants you to go now, Paul said, crestfallen, as he picked up an empty pillowcase and began herding the candy inside.

I know. See you tomorrow on the bus.

Yeah. See you.

WHERE HAVE you been? I called and called, but you didn’t answer, my mother scolded me as I walked into the ochre kitchen. And you’ve missed dinner again.

She was wearing her paint-smeared silk kimono. Her bright red hair was pulled back by an elastic headband, and she had absolutely no makeup on at all. I could tell she’d been working in her studio. My mother, Cindy Kerr, was a famous painter here in Los Angeles. Everyone who was anyone in the modern art world knew who she was. The Guggenheim in New York just purchased two of her pieces, which was a really big deal. One of them was a nude she’d done of me when I was six years old. It used to hang right in the center of our living room. It totally embarrassed me having my friends over; they would immediately see me naked right over the leather sofa.

My mother stood at the Spanish-tiled counter by the sink cleaning off her paintbrushes with a filthy rag that stank of acetate.

I told you I was going over to Paul’s after school.

Well, next time write it down somewhere. I’m only your mother. I can’t be expected to remember every detail of your life. What did Paul’s mother serve you for dinner, anyway? Some dreadful Filipino food cooked in lard with tons of salt?

What? I thought you liked Filipino food.

When it’s cooked properly.

"Paul’s mom is a Filipina. How much more properly cooked could it be?"

"Don’t take that tone with me. You know what I think about proper nutrition. Most people are eating themselves into type 2 diabetes."

It was fine, Mom. She made a chicken stir-fry with lots of broccoli and also her vegetarian lumpia.

I’m sure the chicken was full of hormones and couldn’t have possibly been cage-free.

I’m going to my room now, I said, exasperated.

Okay, darling, my mother replied, suddenly softening her voice to a gentle purr. She returned to her sable brushes and her half-empty gin and tonic. Then she looked up at me, "You know, James, I’ve been thinking: you see too much of that Paul. Those obnoxious parents of his. Such vulgarians. How they ever got their child into Hardwick I’ll never know."

This was one of my mother’s favorite rants. I could always tell when one was coming on because she always started with "that Paul." Being a single mother made her a bit overprotective, to put it mildly. She thought both Paul and his family were pure trash, even though they were pretty well-off financially. But that didn’t matter to my mother. I didn’t care what she thought, anyway. Paul had always been my best friend, and he always would be.

"I don’t know how I got in there."

It didn’t have to do with your grades, my mother laughed, a little bit cruelly, and then sensing her faux pas, stopped. You are a smart boy, James. You just don’t know how to apply yourself yet. You will, in time. I promise.

That’s not what my test scores say.

You still have a little trouble with reading, that’s all, my mother said, then sipped her drink. It’s not dyslexia, thank God. And now you have your reading teacher on Tuesdays, right? Or is it Wednesdays? I can never remember which day it is.

"Mrs. Kimble? It’s Tuesdays. She makes me read Cat in the Hat to her. She’s awful."

Now, you stop that. She’s only trying to help you. That’s why I love Hardwick School—all those special classes and teachers.

It makes me feel retarded.

Darling, you are special. Always remember that.

Anyway, can I go to my room now?

Certainly you may. I’m not stopping you. Don’t you have some homework to do?

Yes. A lot of it, I lied.

Oh, Mrs. Wu tidied up a bit in there today. I hope you don’t mind.

Mom!

What? You never make that bed of yours. Clothes all over the place. She merely straightened it up. She is our housekeeper, you know.

I stormed out of the kitchen and made a beeline to my room. I tossed my red backpack onto my twin bed as I switched on the overhead light to survey the damage. My Antony and the Johnsons poster flapped up at one end where the tape had come away from the wall. Mrs. Wu hadn’t really done anything more than make my bed and fold up a few pairs of my Levi’s. She’d been our housekeeper ever since I was really little. I couldn’t remember a time she wasn’t around. I pulled my muted iPhone from my pocket and put it on my nightstand. It turned on as I touched it, the screen blinking a message up at me. I read the message slowly like Mrs. Kimble told me, sounding out the letters, forming the words carefully between my lips.

One missed call from Mom.

By the time I was done reading it, the iPhone winked off again.

At least she wasn’t lying about that.

2.

ON TUESDAY morning a clinging mist swirled around the emerald hills beyond the red-tiled rooftops of Palos Verdes Estates. The Hardwick School student shuttle, aka the bus, picked Paul and me up curbside at 7:35 a.m. Neither of us could drive yet; we didn’t even have our learner’s permits from driver’s ed. That was next year. So we had to take this totally lame form of transportation.

It sucked.

The automatic doors hissed open in front of us. I climbed up the black stairs with Paul right behind me. Paul always let me go first with everything: on the morning bus, in the lunch line at the cafeteria, at the movies, or wherever we were.

For some reason, he always did.

We headed down the rubber-matted aisle to the plastic seats all the way in the back and sat down. The bus continued on its early journey picking up students here and there on the winding route to campus through the silvery eucalyptus groves that sprang up all over the peninsula.

What did you write for your poem for Mrs. Hongo’s class? Paul asked.

I felt the cold bolt of fear shoot down my spine. My brow dampened and the sickening pangs of panic began in my stomach.

Shit! I completely forgot. I didn’t write anything.

It’s okay. You still have some time. Why don’t you write it right now?

That’s a great idea, I said as I pulled my backpack onto my lap and unzipped it, a tiny bit of relief washing over me. I grabbed my notebook and tore out a white sheet of blue-lined paper and fished around until I found a black pen.

How do you even start to write a poem?

I don’t know. You just have to make the words rhyme.

What did you write?

Roses are red. Violets are blue. Some poems rhyme, but this one doesn’t.

I looked Paul straight in the eye, and then we both burst out laughing.

You aren’t going to turn that in, are you?

Sure I am, why not? Paul said, a little bit hurt by my literary criticism. At least I have something to turn in.

Thanks. Rub it in.

But what do I even write for the first line? What should the title of it be?

I don’t know. Call it ‘My Camping Day at Disneyland.’

Thanks. That’s just crazy.

You’re welcome. Just trying to help.

My ballpoint pen hovered over the waiting page.

Didn’t Mrs. Hongo read us one about snow falling on a tired horse? Maybe I should write about the weather?

"It’s always a sunny day at Hardwick," Paul chirped dramatically.

Hey, thanks. That’s not so bad.

Really? Or are you kidding me?

Well, I’ve got nothing at all right now. Anything is better than nothing, and that’s something.

At the same moment I started to write down the first line of my poem, something touched my mind like a hot wire. A bright green light flashed before my eyes. And then I saw it: a column of words ran down a white page like a trail of black ants. The letters squirmed and shifted, then gathered and stood perfectly still. A thin hand wrote down the words. It felt like my own hand writing it, only that couldn’t have been right. The skin on this other hand was a little darker than mine. I pressed my pen to the lined paper and wrote down exactly what I saw in front of me:

What becomes of an undreamed dream?

Will it wilt in the wind

Like a wet umbrella?

Or fold in its sad wings

Like an injured bird?

Does it swell like fingered dough?

Or cake and syrup over

Like a stale bonbon, and go?

Perhaps it confronts us

Like a fork in the road?

Or like a collapsing mine,

Does it implode?

Is that how you spell implode? I asked.

Paul stared at me in amazement as I finished scribbling down the last line. He watched me emerge from a kind of trance.

How do you spell what? Paul looked completely confused. What’s ‘implode’ mean?

I don’t know either, but that’s the word I want to spell.

Check the spelling on your iPhone.

I pulled my phone from my jeans pocket, but it wouldn’t turn on. I tried again. Still nothing.

Huh? The battery must be dead, which is totally weird because I just charged it last night.

I’ll check on mine, Paul said as he tried turning on his DROID. What the…? My battery is dead too.

That is so weird.

Weird and totally annoying too. I know my battery was full this morning.

I wonder what happened.

Who knows? So, that’s your poem?

"Yeah. But I don’t know where it came from. Suddenly the whole thing was just there in my brain. Right in front of me. It was like I was receiving a secret message from somewhere."

Wow, you must be some kind of genius. Paul said and punched me gently on the bicep.

Well, at least I have something to turn in now, even if it’s handwritten and not printed.

She only docks you five points if you don’t type it up.

That’s just fine with me.

What does it mean, though?

I don’t know. What does any poem mean?

No, I meant, how did you do it? Paul asked and smiled at me. That’s a pretty neat trick.

I don’t know how it happened. It was like I saw someone writing the words down in front of me.

That’s kind of creepy.

"Yeah, kind of Twilight Zone."

The bus pulled into the parking lot of Hardwick. It stopped at the yellow-painted curb and the driver, Mr. Wild Bill Miller, jokingly told all of us over the loudspeaker, Get the hell off my bus!

Paul and I gathered up our stuff and lined up to exit.

See you all at three o’clock, Wild Bill shouted after us as we stepped onto the sidewalk and started off for our first class.

CLASS, WHEN I call your names, please approach my desk and hand me your poetry assignments, Mrs. Hongo said.

She sat at the front of the fancy classroom, the new computer stations to her left, the flat-screen TV bolted to the wall behind her, and the e-book downloading hub on her right. Mrs. Hongo always wore big dangling earrings, brightly colored scarves, and fuzzy sweaters, even in the full heat of summer. She also wore really stinky perfume. It smelled like dead roses and rusty metal.

Paul shot me a funny look as Mrs. Hongo addressed the room. I looked at him the same way. Paul was certainly going to get in trouble because of his goofy poem.

He was kind of a goofball, anyway.

So was I.

We were always daring each other to do stupid things. One time in sixth grade during a thunderstorm we shut off all the lights in the cafeteria. I don’t think we realized how dark it would be in there. People tripped over each other, someone started screaming, and then everyone began throwing their hamburgers and french fries. It became a total mess. Paul and I got sent down to the principal’s office to see Ms. Watt, the guidance counselor. It surprised me that she didn’t call our parents; she just warned us and sent us back to class.

James Kerr, Mrs. Hongo called my name from her old-fashioned ledger book.

I stood up in front of the whole class,