Incompletely Human: a "Linked" novel

By Stefanie Bell

Seventeen-year-old Oliver Thibodeaux (TIB-ə-doh) has been in foster care since birth. As a normalish Black, queer teen in search of a safe home, Oliver's telekinetic and telepathic abilities move him from place to place. For years he has been taught to suppress his vast abilities for the safety of himself and others. But everything changes when he meets Roman Peterson, the kindest, and strongest, guy he has ever met. For once, Oliver feels a sense of belonging. Through father issues, love, and all things super-powered, Oliver has to dig deep to find out what he's capable of, and what he's willing to sacrifice to be normal.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stefanie Bell
• Release date: Aug 19, 2021
• ISBN: 9780578976112

Stefanie Bell

Stefanie Bell, she/her, is an artist and mental health professional in the East Bay. She is currently teaching and working towards her PhD in Human Sexuality. She enjoys hiking, good food, good company, and representation.

Book preview

Prologue

Late for class, just as I’d dreaded. I skipped my shower and let my hair remain untamed; shaved and tapered on the left side and the rest in wavy locks over my eyes and shoulders. I put on anything to rush to school. I was late enough to miss a few classes.

The hallways were barren. All classes were in session.

I bore my eyes so intently into my class schedule I swore I could have burned holes through it.

I had to get to class.

I barged into the nearest classroom to find that all of the attention was on me. Every desk, every seat, every head was faced towards me. I hate being the center of attention, I thought to myself as I stood there, feeling this numbness in my body that made my stomach turn.

Tardy slip? the teacher asked impatiently. I shrugged my shoulders, unable to speak. She went puffy and red in the face, gesturing toward my hand in anger. Looking down, I noticed there was a pink slip, fresh and ready with an excuse.

As I moved to hand off the slip, two desks in front of me began to shake. I lifted my hand again and walked forward. Somehow the class split apart like the Red Sea; however, they all appeared unfazed.

The teacher finally took my slip. The curving of her brow, the widening of her eyes. Whatever was on that paper, it infuriated her.

What do you think you're doing? You’re in the wrong class! You don’t belong here!

That...was harsh, I thought. I wasn’t a fan of loud voices or noises.

I turned toward the class. It took a moment, but everyone began to shake and shift from side to side. Eventually they began to levitate from their desks; some lifted so high that they took their desks with them.

The teacher went on, shouting, flailing around, and angry as ever. But she was inaudible. I couldn't hear a thing she shouted. Strange, yet she went on.

There was a crackling noise from behind which I tried to ignore.

My neck was suddenly hot, and not from anger, confusion, or embarrassment. I turned again. Before my eyes, everyone and everything caught aflame. I watched, helpless as their clothes began to singe and their flesh burnt to a crisp.

I trembled with fear. The flame sucked me of my power and any ambition to live.

Their yelps faded to nothing. It all happened so fast; I couldn't even react.

I was next for sure.

Through the flame broke a hand, reaching out for my rescue. When I reached for it, everything turned to ashes instantly. And I stood there, in the dust, completely unmoved by what I'd seen.

"Everything I touch…" I thought morosely, as my own words echoed into heartache.

With an echoing snap of a finger, it was all gone. I stood there in this dark depth of space.

After some time, I realized that this frightening nothingness was very familiar to me. Almost comforting.

This dream. The reenactment. This scene.

Though I could never pinpoint a single aspect, I knew it happened whenever I started at a new school. Still, it never calmed my first day of school jitters...

Chapter One

This morning there was no need to rush. I showered and dressed at my leisure. As nervous as I felt, I knew this was definitely not a dream.

Luckily, being a ward of the state granted me money to buy clothes every so often, but being nearly six-foot and slim made it hard to be fashionable, being so lanky and all. I didn’t want to scream flashy, flamboyant, and stereotypically gay, but I wanted people to notice that I had a sense of fashion. If I could afford designer clothes I’d buy them, but alas, I did my best with what I had.

I felt okay with my outfit choice; old fashioned black and white Chuck Taylors, faded purple skinny jeans, and a black V-neck screen tee. I took a chance and let the rest of my hair hang over to the side in all its thick, brown and wavy glory.

I look…normal, I thought to myself, though it was a question more than a statement.

I tended to move around the Bay Area a lot. I’ve been in foster care since birth and given my special circumstances it’s hard to find a stable home. At the moment I was staying with a nice Black lady named Ms. Vivian, who had a history of letting foster youth stay with her from time to time. She was well over the age to have children but didn’t have any of her own.

I’d been living with her for a few days, taking time to get to know her and the ways of the house. It was an older two-story house with a front and back yard in a not-too-bad neighborhood. Ms. Vivian loved to garden and took much in her array of colorful flowers in the front and her bush garden-bordered patio in the back. The inside had an aged look and feel to it: mismatched furniture, eclectic collection of reproduced art, and it was always clean, with soft soulful music playing.

Luckily, I had my own room. Not that I minded the ambiance, but having my own private space was a big change from my previous placements.

Like any other home I had rules, and Ms. Vivian had…realistic expectations when it came to housekeeping. I had to clean up after my own mess and make sure my room was clean and bed was made in the morning. Also, Saturday was the day for full house cleaning. There were also social rules: I’d have to get home by dark or else call her; and because she worked nights, she requested that if I had friends over, there better not be any signs of destruction when she came back. This meant it better had been as if no one was over.

Lastly, there was a box of condoms in my top drawer. Her reasoning was that I was old enough to make my own decisions and she couldn’t stop me from making them. So, in her words, If you’re going to be stupid, be safe. I appreciated this realness about her, but I placed the box in my bottom drawer and covered it with my sweats.

Usually, I could tell right away if my caretakers were good people and if the match wasn’t going to work out. After a few days, I was feeling at home immediately.

Ms. Vivian also worked nights at a residential group home with troubled teen boys. Usually, before her shift was over, she made a big breakfast for the boys, then brought home plates for the house to enjoy, which was great for me because she was an amazing cook, and I’m sure it saved her money. She was asleep in her room by now, so I’d be eating alone. I peeled back the plastic wrap and enjoyed a few bites of the eggs, bacon, and a buttered pancake, but I couldn’t get past that group home aftertaste. It was unappetizing because I’d been in and out of those horrible places for most of my life.

Before I fell deep into a familiar depression, I took in a fresh breath and embraced this new start.

Today, I didn’t want to be dragged down by my baggage. I didn’t want to think about my expected outcome or how long I’d stay at this school. Today I wanted to have the greatest day ever. The greatest start at a new place.

This could be my home, I told myself. I can be normal here.

I wanted to wow everyone. First impressions were always important. I wanted everyone to know that, no matter where I came from and no matter what I was, or what I was capable of, I was just like everyone else. I was better than less than. I was nothing to be afraid of.

Then again, wasn’t this every teenager’s credo? Wasn’t everyone trying to belong? Fit in? Be accepted?

I smiled to myself and then hauled off for my walk to school.

Oakland was a sunny sprawling town of hills and neglected flatlands located across the bridge from San Francisco. Cold and moisture saturated the morning until the California sun came to warm everything up at about 7 AM. We lived in the lower level of the town while the more expensive houses on the hills, with the amazing views, made for a fascinating vista at night. It had its urban times, cultured times, and frequently plain congested times. It was rich with energy and I hoped to spend as much time in it as possible. Luckily, we lived close to the transit system; taking the BART made the short trek to school less strenuous, though it was always crowded and delayed this early in the morning because of the commute to San Francisco.

My new school, J.B. Maryhurst High School, was not well-known for its education system. More notorious for its violence and truancy rate. But the athletics department was well funded; this of course didn’t affect me because I didn’t care much for competitive sports. Not that I wasn’t active, I just wasn’t a fan of testosterone-fueled activities.

I arrived at school in time to be engulfed by the morning crowd of students. They moved in cliques and covered the grounds. They are all the same. It was a hassle easing and bending my way past the group of guys with pants sagging too low, and then I suddenly second-guessed my outfit choice as I squeezed by another group of students who actually dressed to impress for high school. No matter, I offered half-smiles and hoped I appeared as normal as possible. I knew it was too soon to make friends, but at least nothing was on fire. So far, so good. Though, too soon to really be sure.

I took a deep breath.

A kind-looking girl with glasses and a bright flannel shirt pointed me in the direction of the main attendance office where I found students already lined up. Great.

Well, surely I could withstand a single line of three. All I needed was my proof of transfer and enrollment, my class schedule, and I would be on my way. Days previous I’d spoken to the school advisor who said he’d create a schedule that picked up where I left off at my last school in hopes to fulfill my graduation credits. Though longer than expected, the wait wasn't so bad; I was entertained by colorful characters, a mix of blasting music genres from smart phones, and random bouts of gossip throughout the hall. This school was a bit louder than others, and the clutter coming and going through my head was also a distraction.

I received my class schedule, and it was as the advisor and I had discussed. Oliver Thibodeaux: 1st period Senior English and Literature, 2nd period US Economics, 3rd period Health Education, 4th period Spanish 1 (which was a make-up from a past failed attempt), 2nd Lunch, and lastly 5th and 6th period Advanced Placement Art, which would help me with college credits. Then, Monday through Thursday after school from 3:30 to 5:00pm, I’d attend the Art Club. Another rule of Ms. Vivian’s was, If you’re gonna live in this house you’re gonna stay out of trouble, and the only way to do that is to stay involved. Drawing and painting have always kept me safe, so it made sense to take advantage of as many hours of creativity as I could.

The morning buzz was a bit too disruptive for me at the moment. My first class was across campus past the football stadium. With about a half an hour before the first class began, I embarked on that walk, in hopes of some silence.

By now it was warm and the sun was blazing. I noticed the football team was having a morning practice, as evidenced by their gym attire and ratty jerseys.

I secluded myself behind the bleachers, my breathing suddenly tough. Already I was isolating myself, setting myself away from everyone. When would I break this pattern?

I was worrying too much and too soon.

Catastrophizing, as Angela would put it.

A sudden commotion to my right disrupted the peace and isolation I thought I’d find in this secluded place. Three fit guys in their practice attire tossed the pigskin back and forth. A new player—whose stature was astonishing even from where I sat—prompted a fellow to go long from afar. Like, really long. The ball ended up bouncing near my feet.

I wasn't ashamed to admit that I wasn't the most athletic kid. I could only attribute my fitness to youth and running the track every other night. But I stared at the ball. I didn't hustle to move my things to the side to throw it back or anything.

One of the Latino players approached. I couldn't see his name but his number was 89. He propped his hands up and kept his distance.

Ay! Throw it back.

I wasn't sure if this was a friendly, welcoming challenge. His face was narrow and angular; so sharp, I wondered if it hurt him to smile.

He kept his stance and told me to throw the ball again.

I shuffled the ball in my hands, took a deep breath and tossed it as hard as I could with my right arm. It soared, toppled and landed inches short of his feet. I was embarrassed. And his sudden outburst of bellowing laughter didn't help anything. He laughed to his two fellow players while the other was still some distance away.

Did you see that? Who throws like that? Oh man, what a pussy.

I stood there trying my hardest not to seem defeated.

Use your head, I thought to myself.

The three approached.

You got a nice arm there, Latino Angle Face said.

Uh…thanks, I said.

Latino Angle Face jabbed his two other teammates, encouraging laughter. He stepped closer. What’s your name?

Oliver. I didn’t care to share my last name.

Aw, how pretty. The laughter continued.

He stepped closer, approaching me slowly like a predator to prey. I grew nervous; there was a screeching throughout the bleachers but no mind was paid. I kept my eyes on all of them.

Suddenly he rushed me and pushed me towards the bleachers. He was in my face. Kind of handsome, but still too close for comfort.

You don’t get to be here, he said. I’m sick a’you faggots comin’ to my turf. You don’t get to be here, got it?

I said nothing and edged away from him as much as his hold would allow. The remaining teammate took off his book bag and popped his knuckles with a devious grin on his face. I’d almost forgotten about the crime rate in this city, and criminal behavior had to start somewhere.

Let’s show this faggot how we feel about his kind at our school.

One player was recording with his smartphone. Though I was close to being pummeled, it really annoyed me that this was going to be archived.

There is no way I'm going to reach some-thousandth view or be hashtagged as #queerbeatdown on Instagram.

I gave a sharp look to the sleek black phone. He made a face then dropped his phone to the floor, flicking his hand as if something shocked him. Latino Angle Face didn't budge. He braced me up and pinned me to the metal railing.

His eyes bore into mine. He didn't seem like an angry or extremely violent person. Just a guy who loved an audience and had something against his own masculinity.

As breathing was becoming a struggle, the 4th player—of considerable size—grabbed him by his jersey collar and jerked his hold free of me.

The other two stepped clear of him, honoring his presence.

Everything moved in slow motion so that I could admire his face. I was abruptly frozen in awe, and the vision of him was crystal clear. His fair, yet sun-kissed skin, piercing green eyes, defined jawline, well-placed nose, unbelievably plump lips, medium-length rusty brown tendrils that stood up together in a cloud, and appropriately thick eyebrows. His sculpture of a body was so impressive it accentuated his basic style; I could understand, being so tall. Everything about him was perfect to me. In a daze, I thought, I can go blind now.

Roman, what the fuck? Latino Angle Face called.

Roman? What a befitting name.

You. Tell. Me. The words fumed out of him like a poison vapor, but I couldn’t help noticing his voice was so appropriate for his body: deep, youthful, confident. What’s your deal with him? Why can’t he be in peace?

We were just having a little fun—

In a blink of an eye, Roman shoved him to the floor with a loud thud, nearly burying him into the grass below. Fear struck Latino Angle Face for a moment.

I was taken aback. I had never seen anything like this before. He was so strong, yet his teammates didn’t seem surprised.

Does he look like he's having fun? Roman asked.

Naw, man. Latino Angle Face carefully climbed to his feet.

Then get the hell outta here and leave him alone!

The three took off, too afraid to run from their extremely strong friend and teammate. When they were far away, he turned to me and asked, You alright?

I was on pause trying to process what just happened. He was definitely something to gaze at. This guy practically saved me and nearly battered his own friend all so I could maintain this peaceful place. And he didn't even know me. Why it mattered to him so much was beyond me; I was grateful he was around.

Too much time had passed when I realized I should have said something. I simply stared at him with mouth open, clueless as to what to say.

He came near and I began to feel a bit...off. He wasn't in my comfort zone, but he was close enough. There was a rumbling in my stomach, a tingling sensation throughout my veins, then an overwhelming numbness came over my body. As my breathing began to thicken, I felt every joint buckle. My eyes grew heavy as he stepped closer. I struggled to keep my balance. He stepped closer. He looked me dead in the eye and made a face, and everything ebbed to black.

Chapter Two

I awoke in the nurse’s office, feeling woozy. Nice setup, I thought after giving the room a look over. I’d grown accustomed to many school nurse’s offices; same comfortable chairs, same stark white lighting, same sanitary materials. I had a feeling that, for however long I'd be enrolled here, I'd see this office quite a bit.

He's awake, an unfamiliar murmur said from behind. I looked over my shoulder and there was the school nurse, a stout Black woman with relaxed grey hair, bright red spectacles, and bright colorful stretchy clothes.

Within seconds, there was a rush of footsteps and a barrage of nurturing hands all over me, lifting me upright. Are you okay? What happened? Her concerned questions went on and on. I could barely get a word out.

Angela was a fit, middle-aged white woman with snowy skin and short, salt-and-pepper hair. She acted as my clinical social worker and sometimes my therapist. I’ve been under her care since I was a baby. As I moved around, so did she. She was the closest thing that I had to a mother; I couldn’t speak on her relationship with other cases.

"Were you involved in any trouble?" Her eyes narrowed.

Angela dealt with all types of juvenile cases and had every reason to be concerned. While her other clients had issues with theft, abusive family dynamics, or sexual abuse, I was her only client with Unexplainable Occurrences on my file.

So, by trouble, she meant, did you hurt yourself or others with your superhuman abilities? In the past, my superhuman outbursts were what would land me new placement after new placement.

Because this time wasn’t power-related I gave her that be cool look and lifted myself from the padded bed. I removed her soft hand from my face.

I'm okay, really, I said meekly.

The school called Vivian and there was no answer. So, they called me. I thought something terrible happened.

Ms. Vivian sleeps during the day because of work. And I'm fine. I just...fainted.

You hit your head pretty hard. You were out for a while.

I've seen this before, the nurse chimed in. New school, new environment. Could make any teen get the spins.

I buried my face in my hand thinking of Roman seeing me faint. And being quite the tall tree, I could only imagine the thudding sound I made.

Who faints anymore?

Are you okay to go to class? If you take a moment, you'll still make it in time for 5th period art class.

Had I been out that long?

I don't think so, Angela barged in. Maybe you should take the rest of the day off. Try again tomorrow. These were more plans than suggestions. It felt belittling how her worry made decisions for me.

I think I'll be fine. Though the thought of making the classic new kid entrance so late in the day was anything but enticing.

Well, you be safe. Take some aspirin for your head. The nurse shook the bottle around and dug out the last two pills. I've had kids in and out of here complaining about migraines.

This was hopefully an everyday thing. My arrival surely wasn’t the reason for mass headaches.

Angela eyed me the whole way out of the office and into the hallway. I tried to ignore her.

I looked at my schedule to pinpoint the classroom number of my 5th period class. Before I got too far, Angela stopped me with a firm hand on my shoulder. I shuddered on impulse.

Oliver. Her tone was firm yet inquisitive.

I made a face. What?

Explain.

I huffed and rolled my eyes.

Truth be told, meeting new people and being in big crowds got to me sometimes; random fainting spells were not new to me. All the thoughts, all the different brain signatures. At times it was really too much to handle. A rush of thoughts could really land me on my back. Not to mention a potential three-on-one fight from some bored, hypermasculine football players. But I couldn't possibly tell her I fainted merely by planting my eyes on the most handsome guy I'd ever seen. It was embarrassing, childish, and a bit harlequin.

Even in our privacy, I had no idea how to explain it to her. She and I discussed a lot of things, but boys wasn't one of them. Not that being gay was problematic, but we had more pressing matters to discuss.

I almost got beat up. Before she could say anything, I said, I wasn’t doing anything. I was honestly minding my own business and some jerk thought he’d welcome me to town. And…I guess the idea of it got me a bit spooked.

She sneered. 'Kids in and out complaining about migraines?’

That wasn’t…completely my fault.

I don't know what you want me to say. I was overwhelmed.

She huffed. If socializing you wasn't so important, I'd find a way to place you in special education.

As if having out-of-control mental powers constituted a behavioral issue.

She went on. We can't take the risk of you getting emotional and having your abilities act up.

Nothing happened, I really just—

I don't want this turning out like your last few schools...

Rub it right in why don't you. Make me feel bad about events I couldn't control, let alone remember.

I tended to mentally block out significant moments from my head; it was my brain’s way of protecting myself from the guilt, pain, and shame of traumatic moments revolving from my superpowered outbursts, as Angela put it. As far as memories go there are a lot of holes, mere moments of resonance that turn into confusion. For instance, I know what I enjoy, but don’t remember how I grew to enjoy them. I know that I have powers and I’ve seen how they have evolved, but I don’t know exactly how extreme they can get. I can remember the last schools I went to, what classes I took, and what I learned, but don’t ask me about any social interactions or significant events. All I knew is that they all ended badly.

And don’t get me started on déjà vu.

All in all, my life was only seventeen years of routine, development, and unanswered questions.

After a long, stubborn silence, I nodded. I understand.

I want you to have the opportunity to have a normal adolescent life, while you can. And times you can remember.

She eyed me carefully. And I eyed her back.

Angela had her compassionate moments. But even when she was trying to keep me safe, she was way too overprotective. See, Angela wasn't a fan of my powers. She wasn't afraid of me and didn't hate me, but I got the feeling at times she'd enjoy me more if I couldn't do things with my mind. She was normal—human—herself. She'd been with me for many years and we have managed to maintain a close kinship, but it really bothered me that she wanted to keep me as human as possible.

She knew of other people like me while I have never met a single one, and always reminded me of the danger we presented. Claimed we recently came into existence and public knowledge of our kind could be detrimental. We were human, but not quite.

Integration is the goal, anonymity is the priority. I had heard this many times. It basically meant, be accepted by being normal, but I believed it was easier said than done.

As Angela had decided, I didn't finish out my first day. She took me to a safe park a few blocks from my house and had me meditate for hours, until I had consistent silence in my head. My main issue with my powers: not only did I have racing thoughts, but from time to time the thoughts of others passed through my head. It was frustrating and confusing, and at times heartbreaking.

The meditation helped.

***

After dropping me off, Angela made sure I got through the front door safely. I sent her off with a wave and a smile. Inside the house, my smile diminished, because the smell of Newport menthols was nothing to rejoice over. Ms. Vivian was at the table in the dimly lit dining room area, before her an ashtray covered in old butts and a glass of something smooth and brown on the rocks. This was a nightly routine of hers, especially on her days off.

I stepped quietly. Hello, Ms. Vivian.

Oliver, she began, a bit startled. Her back was to me, but I could tell she was rolling her eyes. She tapped the ash from her menthol. I don't want to have to keep telling you to just call me Vivian, okay? Vivian.

I simply nodded.

Vivian was in her late 50s, though she didn’t look it. She was a big woman; an inch lower than six feet, with a big body, not bulbous and overweight, but curvy like most of the older Black women I’d seen. She’d raved how she’d lost 200 pounds thanks to a lap band procedure and explained how she had to eat differently. She had big eyes with fake lashes, dark full lips and short auburn-dyed hair that swooped over her eyes.

Aside from working at a local teen group home, Vivian had kids in and out of her home for as long as she’d worked in the system. After a 30-year career as a social worker, she welcomed retirement with a night job working with underprivileged children, which she loved.

She slept throughout the day, but if she wasn’t here, she was picking up extra shifts. She’d already warned me that she wouldn’t be home all of the time and gave me chores for being home alone.

I liked being by myself for the most part, and I had a hard time dealing with my caretakers; I was never under their care for too long, so building relationships was pointless. But Vivian was different so far; she was the most motherly figure I’d ever dealt with. And her being a Black woman actually helped me relate to her better. When we went out in public, it didn’t feel like I was screaming, I'm an at-risk youth with a caretaker!

She went on to say, I made a big dinner in anticipation of your big day. I was expecting you sooner but left you a plate. Now, eat up. She was very strong in her speech. Her voice carried authority, sternness, and a tell you like it is and how it will be tone that left me no wonder as to why she was so effective with kids.

On the counter next to the stove was a plate of her home cooking. Roast beef, roasted potatoes, what appeared to be homemade macaroni and cheese, and a few dinner rolls. I knew there was more of a southern touch to her beyond her accent.

There’s some pop in the fridge. She took a puff of her cigarette and turned a few pages in her magazine. So, how was your first day?

I hesitated to go on. Vivian was kind and seemed open-minded, but I wondered how she’d take it, knowing she had someone not-exactly normal in her home. That was usually the deal with each of my placements; they’d care for me and keep me safe until they noticed strange stuff happening. I didn't know how to explain a fainting spell that had lasted all day, until my overprotective social worker pulled me out for supposedly having a telepathic attack. She wouldn't understand me, probably wouldn't believe me, and even if she did, she wouldn't feel too safe.

Besides that, I assumed mention of the highlight of my day—seeing that statue of a guy—would make her uncomfortable. Usually, the most religious households weren't too keen on the idea of me being gay. Not to make quick assumptions about Vivian based upon her

Reviews for Incompletely Human

[Joseph Bowman · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This was a masterpiece! So many unexpected turns. I hope this isn’t the end.