Watching Melissa

By Nicole France

Melissa Heeds thinks she is an average, rebellious teenager from Australia. She is arrogant, strong-willed and stuck in a small town with a broken family. As Melissa struggles through the monotony of school and family life, she soon discovers that she is harbouring a secret skill – a power she knows nothing about and cannot control. This power invades her life, causing catastrophic consequences for Mel and everything around her.
A Sentinel is sent to her house – an armed teacher hell-bent on escorting her to a private academy to control this power before it kills her. Desperate to escape, Mel tests the strict boundaries of the school, only to find that government agents are also interested in her power, and more importantly how to rid her of it. She must discover where this ability came from and unleash its true devastating potential before it kills her.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Feb 28, 2022
• ISBN: 9781528982641

Nicole France

Nicole is a health care worker from Newcastle, New South Wales, who has a love for books, animals, and the outdoors. She likes unconventional stories, binge-watching TV shows, and spending time with her family and friends; most importantly of all – her two dogs, Zeke and Jazz.

Book preview

About the Author

Nicole is a health care worker from Newcastle, New South Wales, who has a love for books, animals, and the outdoors. She likes unconventional stories, binge-watching TV shows, and spending time with her family and friends; most importantly of all – her two dogs, Zeke and Jazz.

Dedication

To Mum, thank you for reading every draft and always being honest. This book wouldn’t have happened without you.

Copyright Information ©

Nicole France 2022

The right of Nicole France to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781528982634 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781528982641 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2022

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Acknowledgement

Thank you to Sherryn, for sharing all your educational wisdom – you are an amazing educator. Also to Tara, for reminding me what it’s like to be a teenager and to go through school while keeping up with your friends and family.

Prologue

All the windows in my house have been locked; a tactic of my father to keep me inside, especially tonight, when he’s trying to have me kidnapped. I’m in his bedroom, hoping his window isn’t part of the prison system, listening as they creep up the stairs, like spiders, congregating around me, the insect. There’s a whole group of them ready to take me. My babysitter/teacher/interventionist told me it was a school. He clearly lied. Teachers don’t usually pull students from their beds. Teachers don’t normally carry guns, either, which I catch sight of in the hall. It’s creepy, right? What kind of parent lets this happen?

I push Rick’s bed against the door to keep the strangers out and prise open the window, which slides upwards as easily as opening a door. Before they can blast their way in, I am on the roof, which is incredibly wet and slicker than a slippin’ slide. It’s like walking on submerged rocks at the beach. I immediately lose my footing and end up sprawled on the ground. Which is also wet.

I briefly wish I’d had time to change out of my satin pyjamas, or at least put some shoes on. My getaway attire isn’t entirely appropriate for the situation. From now on, I’m going to bed fully clothed – bra and all.

Mel! The lying babysitter is behind me, urging me to stop. He’s pretty dumb if he thinks I’m going to turn around and just go with him. He has a freaking gun. I don’t respond. I ignore the pain of the asphalt on my feet and wish I’d spent more time on the treadmill. I’ve never run this fast in my life. My Phys Ed teacher would be impressed. The so-called teacher behind me, on the other hand, isn’t. He’s yelling and tires are squealing and it is raining heavier, as if God himself is against me.

Chapter 1

How did I end up in this barefoot, pyjama-clad predicament? It all starts with a car crash; not the kind where you accidentally hit the car in front and call your parents for help – the kind where you steal your father’s Mercedes, lead the police on a brief, ill-advised chase, and crash into a timber fence, which totals the car and ruins any chance of escape.

Although I am not burdened with many good ideas, I am wearing a seatbelt which holds me to the seat like a tight embrace. At first, it catches my breath. I look down, half expecting my chest to be crushed somehow, only to find that I am in one whole piece, unlike the car, which looks like an alien Transformer.

Get out, it isn’t like in the movies. Five guns are not pointed in my direction. I don’t even get handcuffed. I am escorted back to the police station while one of the boys in blue calls my father and a tow truck. Are you hurt? the sergeant inquires while regarding me in his rear-view mirror. His steely grey eyes give nothing away. We’ve been here before; he and I. It’s a little game we play from time to time.

Nope, I answer happily. Unless you call Rick. He’ll kill me.

I don’t think so, kiddo, he snorts, like a dragon. "The day I get a domestic violence call from your address will be when you attack him."

It might be sooner than you think… I mutter.

Watch it, he warns me. This isn’t a game, Melissa. You can’t steal cars – even your father’s, and you definitely can’t refuse to pull over for a police officer. Your father is well within his rights to have me arrest you today. Do you understand that?

Whatever.

"Not whatever, he sighs. I’m taking your licence. If I catch you behind the wheel, you’re going to end up in court. Got it?"

Yes. The sergeant then reads a list of infractions I have supposedly committed. He says I need to make some behavioural changes, but he doesn’t argue with me. I decide not to make conflict since he isn’t being too authoritarian. He seems more tired than usual. Perhaps his fifty-something-year-old geriatric heart can’t put up with these antics much longer.

Perhaps I’m not as fearful of the police station as I should be – not that Sergeant Denton hasn’t tried to instil a healthy dose of fear into me over the years. The office resides within an old brick building which has withstood far too many winters. Three cruisers sit out front. The booking officer has one eye larger than the other and the family liaison chick has one particularly long chin hair on an otherwise nicely made-up face. They each provide me with sage advice and both conversations fall on deaf ears. As a result, I find myself back in Denton’s office, tapping my feet impatiently against the linoleum while he has some sort of deep and meaningful conversation with my father.

Richard Heeds is no stranger to the Hyde St police station, much to his dismay. His profession has no relation to law enforcement, since his bank has never been robbed, yet he knows most of the officers by name, thanks to my antics. They choose not to regard him as a dismissive parent. I am the unremovable stain marking the family reputation. Denton tells me that he knows I’m not a bad kid. I don’t know how he knows this, but he seems certain.

Dammit, Melissa. Why? Rick has tried many of these explosive moments out on me. He thinks he is parenting, when he is really giving me reason to watch his complexion as his cheeks pinken and the large vein across his forehead begins to bulge. As I feign interest, I realise his once dark hair has become incredibly peppery and his hairline is inching backwards, like a retreating army. This pleases me since I’m pretty sure I’m responsible.

I dunno, I shrug. I guess my petulance knows no bounds.

I am so sorry, he turns to the sergeant, who watches the interaction like an expert observer. His discerning eyes focus pointedly on me.

You have nothing to apologise for, Richard. They both face me deliberately. I am apparently the one who needs to apologise.

Ahem, I clear my throat exaggeratedly. "I am so sorry. I mimic Richard’s tone and fold my arms in the same annoyed fashion. She is the biggest disappointment in my life." I know this remark will take the words right out of my father’s mouth. He doesn’t know what to say. His lips part and his jaw remains open like a pointy-headed guppy. Eventually, he has no choice but to take me home. He slams the car door angrily and refuses to look at or talk to me. I’m okay with this.

Inside, he tells Tracy that his car will be getting repairs for at least a week, so they need to share a vehicle during that time. My stepmother gives me a long look, frustrated and confused, but says nothing. This proves to me there is no action, large or small, which can make their heads explode. This is unfortunate, yet not unexpected. With a heavy sigh I am suddenly reminded of the seatbelt imprint across my chest, which throbs painfully. I make a beeline for the stairs, ignoring yet another mild profanity from my father, who makes a semi-solid parenting attempt before giving up and allowing me to tramp upstairs to my bedroom; the only sanctuary in a world of hideous regulations.

Before Rick has some bizarre notion of confiscating my phone to punish me – I contact my best friends, Eddie and Theresa, to inform them of my latest triumph in the battle between father and daughter. You may ask where all my daddy issues come from, but we’ll get to that later. Let’s just say, I have some huge mummy issues as well. I’m a psychiatrist’s dream – or nightmare, depending on your opinion.

"You didn’t," Eddie isn’t as enthusiastic as I am. He had dreams of one day joy-riding in that car himself. I have never understood the attraction men have to motor vehicles.

Theresa isn’t entirely supportive either, since she thinks speeding will eventually cause my untimely demise. They are like two hesitant wet blankets extinguishing my fire of excitement.

It can be fixed, I assure him.

Mel, he tries a scolding tone, which on him simply sounds like a tired sigh. They know me too well.

You’re deflating my ego, I warn my friend.

It could use some deflating, chimes Theresa, who manages the chiding tone quite well. She must have learned that tone from her mother, who is a perpetual buzzkill.

Too far? I question, though I don’t really want to know the answer. I can hear it in their voices. They almost sound like Denton.

Just a tad, they tell me simultaneously. They express their concerns that I’m going to get myself killed – which are probably well-founded. They leave the conversation there, begging me not to provoke my father any further. I just can’t leave it alone. He’s the bane of my existence. I can’t even put my finger on the moment I started hating him. He doesn’t hit me or lock me in the basement. I just hate him – I have for as long as I can remember.

After talking with my friends, I lay in bed and stare at the stars glowing on my bedroom ceiling. I remember demanding my parents apply them to the roof as a child. I was obsessed with the night sky. I loved the moon and the stars. Now they are stuck there; an ever-present reminder of the fact I am trapped inside my childhood home. I’ve run away before, but I never get very far. Bellingen is a small town. A lot of people know my father. I can’t hide in a hotel or at a friend’s house. It always ends with either Rick or his favourite police sergeant returning me to the house.

I eventually fall asleep, seeing stars, my mind whirring like a continually expanding vortex. I feel something pulling at me, drawing me under; a force I don’t recognise. Usually, when I get this feeling, I drink. Alcohol numbs the pressure, the desire. Today, however, I’m too exhausted.

Bradley, my little brother, wakes me with an annoying series of knocks and chants at my door. He knows better than to enter, but that doesn’t prevent him from taunting me outside my bedroom walls. He has apparently heard of my latest escapade and wants to question me. I think he lives vicariously through my actions since he is only eleven and can barely summon the courage to refuse vegetables at dinner – not that he refuses much in the way of food. He is also incredibly jealous, since my actions bring a great deal of unwanted attention my way, leaving very little for him.

You’re in trouble! he sings.

Get lost or I’ll kill you!

Dad! I hear my brother’s footsteps retreating down the hall. Mel said she’s going to kill me again!

Melissa! Rick yells, though he doesn’t bother climbing the stairs to deal with the threat. We all know I’m not actually going to kill my half-brother – appealing as it might be. Brad is as devious and manipulative as I am. I don’t think Rick ever knows who truly starts any of our arguments. As long as there is no actual violence, he doesn’t seem to care. His wife is even less confrontational. She never really knows how to deal with me. She avoids hostility at all costs. Any sort of conflict renders her silent and wary, which suits me just fine. Tonight, I don’t want to join them for dinner. Making polite conversation over a home-cooked meal is not my strong-suit – neither is keeping my mouth shut.

Bradley returns to my room when I don’t immediately sit down for dinner. He’s like their little messenger owl. He reminds me that dinner is ready and I should come down or they’re going to be ‘mad’. I don’t see this as any sort of threat. There is no punishment Rick could hand out that I would stick to. He has a history of trying and failing to control me. I don’t know why he doesn’t just give up.

Unfortunately for me; tonight is one of the nights that he insists I join them for dinner.

Since I’m starving and tired enough to want to avoid another confrontation, I sit at the table and watch Tracy scoop spaghetti onto Bradley’s plate. While she does this, I sneakily swap my Coke for her alcoholic beverage and take a long sip. Rick tries to keep his liquor locked away, but I’m not exactly naïve or stupid, and I’m usually able to get what I want.

Is that my rum? Tracy takes a sip of what is now plain soda in front of her and turns to me with questioning eyes. Rick abruptly looks up from his plate as if he, too, is shocked.

Yep.

What are you thinking? my stepmother inquires. I wish I could say this was a Cinderella situation, and she was an evil manipulative bitch, but that is simply not the case. I only antagonise her because she is married to my father. Tracy is stooped over the table, her large breasts almost swimming in spaghetti sauce while she attempts to come up with a better remark.

I was thinking I want a drink, I respond. And I didn’t think you would just give me one.

You’re right about that, she frowns.

You shouldn’t be drinking, Rick adds. We’ve already had this discussion. I don’t want you consuming alcohol – not under my roof or anywhere else. I would like us to have a nice peaceful meal together. Is that too hard?

I don’t know, is it? I ask as I twirl spaghetti with my fork. He looks about ready to yell but decides simply to shake his head and continue eating.

That’s up to you, he sighs. You’re the only one intent on ruining this meal. I like this new attitude of his. Giving up really suits him. He doesn’t even try to punish me. He just keeps eating, casting furtive glances at his wife and trying to avoid another altercation. After the meal, he asks me how I plan to pay for the damage to his car. Naturally, I refuse. If he didn’t want me driving the Mercedes, then he shouldn’t have left the keys out.

I wake the next morning to Tracy knocking at my door. My entire body aches after the crash. The last thing I feel like doing is lugging an enormous book bag to school and listening to teachers all day. I already have a headache.

Melissa, Tracy knocks but doesn’t enter. She has finally learnt that adulthood does not give her the right to enter without permission. At least I have taught one of them. Time to get up.

No thanks.

Now, please. She tries to be terse, but I can see her reluctance to argue.

Not happening, I inform her, which causes her to enter. Her hands are resting on her stout hips and her mouth is pressed into a firm line. She is even wearing an apron; the picture-perfect housewife.

Please don’t turn this into an argument, she pleads.

I’m not going to school today, I insist. I know she can’t force me to go. She knows it too.

Is there something wrong? My stepmother asks me awkwardly. Have you got cramps or something?

I don’t want to go. I ignore the period remark.

You have to.

I think you’ll find I don’t, I face her. She should know better than to argue with me.

She never wins. Perhaps it’s her time of the month – if she still has one.

Fine, she finally backs down, knowing there is no way in the world she can force me to do anything. Neither of them can. They are powerless. You can explain your decision to your father.

I’ll look forward to it, I answer sweetly and lay back down on my crumpled sheets, feeling exhausted. I sneak a peek at the bruise across my chest, the perfect outline of a seatbelt, and sigh. Normally I would simply pretend to attend class and skip school, but today I can’t summon the energy.

"How come you don’t have to go to school?" Bradley stands in my doorway with his arms folded, pouting. He spends almost as much energy trying to avoid school as I do, though he’s still in primary school.

I don’t want to, I respond simply.

I’m gonna tell everyone what you did, he threatens.

Go ahead, I scoff. Let all the little five-year-olds know how kick-ass I am.

"I’m eleven," he retorts, as if that means something.

Good for you.

Dad! he calls. Mel won’t get up!

Go grab some breakfast, buddy. Rick ushers his youngest child downstairs before turning to me. He is already fed and dressed in his funeral suit; the one he thinks makes him look distinguished. So now you’re refusing to go to school? he stands in the doorway with his hands in his pockets. From the side I can see the spare tyre he has accumulated around his waistline. Age hasn’t done my father any favours. He seems to grow wrinkles like other people accumulate freckles. Don’t throw your future away because you hate me. Please.

Great pep talk. Thanks, I smirk.

Seriously, Melissa.

"Seriously, Richard, I’m not going."

Fine, he sounds just as exasperated as his wife. I don’t suppose you’re going to do any chores today?

I doubt it.

Wonderful. He shakes his head as he leaves. You know you’re setting a really bad example for your brother. Have a think about that next time you consider doing something stupid. When the door finally closes and takes with it the cacophony of the household, I feel a deep sense of relief. My friends, of course, are not too enthused that I have chosen to avoid school for the day. I think they want to question me further about the accident with the Mercedes.

With great effort, I haul myself from the bed and stumble into the shower. The running water and dense steam relaxes me. It isn’t often that I get the house to myself. I examine my seatbelt injury closely in the bathroom mirror. The melding of purple and red beneath my skin sends my memory into overdrive. My mother was often bruised. I remember walking in on her in the bathroom as she was examining her own stomach; tattooed with injuries normally obscured by her clothing. At five years old, I was barely aware of the implications, but I recall the look on her face scaring me. Not long after that; she disappeared. Richard told me she left us. He never elaborates on the circumstances. I just know there is something he isn’t telling me. The whole situation is infuriating – like my father: concealer of the truth.

A loud crash disturbs my reverie. After the shatter, glass rains down around me. I jump, inadvertently cutting my foot, and realise the mirror has quite literally exploded before my eyes. My fractured reflection stares back at me. I stand in total astonishment for a moment, unable to comprehend the damage. One moment it’s perfect; a clear reflection, and the next it is a warzone. There is no obvious cause for this damage. No rock. No fist. It just exploded, as if something was launched from behind the mirror.

What the hell? I breathe. My blood trickles across the floor in sharp contrast to the off-white tiles. Shards of mirror crunch beneath my feet until I manage to crawl into the shower and wash the debris away. At first the water won’t touch my skin. There seems to be an invisible forcefield around my body. Water sprinkles around me like a silhouette.

Stop it! I snap, and bury my head between my knees. Perhaps I really did hit my head in that accident. It seems impossible that I could be sitting in the shower, surrounded by water, yet remain completely dry. With the outburst, I am instantly soaked as if nothing was ever amiss. I’m left wondering if it really happened or if I somehow imagined the whole thing. I’m certain I did it, though have no idea how or why. I shiver with a chill that seeps into my bones. It takes almost an hour to warm up, and longer to come up with an excuse for the bathroom renovation. I hurl myself back into bed and watch the stars overhead; pale green and dull without darkness. I am late to respond to my messages. Suddenly my day at home doesn’t feel so freeing. I wasn’t prepared for the mirror to explode and for the shower to avoid me. Who would be?

Have you cleaned out the liquor cabinet yet? Eddie asks me jokingly at lunch. I’m amazed the thought hadn’t occurred to me. The idea is rejuvenating and I leap from my sickbed to explore every shelf in the house. Mum used to keep her liquor beneath the sink in her en suite. She was always a drinker. I remember many arguments between her and Rick over her abuse of alcohol, though it was probably stress relief since having to live with Richard is painful enough. I don’t blame her. I want to spend my life drunk and I’m not even married to him.

Sure enough, the stash remains. A flask sits beneath the sink; old and tattered, filled to the brim with fermented liquid. It tasted fruity, like lychees, and warms my throat and my stomach. I immediately feel at-ease. Peace and tranquillity washes over me like a warm bath. I raid the rest of the house, taking only enough vodka to avoid detection, and return to my place of worship in a contented haze.

The return of the unwelcome family hullabaloo removes what remained of my imitation calm. Since they are all forced to share a car, they all stomp through the house at once. Bradley is first to disturb me. He tells me about his rumour mill. He insists he told everyone I was going to jail. All he succeeds in doing is fuelling my fire and adding to my rage. The alcohol has numbed any sort of inner censor that once audited my words – if I ever had one.

Mum, Dad! My brother’s ear-piercing wail rudely disturbs my attempts to ignore him. It isn’t until I hear heavy footsteps traipsing the staircase that I realise they are headed right for the bathroom, and the scene of my crime. What did you do? Bradley stands in my doorway with his hands on his hips, a poor imitation of our father’s favourite posture.

Get out! I snap.

Go to your room, Brad. Rick tells him softly before mimicking his son’s stance in my doorway. What happened? he asks in a surprisingly calm voice. Perhaps he has finally given up altogether, and can’t even summon enough will to get angry.

Fit of anger, I shrug.

You punched the mirror? he glances pointedly at my hands, which are unscathed.

Yep.

Why? he seems genuinely perplexed. It’s unusual for him to want reasons or explanations. He usually just accepts my behaviour as it is.

I’m angry at the world.

Right, he bows his head in defeat. I see you didn’t do any chores today.

Surprised? I ask, focusing on keeping my responses short so he can’t tell I’m inebriated. He doesn’t respond. He simply walks away. A stiff silence remains in his wake. It clings to the walls like shrink wrap while I breathe it in, turn the music up, and drown out my family until night falls and I find solace in the darkness.

As always, the darkness brings the dawn, and with it; another miserable school day. In order to avoid more probing questions, I decide to lug my bags to the prison that has trapped me daily since childhood. I put my uniform on, secure my hair in my leopard-pattern head band, and join my friends, who only spend half the day criticising my misuse of the Mercedes.

I sit out PE as I have no intention of taking deep breaths. The welt across my chest seems to have reached my rib cage, and the last thing I need is to run around the oval, exacerbating the injury for a mere report card. Miss Oswald isn’t impressed by my attitude, though she relents when I reveal my tainted skin. She insists, however, that I do some sort of classwork while I sit on the side-lines, which I ignore and watch the class instead. Nina Fitzgerald, in particular, bears the brunt of my scrutinising eye. She has always been an incredibly annoying blip on my radar. She is my school’s counterpart of the ‘Mean Girls’ movie. She thinks I’m a spoiled rich delinquent and has made it her mission to become the grade’s gossip girl with a focus on ostracising me from the oh-so-important school society. Luckily, I couldn’t care less. Instead, I watch her fumble with a football while she tries not to break one of her fake nails.

Eddie makes it his mission to trip as many people as possible on the field, while Theresa skilfully stays away from the ball. My friend isn’t exactly the sporty type. She’s more of a bookworm with a keen interest in fantasy movies and flying below the radar. Miss Oswald notices this immediately. She demands Theresa insert herself into the game or suffer detention. The result is a tiny blonde twig keeping close to the action but never putting her arms out in preparation to receive the ball. This continues until Eddie plops it in her arms and she holds it as if the ball is covered in ectoplasm. The manoeuvre gets Miss Oswald off her back and saves Theresa from an after-school detention.

Can I borrow your bruise? Theresa asks me after the game. She looks more shocked than my brother when he gets sent to his room. I need an excuse to get me out of any future games.

At least you avoided detention, I remark.

My parents would freak if I ever got detention, she breathes. Theresa lives in constant fear of disappointing her parents, who don’t particularly enjoy my influence on her or the fact she spends more time reading fiction than text books.

They’d get over it, Eddie puts his arm around her, shrouding her tiny body with his comparatively tremendous height.

Right, she rolls her shining blue eyes. How would you know? Your parents are the kindest and most forgiving people on Earth.

I suppose they are, he agrees. Ready for some algebra? Eddie extends his arms around both of us. Is anyone ever ready for algebra? The prospect of math class is not exactly enticing. We both give him a sideways glance and I rough up his spiky brown hair, which causes him to shove me almost as fast as if he were a girl who had spent hours on that style.

Mr Vickman has zero patience for dawdlers in his class. The overweight greying teacher launches directly into some form of useless algebraic equation and gives me a bigger headache than my incident with the bathroom mirror. I have no interest in furthering my academics, so I spend the hour doodling numbers in my book until the bell gives me a short period of freedom before history consumes the rest of my day. It’s difficult to believe these subjects are essential for adult life. I doubt any adult I know would be able to solve a quadratic equation or outline the history of our town.

I lose concentration before my history teacher can finish her first sentence. It all seems so pointless. School. Normality. I spin my blue pen on its tip, causing a spiral of ink to twirl across the page. It fascinates me a hell of a lot more than people digging for gold and hunting with boomerangs. I become fascinated by the clear plastic enclosing the ink and watch as tendrils of colour seep onto the paper. I feel a mental shove, like a burst of energy leaves my forehead directly, and the pen flies across the room. It hits Ms Chapman in the back of the head, causing her to whip around and focus her beady eyes directly on me – like everyone else.

Miss Heeds, her voice cracks a little in anger. Even my friends stare wide-eyed at me, shocked, just like the rest of the class who watch with bated breath. Stay back after class.

What the hell? Eddie mouths in my direction. I don’t know what to say, so I shrug and become focused on my scribbles. The lesson runs for an unbearably long time. I watch the other students meander out the door, occasionally glancing back in curiosity. The room feels cold suddenly. Empty. I watch the mouth of Ms Chapman move, unlike her stiff black bob, which remains glued in position by a dense layer of hairspray, yet hear nothing. I know I am being berated. Questioned. All I can think about is how that pen moved. I certainly hadn’t thrown it. It was like standing before the mirror again, watching it crack like an earthquake. In the end I leave with only a detention slip and a troubled mind. I know my mind is somehow responsible for these impossible feats, yet how? I confide in my friends, who think I’ve finally lost touch with reality. They don’t believe in the impossible; only the limitlessness of my imagination.

No more bloody Marys at breakfast for you, Eddie furrows his brow in concern. Maybe you should have seen a doctor about that accident.

Maybe, I agree since they are reluctant to discuss the possibility of me having supernatural powers. I don’t want to be one of those people who goes around and tells everyone they’re magical. That’s how you end up on TV – not in a good way.

What’s your dad going to say about more detention? Theresa reminds me of my other predicament – explaining the incident to my father, who is already very interested in the episode involving the bathroom mirror.

He doesn’t need to know, I shrug.

Good luck with that, she pats me on the shoulder. Let us know if you’re grounded for life.

Will do. I sit through a solid hour of boredom in the detention hall before finding my way home on a late bus. The sun is making its way across the horizon. Cars line the sidewalks as my neighbours arrive home from work. I see the Scotts on their balcony sipping wine and watching their surroundings. It seems so peaceful and normal. The world isn’t changing. Nothing is amiss.

Where have you been? Rick meets me at the door. His wife is in the background, watching quietly as she tries to protect her son from my influence. Bradley is always very interested any time I’m in trouble.

School, I mutter.

Detention again? I like that his mind immediately leaps to detention rather than late study in the library.

Yep.

Why? his arms are folded and his chest is puffed out to give him the illusion of authority. He’s still wearing his stupid suit, only now he has a dense five o’clock shadow and his hair is unkempt, probably from running his hands through it.

I got bored in history.

What did you do? he questions.

Wouldn’t you like to know? I push past him and clamber upstairs to my bedroom where a flask lies in wait, ready to take me somewhere else; anywhere else. He calls after me, but his attempt is as pathetic as his whiny voice. I stare at the stars again, this time asking what on Earth is happening to me.

***

Chapter 2

When I score myself another detention for refusing to complete my assignments, Tracy takes it upon herself to investigate. As an avid gardener and housekeeper, she loves pottering around the garden and keeping her flowers pruned and healthy. She invites me outside to talk under the guise of pruning roses and removing pests. In order to avoid a fight involving the entire family; I comply.

I know you haven’t had the easiest time of things, my stepmother begins, all the while avoiding eye contact as she clips the stems of her red roses and I pull absently at long weeds littering the undergrowth. But you really shouldn’t take it out on your father. He tries his hardest, you know.

To what, annoy me?

He’s worried about you, she insists. I’m surprised she can kneel all the way down without toppling over. Neither of us wants to see you go down this path.

My path is my own, I tell her. It has nothing to do with you. Don’t worry.

She looks affronted by my reluctance to relent. She obviously believed she would somehow be able to get through to me. I don’t know why. It’s not like I have a reputation for loving any sort of house work. Our wills reach an impasse. Since she hates confrontation, we are left to pull weeds and cut branches in silence until the heat forces us inside, where I stay for the rest of the day. Bradley has a friend over and I hear the loud screech of their scooter brakes all the way at the end of the street. They think they’re pretty cool trying D-grade tricks on tiny ramps and filming the stunts with their phones. I don’t know why anyone would want to watch these ‘tricks’, but he insists on uploading them to YouTube anyway. At least it gets him out of the house and away from me.

I peer through my bedroom window at the pair as they try to jump cracks in the sidewalk. I can see many of our neighbours going about their business mowing lawns, walking dogs and chatting to each other. Watching people has always made me curious but it also makes me angry. I can’t exactly put my finger on why. I see my reflection glaring back at me. It’s almost like an entity of its own. I swear my reflection smiles at me very briefly before I am forcefully thrown backwards – away from the window. My pelvis hits the floor first and I roll backwards like a crash-test dummy. I feel briefly thankful that my room is carpeted, and also annoyed that this keeps happening.

I groan, looking around for some unseen entity or remnants of an explosive device. I am sure someone pushed me. I felt it. I shuffle backwards until I hit my bed. I briefly crawl underneath the frame and hide. I see nothing. Feel nothing. There is no evidence of anything amiss. Nothing is broken. I rub absently at the large bruise I’m certain is forming over my right hip. I recite the day, the month and the year to assure myself of my sanity. I know it happened. I just don’t know how.

In order to avoid losing my mind entirely, I come to the conclusion that my house must be haunted. I abscond from the house and flee to the safety and sanity of my friends. After one look at me, they are willing to believe that something is terribly wrong. All remarks about bloody Marys are dropped. We end