The Ables (5 page)

“Cool!” I couldn’t hide my enjoyment of all this anymore. Super powers, teleporting, homing beacons. … It was like I woke up to find I was living inside one of my comic books!

“What I do want you to do with that thing, though,” he said, throwing the truck in gear and pulling out, “is carry it with you all the time. Play with it. Feel it. Get to know it as intimately as you do your phone, okay?”

“Okay.”

“And then, if you’re ever separated from it for any reason, you’ll be able to use your power to bring it to you.”

This set off a small alarm in my head. “How far away can a telekinetic be from the object they want to move?”

“That depends,” he said, pulling out onto the main road. “Some people have moved objects from several blocks away. A few have done it from even further, a few miles. But there’s no evidence of any limit. Some scientists think the only limit is the ability of the empowered person to focus. With enough focus, any distance can be overcome … or so goes the theory.”

“What’s the farthest you’ve ever been from an object you moved?”

“I guess a couple blocks, maybe. Nothing record-breaking.”

I pondered that a moment as we bumped down the country road toward town, not really sure how to react. I wondered if my blindness might limit my own ability more than an able-bodied hero’s. But I brushed it aside. I decided not to worry about the distance thing too much and spend the rest of the evening enjoying this new life I was now living. “Dad, I do have one more question.”

“Sure thing, bud.”

“Why custodian?”

“What do you mean?”

“Of all the words to call ourselves, why are superheroes named after … janitors?”

He chuckled. “Janitor is only one of the definitions of the word ‘custodian,’ son, and one that only became the most common in the last few decades. Custodian can also mean caretaker. Back in colonial times, there were custodians of properties, custodians of estates, of people, even. It comes from a Latin word—
custo
—which literally translated means ‘guard’ or ‘guardian.’”

“That’s kind of cool,” I allowed.

“The name for our people was chosen long, long ago, because it was and still is accurate. We are the guardians. The protectors of the people here on Earth. The custos, or … custodians,” he said with a grin. “And tomorrow, you’ll start your journey to become one.”

Freepoint High School was literally a giant dome. Dad said the entire school—including the cafeteria, the gymnasium, the football field, the library, and all the classrooms—fit inside an enormous white dome. It was like an enclosed mini-city. From the outside, it probably looked like an extra-large professional sporting arena. The other new kids I met later in the day seemed plenty impressed by the dome, though its appeal was lost on me for obvious reasons.

I heard a few beeps and squawks in my ear as the device Dad had given me powered itself up and then …

[Good morning. It’s Monday, August 15, 7:59 a.m.]

The voice was coming from the earpiece, and it scared the life out of me at first, despite the fact that I’d just knowingly turned on the earpiece for a navigation device. The voice was female and robotic.

[You are standing outside the main office of Freepoint High, and your first class is about to begin. Please proceed to room 215. Turn to your left and walk approximately fifty paces.]

Cool!
I was instantly in love with the Personal Navigator. It was exactly the kind of wizardry that I expected the super-powered existence would come with. But my moment of wonder was interrupted by a sound that needed no explanation: the school bell.

I was late. I’d spent too much time taking in the sound of the hallway and fiddling with the Navigator device.
Great. Perfect.

[It is now 8:00 a.m.: you are late for your first class. Please proceed to room 215. Turn to your left and walk approximately fifty paces.]

I did. I practically ran. The hallways were empty, largely due to the fact that everyone else was already in class … on time. I was moving so quickly, I didn’t even remember to count my steps.

[After five more paces, turn right.]

Before I could even register the Personal Navigator’s latest message, the school wall delivered it for me in very plain terms. I’d overshot my turn, and it was a dead end. By running and then losing count, I ended up taking a few paces too many.

It’s not as though I’ve never run into something before. I was quite used to it, in fact. But I’d never hit a wall at a full run before. I bounced off the lockers and then hit the floor with a thud and a groan.

After a few seconds of heavy breathing and a mental inventory of my aches and pains, I lifted my head and slowly stood to my feet. I tried to shake it off.

[Proceed ahead three hundred fifty paces. You are still tardy.]

Crap!
The pain took a back seat to more urgent matters, and I took off running again.

I ran for what seemed like ages. It was the longest I’d ever run in my life, of that I was sure. I wondered what the rest of the kids in the class would think—what would they whisper to each other about the idiot blind kid that couldn’t even get to his first day of high school on time, who arrived sweaty and bruised.

In order to avoid a repeat of the last navigated turn, I slowed to a jog. Finally, when I was nearly out of energy, I heard the voice again.

[In ten more paces, turn left.] I counted off ten steps and quickly did so.

[Proceed twenty paces; the classroom is on your left.]

Finally!
I started taking deep breaths and walked toward the spot. Suddenly, I heard the voice again.

[Obstruction in five paces! There is someone in your way. Obstruction!]

I froze. I hadn’t heard anyone approaching. I hadn’t really known my Personal Navigator long enough to trust her, but I thought it couldn’t hurt to speak up and make certain there really was a person in my path. “Hello?”

“Hello,” I heard back almost immediately. “I see you have the Personal Navigator. Cool!”

“Yeah,” I stammered, still confused. It sounded like someone my age, a male. “Are you a student?”

“Yeah. I’m in a wheelchair. What’s wrong with you, besides the blindness, I mean.” I knew his words weren’t necessarily kind, but he’d uttered them in such a cheery manner that it was hard to be insulted.

“Nothing. Nothing that I know of. Except the blindness, that is.”

“What’s your power?”

“Telekinesis.”

“Cool,” he said, sounding like he meant it.

“Um, what’s yours,” I inquired.

“Telepathy.”

“Cool.” I was equally impressed.

“Were you just … sitting out here in the hallway?”

“Yeah,” he admitted. “I hate the idea of being in this class.”

“Right,” I said, not having any idea what he meant, but desperately wanting him to think I did.

“I’m Henry.” He was pretty friendly for a stranger.

“I’m Phillip,” I replied, being polite.

“Well, I guess we can tackle it together, then, right? I mean, you seem pretty normal.”

I should have wondered why he said that, but I didn’t. Instead I just agreed. “Sure.”

“Well, then, let me get out of your way and you can let us both in.” I heard his voice moving from the left to the right as he gently rolled to the side to let me pass.

[Obstruction cleared. Proceed four paces.]

I stepped forward again, four times, and stopped one last time to compose myself.

[You have arrived at room 215: Special Education.]

What was that?
And then realization suddenly rushed in. A blind kid … a kid in a wheelchair … the same classroom all day long … I had been placed in a class for disabled kids.

And for the first time ever, though not the last, I regretted being a custodian—having super powers. I resented it. Because at school, at least, I wasn’t a superhero after all, it seemed. I was an outcast.

[You are now seven minutes late for class. Proceed through the door.]

***

“Phillip Sallinger?”

I could not believe that I was in a special education classroom. I was confused and angry. I had never felt so insulted in my short life. I was blind, not disabled.
There’s a difference!

Except for the fact that I actually
was
disabled. Blindness
is
a disability, whether I wanted to acknowledge it or not. Depends on whose viewpoint you take—no pun intended. I spent a lot of my earlier years denying that blindness even made me different at all.

But did my particular disability mean that I needed specialized learning? Surely it wasn’t one that belonged grouped together with kids in wheelchairs, right? Heck, even in New York—in public school, no less—I’d been in regular classes. And I didn’t even have a Personal Navigator to guide me around those places.

I was incensed. Had there been an error? Nearly a thousand gifted kids in this school, and I somehow got stuck in the remedial group.

“Phillip Sallinger?”

I heard her that time. I’d been so focused on my fury that I had tuned out everything around me. I wondered how many times she’d called my name before I noticed. I had come in late, awkwardly, which was typical for me. The teacher had been in the middle of her first-day-of-school welcome speech and paused long enough for me to find my way to my seat in the center of the room. And then, after I sat down … well, I couldn’t really remember what happened next. My mind was too busy racing to record anything.

And now my name was being called … repeatedly. Surely, everyone in class was staring at me. Snapping back to reality, I swiftly affirmed my presence in the classroom with a confident, “Here!” I had been through many first days of many new schools. I knew the roll-call drill.

Silence. Then some light giggling.

“Well,” said the woman, “I’m certainly glad that you’re here, and we welcome you here, but that’s not what I asked.”

Another smattering of giggles made its way around the room.
Wonderful.
The school day couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes old, and I’d already embarrassed myself about five different ways.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” I offered meekly, “I was distracted. I didn’t hear your question.” I had learned long ago that honesty was almost always the fastest way out of a jam, even if it wasn’t always the least embarrassing.

“When exactly did you tune out, then? Did you manage to hear any of what I said?”

I felt as though I was shrinking a bit. “No, ma’am. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, Mr. Sallinger.” She sounded sincere, like she meant it. “It’s the first day of school, so I understand if some of you are a little … distracted.” She sounded old, maybe a little cranky, and had a hint of a German accent. “But we weren’t just taking roll. There are only seven of you in here. We can generally take roll just by looking. Plus, the entire class was present when you came in tardy a few moments ago. Calling out everyone’s name to have them audibly respond would be a horrible waste of our precious time together. No … we want to know more about
you
.”

“You mean, like, go around the room and tell your name and your favorite color?” I’d done that kind of get-to-know-you routine in other schools once or twice.

“Yes.” I could tell she was smiling, which gave me some momentary relief. “I started us out by introducing myself. My name is Winifred Crouch, and I am your teacher. I have been graced with the ability to shape-shift, which means that I can disguise myself by altering my physical appearance. Then … I suggested we go around the room, starting with you. That’s all you missed, really.” Her comments had the sound of someone only slightly exasperated to have to repeat themselves.

“We want to know not only about your interests and hobbies but also your powers … and your disability. You see, Mr. Sallinger, everyone in this room has a unique combination of ability and disability.” I wouldn’t say that she was speaking slowly, but she was definitely not in a hurry. “Some might say that this creates special challenges for you … hurdles for you to overcome. And that’s probably true. Others—myself included—would suggest that maybe it also offers you special opportunities that most students within these walls will never have.”

She continued, “But we’ll never know exactly what the possibilities are until we get to know one another and get comfortable with one another. So, Phillip, why don’t you kick things off, as I had originally intended.”

“Okay. Well, I’m not sure what to say. I mean, I’m blind, obviously. So I can’t see anything. And my power is telekinesis.” I said all this quite matter-of-factly and without any enthusiasm, which I guess is how I say most things.

But there was an audible gasp among some of my fellow students. I could feel everyone’s attention was focused on me, as though I’d just said something outrageous.

“Cool,” I heard someone breathe.

My new teacher explained, “These kids aren’t used to having a telekinetic in the class, Mr. Sallinger. That’s one of the rarer powers. There are only a few in the entire school, I believe.”

“Really?” I didn’t know that. I mean, Dad had mentioned it was fairly rare, but I hadn’t really thought about my power being something that other kids would think was cool. “I can barely use it,” I said apologetically. “Since I can’t see anything, it’s really hard to make use of it properly.” Almost as a throwaway comment, I added, “I guess that’s why I’m in here.”

After a long pause, the teacher decided to move on, much to my relief. “Okay, class, why don’t we continue on? Thank you, Mr. Sallinger. Henry Gardner, let’s hear from you at this time.”

I was curious to hear Henry’s story.

“I’m in a wheelchair because I was born crippled,” he announced in that same straightforward manner he’d displayed in the hallway. His voice came from my left, one desk closer to the front of the room. “But I’m getting pretty good at getting around in this thing.” He pounded on the wheelchair with his fists as he said it. You could hear the beaming pride in his voice. “And I’m a mental, and my power is that I can read minds.”

I was instantly surprised at the lack of oohs and aahs at this reveal. You’d have thought they met a hundred mind readers a day.
They’re bowled over by a blind kid’s telekinesis but apathetic about reading people’s minds? What’s wrong with the kids at this school?!
I was also struck by the notion that Henry’s disability didn’t really interfere with his powers at all, just his mobility. And yet the school had deemed him so disabled as to be “special.” Maybe I wasn’t the only kid who felt like he didn’t belong in this classroom.