The Ables (6 page)

We continued around the room for several more minutes. Most of the stories were actually kind of heartbreaking. Like Delilah’s.

Delilah Darlington sat directly in front of me. She had super hearing, but she was also deaf. I thought it was the saddest thing I’d ever heard. She hadn’t been deaf all her life, though. She had some kind of accident when she was younger that took away her hearing, which sounded worse than never having had it in the first place.

Delilah was the only person in the classroom whose power was 100 percent useless to her because of her disability. I couldn’t use my power to the fullest extent, but I could still use it. Delilah was rendered totally normal by her disability … just a regular deaf girl in a high school full of superheroes. She had an interpreter with her, a pleasant enough woman named Mary, who translated Delilah’s sign language for the rest of the class.

Behind Henry and directly to my left was Penelope Wilson. Penelope’s power was unique: she could control the weather. She could make it rainy or sunny just by concentrating on it. Which is a pretty cool ability, but maybe not that well-suited for crime-fighting. It’s not like you can foil all possible dastardly plans through the use of a strategic thunderstorm. You can really only turn that dastardly plan into one that’s a little bit drearier.

But it was still a very cool power. Her voice was high-pitched and squeaky, but she seemed very genuine and sweet. She explained her disability as an aversion to sunlight. There was an official name for it, but it had over six syllables, and I honestly can’t remember four of them. But she said it made her skin pigmentation so unique that sunlight was very dangerous to her. She couldn’t go too close to the windows on a really bright day—that’s how bad it was. It was almost as though she had a super disability. So the girl who could control the weather had to spend as much time as possible indoors. She even traveled to and from school with the help of a transporter like my mom.

Donnie Brooks sat behind Penelope and did not say a word. There was a teacher’s aide, named Rebecca, who worked specifically with Donnie, and she did the talking for him. “Donnie has Down syndrome,” she said, “which means that he kind of has the mind of a young child in the body of a grown man. He may look like a young man in his early twenties, but he’s just fifteen years old.” You could tell in her voice that Rebecca cared about Donnie very much. “Donnie is very friendly and lovable and is just a big teddy bear. Feel free to be friendly with him; he really enjoys company. He’s kind of quiet, but he is listening.”

I’m not going to lie; I was a little bit scared of Donnie. I’m not sure why, but I was wary. I’d never met anyone with Down syndrome before, but I was pretty sure a fifteen-year-old in the body of a twenty-five-year-old was something worth being afraid of.

“What’s Donnie’s power?” The question came from Penelope, and I remember thinking it was nice of her to make sure he didn’t get left out of that part of the discussion.

“That’s a complicated answer, young lady.” The answer had come from old Mrs. Crouch. “Donnie’s DNA has some extra pieces in it. That’s what accounts for his Down syndrome. But those extra pieces also mutated the genes that relate to his powers. He might have super strength or the ability to fly. But the truth is that we really don’t know what his powers are. There’s too much mutation to know—the sequence is unreadable.”

Henry piped up. “Then how do you know he has any powers at all?” It was a valid point but kind of a snotty way to make it.

“Because the DNA of superhuman abilities is unmistakable, even when it is indefinable. Truth be known, we’re not really human, technically. There are enough differences in our DNA to make humans and custodians separate species altogether. Anyone of our lineage would have unmistakable genetic markers, even if their powers weren’t clear.” Mrs. Crouch’s voice was flat, almost dismissive, as though her knowledge of the facts trumped Henry’s. “Perhaps one day Mr. Brooks will show us what his powers are. Possibly we … and he … may never know. But that is no reason to prohibit him from seeking an education, and an education he shall have. At least on my watch. So welcome, Mr. Brooks.”

The class gave their own half-hearted welcomes to Donnie, which mostly consisted of murmuring and a few grunts.

James Gregory was a teleporter. He sat in the front position of the third and final row of desks, which were on my right. James was energetic, almost fidgety, and he was the little businessman of the class. In fact, halfway through his self-introduction, he pointed out that we should see him after school if we had any interest in purchasing rides via his teleportation skills. He claimed he could take you anywhere in Freepoint. He even had business cards, which he handed out as he spoke. James was also blind, like me; James had lost his sight in an accident at his father’s lab as a young boy. This made it tough, but not impossible, for him to visualize the various locations he wanted to move. He said he was a lot better at it than any adult ever gave him credit for.

As Mom had explained it to me, a teleporter needed some familiarity with the location they were attempting to travel to—not dissimilar from the way that I needed some familiarity with an object before I could move it with my brain. For instance, if a teleporter had been to a particular location before, it would be a snap to zap there again. But even when teleporting to a place they’d never been, most could spend a few moments with a picture or even a detailed description of the location and still successfully transport there. Some could even use latitude and longitude coordinates alone—without a physical description—Mom was apparently like this. But without the ability to see places or memories of places, James’ powers were diminished, even if his entrepreneurial spirit was not. I reasoned that he would struggle to make the most of his power just as I would, which made me want to be his friend.

Behind James, directly to my right, was Fred Wheeler. “Some people call me ‘Freak-Out Freddie,’” he said, not nearly as excitedly as a name like that might suggest. Fred had a power I hadn’t yet heard of: gigantism. He could grow to a size nearly three stories tall, also gaining the speed and strength you would expect of someone that large.

The problem for Freak-Out Freddie was his chronic asthma. It was pretty severe, and even a good brisk walk could leave him gasping for air. So as soon as he turned on his power and grew in height and strength to the size of a giant, he was so out of breath he couldn’t move. Turning on his power made it useless.

He was like a human puffer fish: his size was all bark and no bite. Just another unlucky soul in a town full of people who’d hit the genetic lottery. Freddie had a pleasant quality to his voice and seemed quite likable. He spoke in even, measured sentences—like someone who’d learned long ago to take his time with most things in life.

Last but not least was Bentley Crittendon. Bentley had the name of a rich kid, which probably had something to do with the fact that his family was rich. Bentley was the son of one of the members of the board—Jurrious Crittendon—one of the oldest and longest-serving members of the custodian governing body. Bentley was as rich and privileged a kid as I would ever meet, which made his humility all the more refreshing. He seemed embarrassed about his name, his wealth, and his family’s prominence. He had older brothers, but they were all married or off at college, effectively making Bentley an only child.

Bentley was a mental who had elevated brain function, particularly in the areas of science and math. To hear him tell it, he was a junior mad scientist. He really had a distinct energy in his voice when talking about his powers. I wondered how sweet it would be if I could have elevated brain functions just during my math tests.

I really hated math.

Bentley’s disability, however, was something called ataxic cerebral palsy, a condition that caused him to have a poor sense of balance. He said he stumbled or fell pretty frequently and that he had some tremor-related side effects. His brain was advanced, but his body couldn’t always perform even remedial tasks, like walking.

I had my share of falls in my time. And I knew what it meant to not be able to make your body do what your brain wanted it to. So I decided I wanted to be Bentley’s friend as well.

Who am I kidding? I wanted to be friends with all of these people—except maybe Donnie, who didn’t sound like an active participant in a friendship anyway. I just wanted friends. I wasn’t picky. What few friends I’d managed to make in New York were obviously still in New York. I needed some Freepoint buddies, and fast. And it was looking like I was going to be spending most of my time with these people.

After the introductions, we dove right into actual school stuff. I was kind of relieved, though, really. Because school stuff helped me feel more normal and less like a freak. For almost three straight hours, Mrs. Crouch brought a volley of the most basic, boring schoolwork you could possibly imagine, full of introductory lessons on everything from math to grammar. It felt so much like a normal first day of school that she had almost managed to make me forget I was in a school for genetically advanced super-humans.

And then the lunch bell rang.

The Personal Navigator, which had seemed so spaced-aged just an hour ago, turned out to be actually quite useless in navigating the school hallways while they were filled with other students.

[Obstruction! There is someone in your—]

[Obstruction! There is someone in your—]

[Obstruction! There is someone in your—]

It was like a broken record.

Through a combination of determination and severe hunger, I managed to use my collapsible cane to tap my way along following the roar of the cafeteria. Four hundred students all eating at once creates an unmistakable sound, so I just kept tapping until I arrived.

The cafeteria itself had no doors but was just a gigantic open room alongside the hallway—no wonder I’d been able to hear it from so far away. I’d already decided to eat alone because I wouldn’t be able to find my classmates even if I wanted to. And because it just seemed easier. And I was feeling a little sorry for myself.

I let the audio cues of the situation serve as my guide again, and the highest concentration of students was near the front. So I navigated my way toward the far back corner.

My mother was a fantastic cook. But her job required her to start her workday much sooner than Dad—custodians start their work early, so they need early transportation as well. That left our school lunches in the not-so-capable hands of my father. So lunch was a sandwich, a bag of peanuts, and a fat-free pudding cup—which was fine by me. School food was a crapshoot, and some in my past had been so bad that a sack lunch was a pretty safe bet.

The table itself was long and rectangular with benches attached, like an extra-large picnic table. It seemed like every other lunchroom table I’d ever known, with a hard Formica surface. I spread out my father’s wholesome meal and ate in silence, wondering what Patrick’s experience would be like next year on his first day. I assumed it would be far different than mine. Patrick was always a very popular and well-liked kid in whatever school he attended. He was the opposite of me in that way, I suppose. I always wondered how much his ability to see played a part in that difference between us.

The rest of the kids in the cafeteria carried on as high school kids do, talking a lot more than eating, it seemed. I daydreamed about what it would be like to be normal—to have sight. To not be different. It was my usual lunchtime ritual.

Don’t get me wrong; I was fine with my disability. I’d made peace with it years earlier. But it was starting to feel like growing older only lengthened the list of things the rest of the kids my age could do that I could not. I couldn’t just walk up to a table and introduce myself, because I couldn’t even see where that table was. I couldn’t play pick-up baseball after school or have a paper route. I couldn’t even solve math problems at the blackboard or take a normal test.

Nobody was really all that mean to me in my childhood. People hadn’t picked on me for being blind or anything. I mean, sure, there were a few kids here and there, but that happens to everyone, right? My blindness wasn’t causing me public shame; it was just holding me back. I could try to compensate in other ways all I wanted, but I would never be able to see, which meant there were a host of other things I’d never be able to do. In some ways, I would always be an outsider, no matter how hard the school or my parents tried to help level the playing field for me.

Sometime after the sandwich but before the peanuts were completely gone, I sensed someone approaching—a couple of someones, actually. I simply looked up and smiled. “Hello?”

“How did you know someone was here?” The voice was one I’d never heard before and sounded like it belonged to someone older than me, but it wasn’t an adult. His tone suggested curiosity, not rudeness.

“I heard you,” I replied.

“You have super hearing or something?” This guy obviously considered himself the stealthiest kid in the lunchroom because he seemed genuinely surprised I could have detected his approach.
Must not have much experience with the blind.

“No. Just blindness.” I wasn’t afraid to converse with a stranger on my first day of high school, but I was definitely guarded. My problem wasn’t shyness anyway. Most of the friendships I’d had in my life had been initiated by the other guy—again, it’s hard to walk up and talk to someone you can’t see.

“You’re new here, right?”

“Yeah. It’s my first day.” I felt stupid as soon as I said it. I mean, it was everyone’s first day, really.

He didn’t seem to pick up on it, though. “I’m Chad,” he said in a friendly manner. “Chad Burke. And this is Steve Travers. What’s your name?”

“I’m Phillip Sallinger,” I replied.

The table rocked slightly. I knew that Chad was resting his foot on the opposite bench and was leaning with his arm on his knee. “Well, welcome to Freepoint, kid.”

Steve finally spoke. “Yeah, man, welcome.”