Chapter Two

I uncovered my eye and a gray fleck underneath a stick-figure, tornado-like spire came into focus. This time, there was only one, but I'd seen as many as three before. It hovered between the bench Saylor and I were sitting on and the one I'd abandoned his camera bag on.

I turned my head toward Juice and his entourage of obnoxious jocks. I did this to prove to myself the gray fleck was real, not out of concern, but I was concerned. Juice had spotted the camera bag and there was no doubt in my mind that he had some absolutely hilarious prank planned out at our expense.

Not as hilarious as letting him walk into that spire.

If my superpower wasn't the dumbest in all of existence, it would've came with a color indicator that told me how terrible letting Juice fall into instant karma could've turn out. But no, as it stood, he could've been in for something as well-deserved as a bird shitting on his head and messing up that perfect fade with the blond-tipped, mini-twists on top or a meteor vaporizing him into nothing.

I couldn't let that happen, not to anyone, but especially not to Juice. Yes, he was my tormentor, so he deserved some bad luck, but my crush was also wrapped up into that hundred-eighty pound, copper skin bag of muscle.

In the past, my role as bird watcher consisted of guarding these stupid inverted spires and coming up with whatever excuse I could to prevent someone from walking into them. Since my superpower was truly terrible, I couldn't count on the spire working instantly.

More often than not, walking through one started someone down an unavoidable path of complex events that eventually led to bad fortune. No, bird watching was a thankless job that had only ever earned me further torment, ridicule and black eyes—well, repeated black eye to be accurate.

It was sort of funny how people always seemed to hit me in my good eye, never the mad-eye. I thought it was because most people were right-handed until I realized that should've made hitting the left side of my face easier, instinctual even. This meant even striking me in anger was done from a place of pity, not to mess up an already messed up eye. Despite this and everything else, bird watching was still my burden to carry.

"Juice, don't go for the bag!" I shouted.

My heart was twerking inside of my chest. And not like Miley Cyrus, like Nicki Minaj. I bit down on my lower lip and looked to Saylor, who instantly knew what I was thinking. We had this way of speaking without words. Even though Saylor believed in my power, it was with the same blind faith one might've had in a deity. He'd never seen proof.

I could read from his expression that I was on my own. He had this tell where he'd perch up with widened eyes and cover his mouth with the fingers of both hands. To any outsider, it looked like he was truly in a state of panic. I knew a sly smirk lurked behind those meaty fingers, the kind that said 'let's watch this loser get what's coming to him'.

Juice and his entourage were drawing closer to the spire. I knew I had to act fast. My heart froze like it'd been squeezed tight by rusted chains whose fragmented bits were tearing into it from all sides. I knew what I had to do, even if it was a mistake.

"Jerome! Leave the bag!" I shouted.

No one called Juice Williams by his given name, not even his mother. He even referred to himself as Juice in the third person, at times. I knew this all too well and the punishment that came along with it. He'd have to send a strong message. Juice stopped on a dime and marched toward me with hands balled into fists and a terrifying scowl on his face.

I cowered on the bench, but kept my mad-eye trained on the spire. I didn't expect it to disappear for up to an hour, but I was hoping for a break. Juice was nearly upon me with his dominant fist raised high. Saylor was giving me that 'you idiot, you're on your own for that' grimace.

He couldn't have saved me anyway, nor did I want him to. Juice would've done so much worse to him and it would've been all my fault. As the star player in multiple sports, he could hit me and get away with it. We all knew it. I closed both eyes, the normal one first since I expected him to strike there, like everyone else. Then, I heard it.

A miraculous thunderclap, a one note sonata summoning rain.

It was both terrifying and beautiful, like a soprano vocalist hitting that high note that sent shivers down spines. I opened my eyes—likely the opposite of what everyone else had done.

The lightning bolt had struck the spire and carried it away, leaving charred, blackened grass in its wake. It was clear evidence of my superpower, but that wasn't the best part. Juice had been so frightened by the thunder that he'd leapt into my arms.

Him, in my arms.

I was closer to Juice than I'd been in years. He smelled like sweat and maple syrup. I wasn't sure I'd have appreciated that on any other man. I breathed in deeply to take it in before the earthy scent of rain smothered it. The rain beat down on us like a hastening drum roll and the only thing I could think about was Ryan Gosling and Rachel McAdams making out under a torrent of Hollywood showers.

Juice sat straddled over me like a lap dancer, but my pleasure in this moment was quickly giving way to fear. My hands were glued to his muscular thighs and his, to my bony shoulders. I tried to catch him. That was the excuse I'd have given, if anyone asked. At the strangest times, I was good at thinking on my feet, but I'd have been a fool and a liar if I had said my hands were there by mistake. Or that I had any intention of moving them prematurely.

It was worth the punch and right then, I was content just playing the fool. I wasn't delusional. I wasn't a hero, not with this stupid power of mine. Its randomness meant I couldn't prove it to anyone other than myself. The true hero was whoever decided to mount the bench to a bed of concrete. It held firm under the weight of all three of us and could do so forever. If only I could've been so lucky.

I looked up at Juice as his deep brown eyes peered down into mine. I smiled, giggled almost. I couldn't help thinking about how only one of my eyes held Juice's terror in them. It meant he was twice as afraid, didn't it? When it came to my lazy eye, I learned to laugh at myself. I was stuck with it.

What else could I do?

I inherited it from my father, according to Mom anyway, but he wasn't in the picture to confirm. As in, Mom cut him out of or burned them all, so I never saw how bad his condition was compared to mine, or if he had my power. As far as women scorned went, Mom's diligence at erasing him from existence had definitely given cause to raise glass.

"Wait, d-did you?" Juice asked.

I nodded dumbly. There was only one thing he could've been asking about. Or so I thought. He smiled back down at me, looking exceptionally grateful. His true blue gratitude was unmistakable. My heart slurped his smile up like charge to batteries. I always felt my heart around Juice. He controlled it like an RC car. His smile faded with the sound of wet, clapping footsteps trouncing through the matted grass, then he crashed my heart into a brick wall.

"Ew!" Juice shouted, clearly to save face—at least that's what I'd tell Dream Jerome that night, "Mad-eye popped a chub on me!"

He smacked me across the face and backed away from the bench. I suppose I should've been grateful for that. He could've done worse and the jury was out on my situation downstairs.

Fortunately, the cool rain showering down on us helped return a favorable verdict when I was summoned to stand. Satisfied as they were ever going to be, Juice and his entourage took off to share in their relief—very far away from us.

Saylor wore an entirely new expression. One best described as none other than a bitter beer face. Of course, it looked horrible on him too.

Without question, we had much to discuss.