Westbrook Academy for Metahumans: Forums

“So... what do you think?” My mom asked, looking around the finished garage as I sat on the large amp, playing the Fender Baja I’d gotten for Christmas. I knew something was up the minute I opened it.

“You got me the Baja?” She smiled at me over her coffee cup in response, and my shoulders slumped. “What is it? What's the bad news?” I asked.

“You’re too suspicious Shayne.” Mom replied. “Just enjoy it. Enjoy the holiday.”

“And then you’ll drop the bomb tomorrow?” I asked, gathering up the wrapping paper and bows. I wasn’t stupid. My mom worked hard, she didn’t just blow $600 on one Christmas present if there wasn’t bad news attached.

“We’re moving.” She said nonchalantly, but it hit me like a ton of bricks.

“Where?” I asked tentatively.

“East coast.”

“Across the country?” I was too old to whine, but it just slipped out.

“I didn’t mean Japan.” She kidded, but I wasn’t really in the mood for jokes.

“What about the band?” I complained again. What good was a new guitar if I didn’t have FreaK Storm to play it with? I’d been with them since middle school. We grew up together, Carly, Alley, Brian, Mike (though everyone just called him Murray) and me. We were finally getting somewhere. 40 seconds of one of our songs was used in one of those Nickelodeon movies. You know, the one with the guy who does the really annoying voice? Granted, it was a remake of an oldie, not really 'our' song, but our version of it. We were practically famous already. Plus I’d have to leave my non-band friends, like Dana. But even that, what was worse, we were moving to Paragon.

I do this thing - ever since I was little. It’s like I can feel light. Change it. Change the colors, like a prism, reflect and refract it, bend it to what I want. Here, in Santa Ana, it’s kitch. A novelty. People know FreaK Stom when we play because I can light up the stage, literally. Each drum beat, each time I strum the guitar, lights, colors, I create it all. Sure it’s a gimmick, but it’s got us to play out a few times, and I’m sure with just a little more time, we could be famous. In Paragon? I’d just be another face in the crowd.

“I’m sorry, baby girl. But I got an offer. A great offer. No more working two jobs, no crazy hours. All those years at the Geneva, getting that degree online, it was worth it. They’re paying relocation fees so we can finally have a house, our own house. I can’t turn that down can I?” I wanted to say yes, yes she could. I wanted to say I was just fine living in someone else’s basement apartment, fine with her working two jobs, and me sweeping up at her friend’s salon, getting paid under the table so I could afford drums, cymbals, amps and guitars on my own. But I couldn’t. She worked her hard to take care of me by herself. No child support, no government hand outs. And besides, my mom already accepted the job.

Having a mom that worked a lot left me a lot of time to practice. I wasn’t supposed to go anywhere except school, work, home, or to Murray’s. He lived next door. So taught myself to play. You’d be surprised how much there is out there on YouView, learning riffs, drum beats, and I even bought a saxaphone for twenty bucks at a yard sale that I was teaching myself. I sulked and I moped as I packed up all my stuff to put in the U-haul.

“We’re going to find a house with a garage.” Mom promised. “A detached garage. You’ll have your own studio, and with the extra money, maybe get some recording equipment.”

And so here we were. My garage turned studio. Mom kidded that she used my college fund to sound proof it, when really she just had it reinforced with a ton of insulation and sheet rock, which was good, because I knew I was spoiled by the Santa Ana weather. 80 degrees year round, palm trees, sand, surf to come here and start all over.

“It’s nice.” I conceded, looking around. There was bright paint on the walls. I had a new amp. My computer was upgraded. She was doing everything possible to make sure I was happy and I was for the most part... until the next bombshell.

“No!” I called, throwing my bright yellow sweatshirt on the ground on my way to my room. I was putting my foot down. “I’m almost sixteen!” I yelled from the doorway.

“Which is exactly my point.” My mom said back, calmly. I slammed the door, crossed my arms and leaned back against it. Hot tears burned behind my eyelids.

I was just settling in at James Bryant High. I made a few friends. I even bought a Trailblazers shirt. Once again, I’m trucking along and my mom throws down … whatever those spikes cops would throw across the road to stop fugitive cars were called.

“I can’t keep leaving you home by yourself.” She said just as calm, knocking soft from the other side of the doorway. Her job required traveling. At first it was a few days here or there, but this last time was an entire week. And with her boss giving notice? She was offered her position. Traveling mandatory. Sure, the money looked great -- it was way more than she could hope to earn in California in three, four years combined, but boarding school?

“You don’t trust me!” I accused, leaning back hard on the door, bright light flashing angrily as I did.

“I do.” She reasoned. “But you’re fifteen. A lot of things could happen.”

“Near 16!” I shot back. “And you’re treating me like a kid!”

“I shouldn’t.” Mom said playfully. “Seeing as it’s an exceptionally mature tantrum you’re throwing.” I ripped open the door.

“This isn’t fair! You made me move! You said it would be better here, that we’d have a house and a garage, and we’d spend more time together, and now boarding school? Uniforms? Send me to one back in California then!”

“No one is going back to California.” She soothed. “The school I’m looking at isn’t that far off, it’s a quick train ride away. You could still use the garage and practice, but at least I’d know you were eating right and safe at night.”

“I don’t need a baby sitter! I can take care of myself just fine.”

“Sweetie, I love you, but you still ‘emergency’ call me at work when you see a spider.” she turned to walk down the hall.

“Once! I called you once. And that spider was the size of a small dog. It near jumped on me in the shower.” I defended, standing in my doorway.

“Cool off, baby girl.” My mom said with a soft smile, looking over her shoulder. “We’ll talk about it over dinner.” ie: She’ll convince me she’s right. Not this time.

“I’m not hungry!” I yelled, slamming the door again, this time behind me as I angrily picked up my sweatshirt and headed out the side door.

“Where are you going?”

“Westbrook.” I spat. “Evidently, I'm going to Westbrook.”

Once outside, I balled my hands into fists and toot a deep breath. Hell it was cold. Cold and rainy and nothing like back home at all. Way too cold to walk to Westbrook. Instead I headed to my heated garage and played a few angry riffs. Half way through a Green Day song, I started to cool off. The dark red, blue and green strobe lights filling the inside of the garage subsided into pinks, purple and orange as I strummed out more of a melody.

I shouldn’t have lashed out at my mom like that. Guilt swirled around in my stomach. The Baja sat in the corner next to a large amp that mom saved up to get me a couple of years back. She didn’t ask much in return. “You want to pay me back?” She’d said. "Don’t let this collect dust. Practice, play well, play your best. Work hard. Show me you appreciate it, because that will make it worth every cent to me. Got it?" Inadvertently “Sorry” by the Jonas Brothers was what I played. Stupid guitar. Knew I should have beat the drums instead. Sighing heavily, I took the strap from around my neck and carefully placed the guitar I was playing down. I near ran smack into my mom who was carrying a plate of heated up frozen lasagna and a glass of milk as I opened the garage door.

“Truce?” She asked, and I slouched. Defeated. “Good.” She replied with a smile. “Come on inside before you catch your death of cold. I’ll tell you more about this Westbrook.”

I promised to make the best of it. The school wasn’t cheap. I’d work hard, show her I appreciated it, because that would make it worth every cent to her. Besides, I still had my garage. I could still play. She promised - no more bombs. The next one would probably be mine.

I had a patrol license before I got to Westbrook. I also had a drivers license saying I was 22 and from Oklahoma. My mom doesn't know about either one, and to be honest, she'd probably be a little more upset about the first than the latter. To be fair, I really only planned to use the driver license to get into clubs that were 21 and over to see bands. It's my story, and that's what I'm sticking to. And unless the bouncer has some serious vision problems, I'm likely to get called on it, even totally dolled up I still can't hardly pass for that old. I usually bright it up so it's harder to tell. But yeah.

So some of the kids at James Bryant 'patrolled'. Some wanted to be bona fide heroes. Some were adrenaline junkies. Me... I kinda liked the suit and cape, and I really wanted to see what I could do. I mean, being a light show was cool and all. Making a rainbow at the wave of my hand, great for kids parties and Skittles commercials, but I could do so much more. I could project blinding light - you know, like a halogen flashlight in the dark. I could see what other people couldn't, different rays of light. X-Rays, UV-Rays, Infrared, the whole light spectrum. Tell people that though, and they'll think you only use it for one thing, which by the way, not all it's cracked up to be. "Yeah, you got one sexy skeleton. Mmm, you should see yourself in big red, yellow and orange blob form." But it was more than that. I could make lightwaves solid, tangible. Use them to shield myself, or project them to bowl someone over, knock 'em on their tail. That's what I wanted to give a go when I first started. Now, I'm working on something different, but it's kind of hard to practice up. So yeah. Mostly I like the suit.

Like my Oklahoma license, which I also got off some kid in James Bryant, it's not so much something I tell my mom. It's not like she tells me everything. Ask her who my father is at some point. She'll give you a song and dance that's better than anything I'll ever be able to play on my guitar. Besides, I'm a teenager. I'm supposed to have secrets. That's why they put those little locks on diaries, passwords on blogs. I plan on using that as my defense, if I ever get caught.

My mom worries about a lot of things. She worries about me eating right, which I always found kind of funny, seeing as she never cooks. A home cooked meal to her means heating up a pre-made frozen lasagna and us adding our own parmesan cheese. When I go home, I usually make a big salad for us to have on the side. With her new job, we eat a lot of take out. Truth be told, I could take up cooking or something, I’ve thought about it a few times, but then she also worries about the house burning down if I use the stove. Something about a Rice Krispy treat incident when I was a toddler.

Something else she worries about is me making friends and being happy - which is a nice thing to do and all, seeing as I was completely uprooted. But she makes sure the house is packed with snacks, there’s always plenty of sports drinks and energy drinks in the fridge now that she has the cash to buy name brands, and tries to be the cool mom when she’s around.

“Call me Jenny.” She told Jared, the first kid from school to take me up on the offer to come jam. Jenny, not Ms. Vaughn, not even Jenn or Jennifer or anything, because again, she’s the cool mom. “He’s a hottie.” She told me in a loud whisper, right in front of him, which goes to prove I’m being completely sarcastic when I say that she’s the cool mom. He was at least nice enough to pretend he didn’t notice.

Jared plays. I’ve seen him play guitar before, back in Santa Ana actually. Small world at that - I remember a couple of years ago going to vigils and stuff after his ‘accident’ in Nevada. The story is all kind of blurry, even though I’m still pretty good friends with his sister Dana. He asked me not to talk about it, which is hard not to do, but then again, I’m sure there’s plenty that I don’t want to talk about. Well, some things. I tend to talk a lot. I used to get ‘social butterfly’ written on all of my report cards. Some school counselor told my mom once it was because I was alone at home a lot and a social hobby might help. That’s when I started playing.

Anyway, Jared was the first to tag me after school as I was heading for the tram.

“Grabbing something to eat?” He asked, looming up beside me. Startled me for a second, but that’s what I get for not paying attention.

“Yeah, yeah.” I smiled, slinging my messenger bag over my shoulder. “At home, get some play time in and all.”

“Oh.” He said with a smile, and there was that awkward few seconds when I wasn’t sure if it was meant as “do you want to go grab something together?” or if it was just polite conversation.

“You could come.” I offered, and he smiled again. “Jam out a little.”

“Your mom wouldn’t mind?”

“Oh, nah - she’s not like that. Likes having people over and all. ‘Sides, the only person I’ve played with since I got here really is old Lars down at Rock Candy.”

Rock Candy was this super cool music store I found over in Skyway. It wasn’t like Downtown Music at all - where someone in a suit watched you like a hawk and constantly asked you if you planned to buy whatever it was you were looking for.

Instead, Rock Candy was more a hang out, for wannabe’s like me. Lars was this grizzly old rocker who ran the cellar section, and he didn’t mind if you hung out and tried out anything and everything. I ran into Jared there a few times, too, and it’s where I met Gretchen Lauder. She goes to Westbrook too, mad bad bass player from what I’ve heard.

Jared stayed for dinner and kind of freaked my mom out when he asked her to pass the salt, not realizing one of his tendrils had already grabbed it. My mom politely tried to not choke on her store bought casserole as she gaped, Jared turned a little red in the cheeks, but I couldn’t stop laughing.

That’s the thing with Paragon. She’s used to *me* being a freak, but face it, I’m bright, I make flashy colors. I’m super handy to have around because you’ll never be without a flashlight. She doesn’t really need to know everything I can do. But she’s not used to guys with energy tendrils, or girls who can catch fire, or explode.

I worry too. my mom is a ‘norm’ so I’m kind of glad we live in the outskirts of town. The more I go and patrol, the more I see what could happen. She still carries her pepper spray and a taser in her purse, same as she did back when she was working night shifts back in Santa Ana. Back then, we didn’t have a lot. Now, she’s wearing designer labels and she just bought a nice new car. Audi, not really my thing, I don’t have a lot of respect for a car company that sounds like a type of belly button, which got me thinking of having mine pierced. She promised to teach me to drive when I get my permit.

Me driving.

That’ll give her something else to worry about.

"We'll discuss it when I get home." I rolled my eyes. That was mom talk, for 'over my dead body.'

"Why? " I challenged. "It's not like I'm asking for a tattoo, or anything worse pierced. "

"Shayne Renee Vaughn...I said we'll discuss it when I get home. If you keep it up, it'll be a definite no. Understand, rubber band?" I rolled my eyes again. The middle name is never a good sign. She needed to go because there was some business dinner where she was, even though I'd called her from near noon here. Back home in Santa Ana they'd be having breakfast.

I didn't bother mentioning Allie had her belly button pierced since she was 13, even though that went to prove her mom is much, much cooler. She was also a bit older, and mom liked to talk about Ms. Love and her mid-life crisis. Kind of the same type that would make someone buy a little Audi coupe. Pointing that out would definitely not get me anywhere either.

I played for a bit in the garage. I'd seen Hop and was in the mood to drum, so that's what I did, rockin' out some super old classics while the Bose speakers my mom bought me with her last bonus pounded along. Bright colors radiated with every hit of the drum, yellow and green splashes on the cymbals, blues and reds with the snare, orange from the toms, and purple from the bass drum. It's not something I had to concentrate that hard on, it was just like knowing which drum to hit when. You could just feel it.

There was a mini fridge in the garage mom added with her last bonus too. I opened it and grabbed a Dragon Fruit vitamin water. I'd never seen a dragon fruit for real, but according to the internet it was not only a real thing, but they were this incredibly vibrant pink color, so it's now one of my favorites. Don't get me wrong, I do appreciate the way she's thinking of me and all, the speakers, the mini fridge, the promise of some new pieces for my kit. You'd think if she was trying to make up for not being there, the very least she could do would be let me get my belly button pierced. You had to be 18 for that though, or have the consent of a parent or guardian. I stopped mid sip.

Or have a drivers license from Oklahoma proving you were old enough.

Well, the spider is back. I screamed loud enough that I’m sure one of the neighbors called 9-1-1, which really - if you saw the size of the spider? It was worth a call to the police, or animal control, something. At least I’m sure it was probably blind. I know I can be a bit jumpy, and getting scared I find it hard to tone it down. If the bright white flash of light didn’t blind it, then it truly belonged in Paragon, because it was meta.

So I made the mad dash into my room and locked my door, and through it all, I was super proud of myself. I didn’t call my mom, not once. I took a moment to check out the aqua colored barbell on my naval. Healed nice, and I wasn't even one of those super fast healer kids. Maybe I got some residual effect or something from one of them.

Getting your stomach pierced isn't the same as getting your ears pierced, where you walk into an accessories shop at the mall and a teen-ager punches a hole through your ear cartilage. I had a few of those too, and eventually I think I’ll do my eyebrow. Not my nose though. a small ring wouldn’t be bad at the base, but a stud, I’d have to get the back on and I couldn’t help but think it’d be perpetually feel like you had a booger or something. But yeah, for your abdomen, you needed to go to an actual body piercing shop. There were plenty in Paragon. The first one I walked into, I walked right back out. Stale cigarette smoke wafted through the door the minute I opened it, making me gag a little, and the piercer/tattoo artist was chewing tobacco, making his teeth all brown and dirty looking. When he spit into an otherwise clear bottle on the counter, I left without a word. Serious gross out.

The next one was a little cleaner, and very goth, which is a totally comfortable situation to walk into when you’re wearing purple, green and orange, donning cranberry colored hair. Oh, hey, maybe I should lighten it to dragon fruit pink. That’d be rocking!

They were nice enough, but it was kind of like I was a Twilight vampire - minus the brooding amongst the Lost Boys, which if you ask me is a truly underrated classic. And I have nothing against goths as a culture, I’m not Polly Sunshine 24/7 myself, and if being moody/broody makes you happy, more power to you, rock on, Wednesday Addams. But the girl had on the kind of shirt with tight sleeves until they got to her wrists, where they billowed out and covered her black nail polished fingertips. I had an awful image of that lacy sleeve getting caught up on something while a sharp needle cut into my tummy and things just went downhill from there, so I left.

The third place I went to was just what I was looking for. I was greeted with a smile by a guy in spiky green hair, and blue jeans and once you walked past all the T-shirts printed printed with complimentary comments about weed and hemp, there was a candy shop of barbells and rings with various colors, sizes and metals for every type of bellybutton. I really wanted a ring, but turns out you have to start with a stud. It looked almost like a nail, but they called it a barbell. I thought about calling for back up. Have someone show up to hold my hand, talk me into or out of it. Back home it would have been Dana. She’d have filmed it even. But this morning proved I could scream with the best of the B-rate girls, and I didn’t want that being all over youview in case this guy totally lied about it not hurting that bad. He had those huge rings inside his earlobes that stretched them out so maybe his threshold and mine were on two different planes. But I sucked it up. I asked if he had any that were dragon fruit colored, and that got us talking about how that was in fact a real fruit. He knew it's real name was pitaya and that it came from a cactus, and I figured if he was smart enough to know something like that, I was lucky to have him as my piercer. I finally picked one in aquamarine, figuring it’s the kind of color that goes with everything. They had an area in back that reminded me of a dentist office. It was cold and clean - the piercer checked my license a few times and I tried to act all nonchalant about it.

“You sure you’re 22?” He asked. I turned up the glow a bit to kind of disguise what I could.

“Unless my mom's been lying to me for the past 22 years.” I replied, thinking that was totally something a mature person would say. I was going to add that I'd be happy I looked young when I hit thirty, but you don't want to talk too much. If you talk too much, they know you're lying. They also make you confirm the birthday on the license, and seriously - if you have a fake id? Take the time and memorize the birthday. They always ask. That's when I asked him if he accepted tips, and it was pretty clear sailing from then on.

I explained my bright gene and he didn’t seem fazed at all. My piercer wore sunglasses just in case. I joked about welding goggles, and he asked if I had super tough skin and mentioned a torch, which near made me leave. No, no - I have normal skin. It’s normally a lot softer, but my cocoa butter was locked in the bathroom with the spider from hell.

He politely listened to me ramble, and then I had to do a lot of breathing without talking, but it actually didn’t hurt near as bad as I thought it would. And now, a couple of days later that the redness was all gone, it looked pretty hawt. My first grown-up decision as a 16 year old.

All I had to do now was hide it from my mom.

"What is the average lifespan of a house spider?" I typed into Google, but my phone rang before I could click on any of the answers. Pink's "Rock Star." Sure it was older and all, but damn if it didn't have a good beat and some great lyrics, and I kinda dug Pink. She named herself after a color. I don't know if I could pick a color to name myself after. I'd likely sound like a character on Blues Clues.

"Shayne Vaughn, Rock Star." I answered in a professional voice, seeing as I knew it was my mom. I spun full circle in my desk chair.

"Jenn Vaughn, your mother." She said back half thug like, and even through the phone, I could hear the smile in her voice.

"What up, Jet Set?" I said in my best (re: terrible) gangster accent, spinning back the other way.

"Little bit of bad news, Baby Doll." I stopped spinning and raised my eyes to the ceiling. "The deal we were trying to make fell through, so I'm meeting with someone else in three days. I won't be home until sometime next week." My shoulders slumped. She was spending more time overseas than over here.

"Awww." I said, trying to hide any disappointment in my voice. She'd at least been sounding happier when she called. For the longest time in Santa Ana, she was all down and out. I mostly try not to give her a hard time about the move and all that. I figure that's part of being all mature. You have to say nice things to someone you love while the whole time trying not to throw yourself a pity party. "Wait, is this one of those things where you actually won't be home, or are you telling me this because you will be home, and are trying to bust me having a party at the house?" I asked.

"They'd pull my mom card if I told you. Sorry, sweetie."

"Bummer. But yeah, I'll hold the fort down, batten the hatches, all that. No worries."

I opened the mini fridge in my room and tilted my head, keeping the phone cradled between my shoulder and ear as I looked at all the bottles inside, noting the colors to myself as my mom talked. "Pink, light pink, red, red orange, red red, XXX, wait, what? " I pulled the bottle from the fridge.

"Acai, Blueberry, Pomegranite." I read to myself, while my mom talked about the meetings she was having and countries she got to visit, and how she wished she went to college at 18 rather than later on in life. "Triple X? Oh, right right. Three antioXidants. Clever marketing. Am I in the mood for red?" I decided I was.

"So you're eating all right?" She asked, realizing talking up the work/college track was losing me. I hurried to swallow my sip to answer.

"Living on nachos and smoothies."

"Shayne..."

"I'm eating just fine. And I love these vitamin waters. They're way colorful. Everything's great. Went on an overnight camp out, the one you faxed me the permission slip for. Camped out on the beach, it was almost sorta kind of like being back home in a way."

"Almost sorta kinda?" She kidded.

"Exactly." I replied. "Fun crowd showed up."

"Should I be worried?"

"Terribly. We were all shooting up yesterday in the backroom of the ink shop before we got tattoos."

"Shayne Renee Vaughn...."

"Don't worry, mine is very tasteful, and it even says 'mom' right between the portrait of the devil and the marijuana leaf. The 'o' is a little skull."

"I don't find you funny..." But she giggled none the less. Giggled. What mom giggles?

"I'm fine mom, everything here is fine. No worries, okay? No worries." No worries. Just come home. I miss you.

My mom's next meeting was cancelled too, so she came home early. I had a little pang of guilt because I wished it and it happened, and then I worried about her plane crashing the whole way home. I'm not really superstitious, I mean, I step on cracks, I don't have triskaidekaphobia, 13 is one of my favorite numbers, it's more a karma thing.

I could remake the hell out of that Boy George song. I tapped out the rhythm to it with my pencil eraser, tiny bits of color sparking, until Ms. Davis looked over. I put the pencil down and tried to look sheepish. She went back to talking about tangents - which aren't California boys, for the record, and I went back to wishing the class would end.

Anyway, my mom was flying home just about the time I was taking that test in Mr. Hendrick's class, so I'm going to blame the big "D" I got on my inability to concentrate due to karmic worry.

After school, I was banging away on my kit, shining bright lights with every beat. The Bose system was cranking Wipe Out which is one of the drummiest drum songs out there, so I was having a blast with it, sort of unwinding from the day. Teachers and classes and general high school cattiness and drama. I didn't even hear my mom come into the garage, 'cause I guess I was getting pretty into it.

"SHAYNE!" She hollered, and I looked up, missing a beat or two but still drumming, lights flashing everywhere.

"MOM!" I yelled back, rat-a-tatting on the tom.

"Turn it off!" She called.

"I can't turn it off!" I yelled back. "It's who I am!" I smiled, whipping my hair back and forth as I went from drum to drum to cymbal, but she gave me an exasperated look and yanked the plug to my speakers. I slowed the drumming to a stop. "Oh, you meant the music."

"Very clever, Trevor." She said, tousling my hair. Hers sported a new color and cut. Nothing cool, sandy brown with blonde highlights, but the cut was great for her face, and you could just tell it was done up at someplace pricey. "Supper's all set. C'mon inside and eat."

"All right! I'm starved." I admitted, sliding my sticks back into my messenger bag.

"We can get you a new one of those." My mom said, crinkling her nose at the frayed, patched up, half home-made purple, yellow, green and aqua bag. I recently sewed a few patches of dragonfruit pink on there, just because. I looked down and back at her, kind of insulted.

"I just near got this one how I like it." I complained. Back in Cali? I sometimes used the same backpack two, three years in a row. "As long as it holds books." I remember her saying when I was in 2nd grade and wanted a Finding Nemo backpack in the worst way. Crush was the coolest. But my Monsters Inc. from kindergarten was still usable, even though Boo's color completely faded, and the little heat pressed Sully and Mike Wazowski were long gone. I got a generic one mid-year when I broke the zipper accidentally on purpose.

So here she was now, insisting on Vera Bradly, which she showed me online before dinner. They looked like old lady patterns. If I had a grandma? I imagined she'd carry her knitting around in something like that. Still, she ordered me a Viva La Vera messenger bag for some stupid amount of money that could have been better put to use on a new ride cymbal because mine was getting banged up. It wasn't my style at all. Yeah- it had a lot of colors, but not in the good way. Maybe I can sell it on Gregslist. She ordered herself a Michael Kors with a whole bunch of MKs in little circles. This from the person who used to tell me all a name brand did was make something more expensive.

Dinner was pretty silent after that. Well, I was pretty quiet. My mom talked about a couple of people she met and how beautiful Europe was. I did remind her that Parent's Day was coming up, and she said she'd be at the home office in Paragon all week, but I still wasn't going to hold my breath or anything.

That's just an open invitation for karma.

"For Pete’s sake, Shayne, we live right outside of Paragon. I can go to your school any time and meet all your friends. You can have them come here. Some of them already have.” My mom didn't even have to turn around for me to know she was rolling her eyes as she stood at the sink doing dishes. And by dishes, I mean two glasses, because we had late-night take out. I'd only picked at mine, mostly because I grabbed a spicy chicken sandwich with Jared and Dana at Westy’s.

"That's not the point." I groused, leaning against the fridge. "It's Parent's Day. The day your parent shows up, meets other parents, and does parent things. And you're supposed to drive me crazy and then take me to a waffle house for breakfast."

“How about I nag you about a bunch of things and give you a box of Eggos?” Even I had to smile despite myself. Freezer waffles. My mom turned to me and softened her look, apologetically. “I know you were disappointed baby girl, but I’m under a lot of pressure from work. I had two deals fall through, that's a ton of backpedaling." This time, I rolled my eyes. I'm sixteen, up until last year backpedaling was something you did on a mountain bike. "Like I said, I'll make it up to you. We'll get those cymbals you were talking about."

"I don't want cymbals." I replied. "Well, I do want cymbals, but I don't want them to 'make up' for this. I hoped you’d be there is all." My mom sighed.

"You're not a little kid, Sid." She countered, throwing the dish towel my way for me to hang up on the fridge handle. "You’ve been saying that since we moved, well, here's your chance to prove it." I balked. Part of me wanted to pitch a fit, because I was disappointed and hurt and I wanted her to know it. Everyone else found the time to go and take their kid to the waffle house for breakfast. But the bigger part of me knew she was right. That was such a little girl thing to do, and should be saved for special occasions. Plus I realized that she probably would have been there if she could. She didn’t just blow it off. And it’s not like it was a huge deal. I wasn’t seven years old waiting for her to bring birthday cupcakes to my second grade classroom. I pitched a fit back then and all it did was get me sent to my room without desert. Suck it up, buttercup.

“Saw Jared’s parents.” I finally blurted out, breaking the awkward silence, dropping the subject.

“The Lee’s? How are they?”

“Dr. Lee is still impressed at his handy-work.” I said, squinting my eyes and giving a big toothy grin to show it off. Jared’s dad was my orthodontist. I had braces for a bunch of years in grade school. It’s always strange at first seeing someone like your dentist in a non-professional setting. Like you expect him to wear scrubs and a lab coat at all times or something, but both Mr. and Mrs. Lee are super nice. And Dana’s just a blast to be around. “Dana’s still great. I promised her she could come stay here a week in the summer.”

“Fine by me. The basement will be finished by then, you’ll have somewhere to hide out and watch those horrible movies.” I chuckled. My mom wasn’t a big fan of gore. She tousled my hair again as she passed by to go sit in the living room, kicking off her work heels and putting her feet on the coffee table. “Thanks for understanding, baby girl. I do enough traveling without adding a guilt trip to the list.”

“I wasn’t trying to guilt trip you.” I insisted, sitting on the opposite end of the couch and tossing her the remote. “I just wanted you to feel really bad, and you know, regret it for a long time.” I showed off my orthodontic work again and both of us laughed.

“Tomorrow, I’ll pick you up and we’ll go over to that music store you like and get you all new cymbals. Top hat and everything.”

“Hi hat.” I corrected, embarrassed for her. “And I am not taking my mother to Rock Candy. Social suicide.”

“I thought we were gal pals.” My mom kidded, kicking at me with a stockinged foot.

“We’re not.” I said holding a hand up.

“My heart! It’s breaking!” She kidded. “You used to climb on the couch and say Mommy, you’re my besssssst friend ever!.”

“I was four. My other best friend was that talking purple dinosaur who sang the “I love you” song. He told me we were a happy family.” She swatted me with a throw pillow from the couch.

“I gave you life.”

“But will you give me your credit card, that’s the question.” She laughed and shook her head.

“That would be a big check in the bad idea category. I’ll transfer some money to your account. This way, you can use it for what you want.” I got an uneasy feeling in my stomach. Part of me was feeling kind of sick, like a sell out. I was one of those kids whose parents bought them off with things in exchange for spending time with them. Fortunately, the bigger part of me - the one that grew up really wanting that Finding Nemo backpack- wanted to do cartwheels and say “All right! I’m one of those kids whose parents buy them off with stuff! I got cash!!!” I went with that part.

Who needs all those waffle carbs anyway.

"Not bad, Shayne." Mr. Edgerton said with a grin. He wasn't officially a teacher at Westbrook. He was what they called an adjunct. For the longest time, I thought they were saying 'add junk' which you never want to say to an actual adjunct, just an FYI. Mr. Edgerton was a local cape who went by the name Light Year. Another FYI - he doesn't find it funny when you call him Buzz. Apparently he was around for much longer than the Disney flick. He also doesn't like it when you point out that Lightning McQueen uses Lightyear tires. Needless to say, we didn't have the most ideal start.

But now that we'd worked together for a few times, we had some of the kinks worked out. Mr. Edge could do a lot of the same things I could. It was weird talking to someone about meta stuff. Kind of like it's not something you can define.

I've been a meta a while. I don't remember when 'it happened' or what happened. I wasn't born like this - not according to my mom, anyway, I don't have a lot of pictures to go by, a lot of my mom's stuff was lost in a fire when I was a toddler. I think it was the one caused by the Rice Krispy treats, but I'm not really sure.

So things are kind of like second nature to me. Light wise, I mean. I don't so much think about it, it's just there, something I can do. I told Mr. Edge that it's sort of like blinking. You do it automatically, unless you think about it, in which case you can do it voluntarily. And the thing is - like blinking, unless someone brings it to your attention, you don't think about how to do it, or why you do it. You just do. It always takes me a while to get back to normal after a session with Mr. Edge.

Another FYI - he likes that nickname better than Mr. Ed, who apparently was some famous talking horse back when TV had no color.

Anyway, that's the part he's the most concerned with, what I can do voluntarily, like Predator vision. The technical terms are active infrared and thermographic. But they're hard to describe, so usually if I say "Predator vision." Like the movie Predator. I'm not photosensitive or anything, my eyes are just fine in any kind of light.

Mostly we work on stuff that’s not all that hard to figure out. He sends some beams my way - I deflect them. Then I get to play offense. He’s very big on white light - the blinding kind. I sort of make mine flashier, alternate colors, separate the light, like a prism, but he’s not so much impressed with ‘showy’ stuff.

We ended off with an assignment. He wants me to push the envelope a little. I’m supposed to think outside the box - because apparently someone woke up to a big bowl of Catch-Phrase Flakes that morning - and think of different ways to use my abilities. Something I haven’t tried yet.

Now the only question is what.