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cerebral
palsy, like most people who had it, was caused by a problem when he
was being born. For him it was a lack of oxygen to the brain.
That’s not genetic, you dope.
     
    Francis turned to write on the blackboard.
     
    I could put him through a wall right now, I bet, Red
thought. He had a look of disgust for the man on his face that was
clear for anyone who cared to see it. Saying the words as he wrote
them, Francis began to scribble “What is genetics?” on the board.
Red focused on the chalk in the teacher’s hand. He was crossing t’s
and dotting i’s with a smack on the blackboard each time. Red
wanted to shout at Francis as he dotted the second i, “You’re
clueless! You don’t even know!” He felt the wave burst through him,
pushing the energy across the room.
     
    The chalk exploded as if on impact when it connected
one last time with the blackboard. Francis’s head bobbed backwards.
The class filled with a murmur of laughter. Momentarily flustered,
the teacher looked down on the shelf of the blackboard for the
broken piece of chalk, but there wasn’t one. He couldn’t find
anything on the floor either, and his hand held nothing but chalk
dust.
     
    The students laughed a little louder as Francis
looked around for the chalk. He ignored them, grabbing another
piece of chalk from further down the shelf and nervously adjusting
his glasses.
     
    Red looked down, pretending to take notes. His breath
was short and choppy. He couldn’t believe it. He had felt the surge
of the wave pushing out of him, saw the momentary darkness, the
spots in front of his eyes. But he didn’t care. It was different
this time. Not finding the words to explain how he had done it, he
knew it was him. He had made the chalk explode. He had pushed Chuck
down.
     
    Letting the feeling of light-headedness pass as the
wave receded, Red smiled. He let the wave splash around in his
head.
     
    It was his now.
     

 
     
     
    Chapter 8
     
    Red looked at the house again and rolled his eyes. He
said he’d be right out, Red thought as he patted the Nerf football.
After getting home from school, he didn’t bother to put his book
bag in his room and asked his brother to have a catch the second he
saw him. Red even went to get the Nerf from the basement, which
Scott would usually do because it was easier for him to go up and
down the steps, and convinced his mom that he hardly had any
homework when she suggested he get some of it done before rushing
outside.
     
    He turned back to the open field and pretended to
throw the ball toward the woods, which they once estimated was
about seventy-five yards from the last line of trees in the front
part of Mr. Taylor’s yard. He resisted the urge to see if he could
reach the woods by pushing his throw with the wave. Red was almost
convinced he could do it. In fact, he thought it would be easy. But
he knew if Scott came out before he walked at least most of the
distance to pick up the ball, his brother would wonder how he had
thrown it so far. Instead, he tucked the ball under his arm and
began to run for the imaginary end zone. Of course, he knew he was
moving at about the rate of a semi-fast walk for his brother, but
he staved off ghost tacklers with his perfectly timed
stiff-arms.
     
    Hearing the sound of rustling leaves from behind, he
knew his brother was racing toward him. Scott loved to tease him by
chasing him down from long distances. Red picked up his pace,
running as fast as he could but knowing the desire to move quicker
only made his muscles tighten up. He resisted the urge to look back
at his brother, focusing instead on the field ahead of him.
     
    Just once, Red thought as his heart began to race. He
looked straight ahead, feeling that maybe he had lengthened his
stride a hair. Scott’s laughter caught his ear, but he refused to
give in. Just once I wanna beat him.
     
    Feeling Scott behind him, Red looked back and stuck
his arm out to hold him off for just another yard or two.