CHAPTER FIVE: THE LAST DAY OF MY LIFE

January 17

Sometimes, you can predict how a day's going to unfold before it's actually happened.

It's a strange and unpredictable skill to have. The 'skill' you think you possess might be only common observations, such as how much sleep you had the night before, the presence or absence of caffeine, or how many minutes it took to start your car. Or it could go far beyond that and be based off a bunch of esoteric nonsense like ancient prophecies and the alignments of planets. There's no mistaking that gut feeling when you start your morning with such a premonition. You feel it in your very bones. When something is going to go right (or very, very wrong), you just know.

Whether your hunch is good or bad is irrelevant compared to the feeling itself. Then, when you look back at the day and your prediction was correct, you might wonder if you have any secret family history of divination or if the day itself was somehow meant to be the way it was, ordained this way by fate or some distant deity.

Bryn Hansen professed no religion. He hadn't thought about it much, but the concept of some random celestial bastard bringing everything into existence within a single week seemed a little far-fetched. So did the idea of said celestial bastard having influence over your every move.

But, if there is no deity or fate, then where do such things as premonitions come from? Are they like dreams, in which your brain merely tries to make sense of things recently in your life, or are they a warning from Higher Up about something sinister in your very near future?

"Hey, are you going to take your tray or what?"

The serving attendant glared and snapped her fingers. He blinked and realized he had just spaced out while in the line for breakfast. Eyes glazed over, staring into space, the whole nine yards. Real smooth, Bryn. He muttered "Sorry" and took the plastic tray of food held in front of him.

"Next!" she called. There were fifteen others in line behind him, each teenager yawning but eager for their morning meal of mediocrity. He swiped his meal card in the wall-mounted machine.

Bryn carried the tray to his favorite table in the corner of the lunch room, next to the school trophy case. The entire wall was a glass cabinet and held dozens of athletic trophies in hermetic grandeur. The seat he chose was opposite the trophy awarded for state basketball champions of 1973. Eureka High's team had never won since then, although they had made the playoffs several times, and with the current basketball coach- the school's computer technician, who knew computers but really couldn't tell one end of a basketball court from another- he didn't expect history to repeat itself.

No one usually sat at his table, save one or two chess club geeks during lunch period, but for breakfast it was always empty and Bryn preferred it this way. He liked eating meals without being bothered.

Most students at the high school ate breakfast at home and arrived later. However, the school also received grant money to provide needy students with healthy meals if they wanted them. This was a recent development brought about by the current principal at the request of parents such as Bryn's mother who worked night shifts or worked too early to feed and transport their kids to school. For the low and state subsidized price of 30 dollars per month, the school would give your child breakfast and lunch every school day, to the tune of less than a dollar per meal. The lunch-only plan ran $20. Meals were deducted from the student's ID card; woe and a $15 charge to the student who misplaced it.

In Bryn's case, he was certainly not starving, even if his normal breakfasts were nutritionally lacking. He thought it was simply better to eat in peace without navigating the minefield of his mom's morning temper. He even volunteered to pony up some of the cash. The half-hour of silence was worth it. It was ideal thinking time, or for catching up on late homework.

"And I've done too much thinking lately," he said to himself. His cheeks were still red with embarrassment over holding up the breakfast line. Seriously? Am I that far gone? He rubbed his temples with the heel of his hand. A small headache was brewing there, no doubt from everything tumbling through his mind this morning. For some reason he had been thinking about some pretty deep shit lately.

It started when he began his daily ride to school (well, in this case walk, because two inches of snow would cripple any skateboard), and started thinking about the not-so-secret secret powers that he possessed and how everything in his life revolved around keeping them concealed. And it's not like I can ask anyone about this, because who would believe me if I told them?

Last night he had been kept awake by nagging doubts. Roughly within the last year, he had gone from blindly accepting his unique gift to critiquing it and searching for any other individuals with similar abilities. The playing field was admittedly sparse. This got him started on the premonition stuff, because he was no stranger to the feeling. Sometimes he thought it was part of his abilities to be able to, so to speak, cast a mental fishing net into the future of the day and get a rough estimate. Unlike his phasing, this was uncontrollable. These gut feelings just happened at odd moments.

A sinister feeling is sometimes preferable to no feeling at all. And today he felt absolutely nothing. It was a terrifying blank slate, an event horizon, and anything could happen.

Bryn thought the school breakfast program was the only worthwhile thing Principal Davis had done for the place. The man only cared about the football and basketball teams and about padding his wallet, and to hell with academics. The Mercedes sedan parked outside was proof of that. But Bryn was thankful for small blessings, and had even told the principal so. He couldn't even find much fault with the food. At least when the regular cook was working. If not- well, on those days you were better off making your own breakfast. Your stomach would thank you later.

Today's menu was a breakfast burrito, yogurt, a banana, and apple juice. He dug his spoon into the pale white goo and swallowed. It was still resolutely gray and chilly outside; the concrete steps and patio beyond the window were blanketed in snow dotted with students' footprints. It wasn't the most cheerful of days, and the clouds above matched Bryn's mood well, but he had hope for this Monday. It was the first Monday since the holidays. Unlike some schools that allowed three months for the summer break and two weeks for the winter one, Eureka High School gave its students fifty days, more or less, for each.

More to the point, it was the Monday that marked the beginning of the second half of freshman year. This horrible semester's going to be over soon, he thought. He bit off another chunk from his burrito.

Students began to trickle in as he finished his meal. It was common practice to hang around the lunchroom or the foyer before classes, as there wasn't really anywhere else to sit other than the hallways or the snow-covered benches outside. When 8:40 rolled around and the warning bell rang, most of the tables would be occupied with kids socializing or snacking in the last free minutes before class. When the lunchroom was fully alive with chatter, he deposited his tray by the kitchen and went to collect his supplies for the first class of the day, which was algebra.

His locker in the freshman hallway had seen better days. Its door was bent from thirty years of students' kicks and scuffs, and the bottom edge stuck out an inch so that it rattled loudly when opened and shut. This was not Bryn's fault and had been in this state when he rented it. There was also a large dent at eye level which was the result of a human head hitting it at high velocity- this one was in fact Bryn's fault- and demonstrated the dangers of trying to sneak up behind him and shove him while his back was turned. A simple dodge, quick headlock and the bully's head met the locker with a satisfying crash. Bryn pulled it open and took his calculator, math binder and pencil. Most would hang their backpacks up and leave it there until classes finished for the day, but not Bryn. He had a habit of keeping it close at all times, born from days in elementary school when bullies might try to swipe his pencils or other supplies. Old habits die hard, he thought dully.

He shouldered his backpack and headed for math class. Math and science classes met in three modular buildings set out behind the school while the original classrooms were being remodeled. This meant a quick but chilly walk down the west hall and around the industrial arts classroom to the exit, then up the hill. When the bell rang, Bryn was already in his seat near the back of the room.

How I've missed this place. I just can't get enough of cramped desks and angry teachers and low-grade insulation that barely keeps your joints from freezing solid.

"Good morning!" called Mrs. Bell, the math teacher, once everyone had settled into their seats. The chatter died down. "Did everyone have a great holiday break? I know I did. I'll have to hit the gym for a month to work off all the Christmas calories."

There was a murmur of assent. Those in the back broke into loud banter again, while the girls in the front rows tried to look studious and attentive. Their confused faces gave them away. No doubt the two months of tanning beds, TV and gossip exacted a heavy toll.

"I'm well aware of the fact that it's cold in here, maintenance is supposed to be bringing over an extra space heater but until then, we'll do the best we can. Now, who can tell me where we left off in our textbooks? A bonus point to whoever can solve… this equation." She wrote a math problem on the board. "No one? This should be easy for anyone who actually read through and remembered chapter seven, covering radicals and radical expressions."

Bryn scribbled some calculations and arrived at the answer. He remained silent as was his habit, however. He would never make a sound in class unless participation grades depended on it.

"It looks like we might need a quick review of fractions and radicals before we continue on, because some of you might get lost if you don't have a clear grasp of this stuff. Let's start with the basic radical laws…"

He slowly filled a notebook page with ordered notes, even as his mind was elsewhere. It was a skill he had mastered early in his schooling. His hands could write and his face could look towards the blackboard, but his eyes would be anywhere besides forward. Part of it was being mindful to his surroundings and sometimes the answer to a difficult problem was in plain sight on another student's paper. Bryn was not a cheater; he always made every effort to do his own work and succeed under his own power, yet he was not above using his sharp eyes to get himself out of a jam, such as a teacher calling him out unexpectedly. He hated being put in the spotlight.

"Now once we have this expression written out into its constituent parts, we see if there is anything in the denominator that can be cancelled," continued Mrs. Bell. He wrote down the problem and heard a soft thud on his desk. Someone nearby had flicked a note to him while his head was lowered.

Passing notes in class was, naturally, frowned upon. He kept his movements relaxed and slowly unfolded the paper. It bore a crisp feminine script that he didn't recognize.

Hey… I'm not trying to be weird or anything but I noticed you sitting alone at breakfast. I'm pretty new here and I haven't made any friends yet. The kids here seem really judgmental and so far they've ignored me. Maybe we could be friends? If you want.

Bryn kept his gaze focused while his eyes darted snakelike from classmate to classmate. He finally decided on a girl sitting behind him to the right, a girl that must have transferred in just before the break- or at least, one that he had failed to notice in classes before. She gave him the tiniest of smiles and returned to her work. It was hard to look back at her without being obvious. He managed to see straight brown shoulder-length hair and a cheerful face with prominent dimples. Her sapphire eyes, wide and innocent, were shrouded behind gently curved bangs that fell past her eyebrows, but what caught Bryn's eye the most was how she sat in her seat.

There was no phony posturing or sucking up to the teacher. She just was there, quiet and attentive, head shyly lowered over her work. It was as if she was trying to be invisible in plain sight. Admittedly he was taken aback, both by the honest sincerity of the note and by this mysterious girl he guessed was its author. Everything about her was intriguing.

A bead of sweat trickled down his forehead. Bryn had a bad track record with girls and had never dated or even kissed one, although not from a lack of trying; any girl that gave him a second glance was usually shallow and only after his appearance or looking for a change of pace after dating several football jocks. In addition, he tended to choke up from nervousness when talking to a girl because he was never sure what to say. Small talk defeated him. He found it easier to avoid girls altogether.

And now that one was mildly interested in being his friend, he was at a complete loss.

He wrote underneath her lettering:

My name's Bryn. I'm not much of a talker or a socializer but if you want to, we can sit together at lunch. I know how this place is and sometimes it's better off being alone. What class do you have next?

Mrs. Bell droned on about exponents and factoring. When her back was turned, Bryn flicked the paper to the girl's desk with a quick wrist. Only then did he think, What if it wasn't her? What if I sent that note to the wrong girl? He calmed his breathing and reminded himself that today was the first time he had seen this enigmatic brunette. He glanced back and to his relief, she was writing on the note and- smiling!

The paper, now folded into a triangle, landed on his desk again.

I'm Caitlin Thomas.

I'd like that… finally I'll have someone to talk to that isn't calling me fat. And I have band, then science, and English.

Bryn chanced another glance at Caitlin. That's such a pretty name, he thought, and to his surprise her grin was warm and genuine. He wrote a final response and despite everything he couldn't stop the smile and the flush of color creeping into his cheeks.

---

The morning seemed to take days. Whether it was his unwillingness to get back into the swing of a class schedule or his anticipation of meeting Caitlin at lunch, the minutes dragged. He put in a substandard performance for band class, for which he played trumpet. Most of the instruments owned by the school were decades old and needed repairs; Bryn's trumpet had issues and would play several notes off-pitch. Even though Caitlin sat in the row in front of him, cradling a dented French horn, the honking and screeching of wind instruments played by unskilled teens made conversation impossible. History and English were worse than band because there was no temperamental instrument to distract his wandering mind.

At long last, the lunch bell rang. Bryn practically skipped out of English and the reading questions due Wednesday were already stuffed into the farthest reaches of his brain.

For the first time in a long time, Bryn Hansen didn't know what to do.

It's only a girl, one that probably wants homework help or a shoulder to cry on. So why are you acting like you're walking into a knife fight? As he headed for the lunchroom and took his place in the line, he began to wonder if he would rather have the knife fight instead. At least it would be straightforward.

He patted and tugged at his clothes. They just didn't seem to fit right on his body. And his hair- well, there was nothing he could do about that. It had a secondary brain that acted independently of his own, and as he absently brushed the mess out of his eyes, it fell back into place two seconds later.

Fuck it. Caitlin won't really care about how my hair looks, will she? Either she's sincere or someone put her up to it in order to make a laughingstock of me. Or maybe she'll chicken out. I don't care either way. Bryn took his lunch tray- pepperoni pizza, green beans, roll and pudding- to his table. He sat down and began eating, eyes lowered, and he hadn't even made it through the first pizza slice when someone said, "You're right where you said you'd be."

And there she was, standing across the table from him.

"Yeah," replied Bryn. "Where I always sit, I guess. Do you want to sit down?"

"Thanks." Caitlin surprised him by sitting, not opposite him, but on the seat to his right. It added unexpected intimacy to the encounter and Bryn was a bit unnerved. She was close enough that he could catch a whiff of her strawberry-scented shampoo.

"So Caitlin," Bryn began, liking the way her name sounded on his tongue. "You're new here?" He honestly couldn't think of what else to say.

"My family moved here two months ago. My dad used to work in Las Vegas, and then he lost his job and my mom found a job at the bank downtown. It's a little tight right now though, 'cause my dad can't seem to find anything. And I hate this school so much."

"Damn economy, right?" When he noticed that his joking tone and curse fell flat, he backtracked. "I know what you mean. It's hard for my mom and dad too."

Caitlin nodded and chewed her pizza thoughtfully. She seemed to be sizing him up, watching how he acted, and he knew this first impression was vital.

Should I talk about the weather now, or that dumb essay in Mrs. Todd's English class? On the rare occasions that he used words, he was not one to talk circles around a subject and fill the air with frivolous noise. He got straight to the point. At the same time, he didn't want Caitlin to think he was snubbing her or being arrogant. He put to her the question that had badgered him all through the morning, as kindly as he knew how.

"I wanted to ask, why'd you send me that note in class today? I've never talked to you before this minute. I mean, I appreciate it and I'm kinda honored you'd want to be my friend. You're the first one that's ever asked."

"You'll probably think I'm a creep if I tell you the whole story," said Caitlin, smiling at him. "Sure you want to hear this one?"

"Hey, it can't be any worse than listening to Bell go on and on about fractions. Then you take this denominator…" He imitated her monotonous vacuum-cleaner voice and Caitlin laughed. She had a peculiar way of laughing. It was shrill and escalated in pitch, finishing with a loud squeak.

At that moment, something deep inside Bryn's chest, something long forged and then drowned in a vat of liquid nitrogen, began to thaw. It was her laugh that caused it. Such a simple thing to do, but to him, Caitlin's laugh was beautiful music. He realized how long it had been since there was anything in his life worthy of laughter. With a throwaway line that was the furthest thing from funny, he had made her laugh and suddenly he was thinking of other ways to amuse her.

"Well… it's silly really. Have you ever just seen someone and felt like you've seen them before or known them from a different point in your life? You don't know them from the next guy, you've never heard them talk or seem them smile, but they catch your eye." She paused to dig into the pudding. "You probably don't remember. Right before the break, there was that day where it was sunny enough to melt most of the snow?"

"I remember," said Bryn. "The day when the school bus slid out of the parking lot because of all the black ice. That was your first day, right? I saw you putting your books into the locker four spaces down from mine. Blue tank-top, pink backpack."

Caitlin was stymied for a moment by Bryn's uncanny memory. "How- how did you remember that much? Were you stalking me?" She chuckled. "Not sure if I want to be friends with a stalker."

"No, nothing like that," he answered and found himself laughing along with her. "Just- just little things I notice. I'm like that, I pay really close attention to things and people around me because it can mean life and death sometimes. If you act like you're not paying attention but your eyes are, you'd be surprised at what you can pick up. Things that people try to hide or don't know they're doing."

Bryn realized then that he had talked more in the last ten minutes, in terms of total words spoken, than he had in the past two weeks. It felt completely natural to sit next to this girl and enjoy a meal with her. Caitlin's conversation, meanwhile, was a rushing river in comparison to Bryn's small stream. "That's, like, such a coincidence though. Do you want to know the first time I saw you?"

"Sure."

"It was on that same day, at lunch period, and all the tables were filled up. You know when you're in the middle of your first day at a new school and you're not sure where to sit or where the cool crowds are or if anyone actually wants you to sit with them? Like that. So I sit on the bench next to the trophy case, I didn't know where else to sit, and I noticed someone sitting outside in the courtyard."

Bryn remembered well. He had a good idea where this anecdote was heading, and he let her continue.

"So this guy's just sitting out there on the steps, no coat and it's probably 30 degrees outside, eating lunch all by himself. I only remembered it later that day when I saw you in geography class. Even in class or all the rest of that day, you didn't say anything, and-"

"-And I caught your attention." Bryn finished for her. "Honestly, it's the first time I've talked to anyone in a while. I sit out there for lunch a lot. The conversation is a little sparse, and the cold sucks, but no one bothers me. It's better that way." Her smile began to fall and he hastily added, "I didn't mean you, Caitlin, just- just some other people here. Bullies. Guys that want to make my life hell."

"Oh." The awkward lapse was forgiven. "But does this school just seem really weird to you?" Caitlin wondered. "Like, ever since I've been here, it's like I'm being judged and excluded for everything I do. And you can't sit at the closer lunch tables without being one of the special people. It's not like I've gone out of my way to irritate people or anything. It just feels like no one here likes me or wants me around."

"Not everyone here is a creepy pod-person zombie cult member. Just most of them." To his surprise, she was smiling at him. Those wide blue eyes almost seemed too big for her face when seen up close.

"You know, you seem like a pretty cool guy."

"Well… thanks, I guess. It's an honor to be your very first friend." The two shook hands formally and Caitlin asked, "So where are you from? Hopefully you haven't been stuck here for all your life."

"What, you'd hate me if I was?" he said. "But nothing to worry about, I'm from Sacramento. In California. We moved here when I was five because at the time, my mom's brother was working near here and supposedly there were lots of jobs. I hated it since the moment I saw it and even more when I started school here. If it wasn't for me being only fifteen, and for my little sister, I would have left long ago."

Caitlin caught onto the change in his tone when the school and leaving town were mentioned. His voice dropped and his fingers clenched around his spoon as if it were someone's neck. She didn't want to sound like she was prying into his business but she had to ask, "Has it been really bad, or…?"

"It's complicated. I've just- I've just had lots of trouble fitting in here. I'm not the most normal of people and some stuff's happened in the past, like fights, and sometimes it's tough to make myself go to school each day."

"Well now, hopefully it'll get better. Us weird outcasts need to stick together because the weirdness is where it's at. You're not living life unless you're weird, right?" Bryn laughed along with her while his mind was on her smile and not her words. Those dimples. And that laugh… I don't know what I did to make her interested in being my friend, but I don't want to lose this.

They finished their meals and stacked the trays on the return table. Caitlin thought it would be nice to take a walk outside before the afternoon classes started up again, so they left the lunchroom and walked past the north computer lab to where the outer doors were. On that side of the school was the overflow parking and the staging area for visiting sports buses or other administrative dignitaries. It was in the shadow of the gymnasium and the industrial arts building, and therefore in perpetual gloom cast by the brick buildings. The snow mounds of the previous month still clung to the earth and were dark brown from snowplows shunting dirty snow over them. It was a popular hangout for the kids who secretly smoked cigarettes or chewed tobacco, despite the regulations.

The school was fairly lax about off-campus rules during breaks as long as students didn't stray too far. No teachers patrolled its borders with guard dogs, at any rate. Besides those up to no good, such as the kids smoking or lighting illicit firecrackers in the ditch below the old agricultural sheds, a few like Bryn would walk around the football field or up the hill behind the parking lot where the old cemetery lay. The hill gave him a commanding view of the town; indeed, it was the very spot from which the fire department shot fireworks at Fourth of July. There was no time for long walks today though, and it was too cold for loitering.

The pair of newly minted friends walked briskly around the added-on classrooms and the teachers' parking lot, talking and enjoying the air. "So what kinds of music do you like, Bryn?" asked Caitlin. She kept her hands in the pockets of her parka and her breath billowed out in little puffs of steam.

"You know," he countered, "again you're going to think I'm weird. I've never really listened to any music except that lame country station."

"Seriously?"

"Just never had the time, I suppose, or the money to buy a bunch of albums or one of those new iPods. I saved up birthday money and bought my longboard with it instead 'cause I figured it would be more useful than music."

Caitlin gasped. "Hello… illegal downloading! Who actually buys music these days when it's all on the Internet for free? There's so much sick stuff I have to show you."

"No computer," said Bryn casually. They sat down on the ice-cold concrete guardrail separating the parking lot from the sheds; Caitlin shivered. "Well, I guess that's not true, my mom has an old one but she never lets me or my sister use it. She went through this do-it-yourself phase where she was working from home and selling cosmetics online. The business never went anywhere, and instead she wasted all her time surfing Myspace. I use the computers here, anyway."

"I see I'm gonna have to burn you some CDs. You know, to make you about 20 percent cooler."

He bowed to her, waving his hands in a flourish and imitating a British accent. "The effort is valiant and appreciated, madam. If only I had the proper equipment to experience this auditory euphoria you speak of." Her ethics of downloading bootlegged music didn't agree with him, being nothing more than a high-tech version of robbing a music store, but it wasn't important if he had nothing with which to play the music.

Caitlin produced a small silver music player from her inner pocket and offered an earbud to him. He listened carefully; the 'music' was a mess of screamed words and electronic distortion, with guitars in the background set to a thudding beat.

"So someone put a cat in a blender along with a bunch of scrap metal and called it music?" he exclaimed. "That's what this sounds like."

"It's called dubstep, you hipster. It's awesome, just give it some time to sink in," said his friend between giggles. His confused face was too much for her and she bust out laughing, leaning against his shoulder to support herself. "You're like a dinosaur or something. You need an awesomeness education."

Bryn had no inkling of what a hipster was and would have vehemently denied it if he had, being the exact antithesis, but he grinned through the lighthearted teasing and allowed her to re-insert the headphone into his ear. She played several more tunes for him. His mind was not on the discordant song but on Caitlin who, due to the cold and her short headphone cord, was now pressed up against him. Another song of droning synthesizers played and green eyes met soft ice-blue ones.

Just then, the class bell rang. "Guess we should get back," Caitlin said. "I'm freezing."

"You think Jordan will actually heat the classroom this time?" Bryn wondered aloud. "She might secretly be an alien because a normal human would freeze to death in a room that cold." His fingers ached, but his chest preserved the warmth of their shared moment. Caitlin took his arm for footing on the icy asphalt.

"And that's why she's so mean, because she secretly wants to kill all of us. Probe us with tentacles and brainwash us with biology lectures."

---

They went through the west doors to their lockers. The next class was biology, the one Bryn always dreaded because of its temperamental and bitchy teacher. Maybe Mrs. Jordan had a bad marriage, or medical depression, but that woman could win the lottery and still wear the same scowl. Her premature wrinkles combined with the frown made her look like an angry bulldog.

When Bryn reached the science room, she was already in position at her desk and frowning as fiercely as ever. "Good afternoon class! Take your seats quickly, no talking and no dawdling. Mr. Goode, that better not be cigarette smoke that I smell." She wrinkled her nose, making the resemblance to an old jowly hound even more distinct.

"Just change your tampon already," muttered Caitlin. Bryn snorted with laughter, earning him one of Mrs. Jordan's patented glares.

They found seats at the rear corner of the room next to one another; they could converse in whispers and avoid having to pass notes. While old and probably half senile, the biology teacher had the eyes of a falcon when it came to 'insubordination'. Insubordination meant whatever she wanted it to mean, whether it be passing notes or looking too cheerful in class. She probably just liked the sound of the word. As Bryn watched her gesture at the blackboard and talk in that horrible wheezing voice, he felt as if there was a bubble of happiness inside his chest. It was filling him up so much that he feared he would burst in two. It was making him smile and laugh and say unexpected things. And its source was Caitlin.

He looked his biology teacher in the eye and actually listened to what she was saying. Because of that euphoric sensation, he was able to pay attention in a class he had never once actively attended; somehow he felt that it would impress his female friend if he were to become a more diligent and successful student. I guess it can't hurt, really, he thought. All this time I've been missing out on how- well, magical- it feels to have a friend. Why didn't I realize this sooner? He looked over at Caitlin, red-faced and shaking with suppressed giggles at Mrs. Jordan's voice. "I just can't help it," she breathed. Her eyes watered. "She sounds like my grandma, only more drunk!"

In hindsight, Bryn should have realized that a day so perfect had to have an equal reaction. Something to balance out the equation. Something that would puncture that bubble and bring an end to this dream. Something to tip the scales of his blank premonition.

He never imagined that it would come so fast, though.

It started so simply.

"In front of you are pictures taken from a microscope, showing the four stages of cellular reproduction," said Mrs. Jordan dryly. "Now, working in groups of three because we only have a limited number of slides for you to work with, our assignment for today is to order them in the correct sequence of-"

BANG.

Somewhere in the distance, but frighteningly close, was a cracking explosion. It sounded like a far louder and deeper iteration of the firecrackers set off in the ditch. To Bryn's ears, though, it was chillingly like a gunshot. He had heard gunfire before.

The entire classroom fell silent. Mrs. Jordan had only time to turn her head in the direction of the noise, which sounded like it was coming from the lunchroom or outside in the courtyard, before its hefty bass roar was heard again in a rapid sequence. And it was much louder this time. BANG. BANG BANG BANG BANG-

Bryn's reflexes and animal survival instincts kicked in long before his rational mind caught up. "That's a gun!" he yelled. "Everyone get to the exits!"

The classroom erupted in pandemonium so quickly that Bryn couldn't make sense of his own thoughts. Was this really happening? A school shooting, by the sounds of it, in this tiny and peaceful town? Girls screamed around him; desks were upended and papers flew as students raced for the door. "DON'T PANIC!" croaked Mrs. Jordan in a voice that sounded like a rusted pipe organ. "GET UNDER THE DESKS OR IN THE CLOSET!"

By then, several had made it out of the door and presumably to the safety of the parking lot outside. That familiar feeling of weakness crept into his muscles, pinioning him to the floor on which he stood even as his thoughts yelled as loudly as the approaching gunshots. It was happening again. He was in yet another clusterfuck of a situation where to act meant death and not to act also meant death. Should he try to stop the shooter (or shooters)? It only sounded like one gun. What if he was hit? Could he still control his powers, for that matter? The sounds stopped but resumed seconds later, and from such close range that it froze his blood to the core. Each resounding bang was deafening. The shooter had to be close. He couldn't bear to imagine what dreadful things were going on beyond the door, and the students and teachers who were unprotected and, in all likelihood, dying with each successive blast. Was the gunman shooting up each classroom in turn? Or merely on a vendetta against someone and eliminating all who got in the way?

"Bryn, I'm scared!" Caitlin cried. "What do we do? Oh god…"

Caitlin's voice brought him to his senses.

"The closet!" shouted Bryn. "It's our only chance! We can't make the exit in time!" Caitlin stumbled across the room to the supply closet, tripping on an overturned desk and falling flat on her face. Bryn leapt over a desk with his backpack in hand and moved with startling speed to her side.

They climbed in the tiny space, which was barely big enough for two people. Bryn's forehead touched the cold metal door. Caitlin shut it, leaving a crack for air, and Bryn noticed that they, along with Mrs. Jordan, were the only ones remaining in the room. The rest had fled through the far door. One panicked student had creatively picked up a desk, bashed out a window, and jumped through the jagged hole it created.

Please God… don't let the shooter come in here. Please.

Scattered gunfire echoed in the distance. Through the crack, Bryn saw a sight that took his breath away. Mrs. Jordan had not followed the freshmen to the door. She stood in the shadow of the doorway, a slender wooden baseball bat clenched in her aged fingers. He somehow knew that she would not hesitate to use it (where did the bat even come from?) and, if her temper was any indication, could do some serious damage. Bryn shifted his body in front of his friend's; if he went down today, he went down defending Caitlin with his life.

Caitlin sobbed and clung to him. She alternated between gasping for breath and uttering terrified squeaks. For a minute or two there was complete silence, split by a piercing scream. Then the scream was cut short by another gunshot.

"Oh god… Oh god…" she whimpered. "This isn't happening."

"Shhh, we have to be quiet in here. Maybe he won't come down this far. But we can't make a single sound." He barely breathed the last words.

"I don't want to die," cried Caitlin.

Bryn whispered into her ear, "You're not going to die. Not if I can do anything about it."

One gunshot, then another, and with each one his friend jumped in fear. Is it just me or are they getting closer? A sudden idea came to him. While he held Caitlin and whispered encouraging words, he screwed up his strength and tried to phase not only himself but Caitlin as well. Never had he tried it on another person, for obvious reasons. There's a first time for everything. "Hold on to me," he said. "This might feel a little bit weird." And it was to Caitlin's credit that she stood stock-still as his orange light danced around the interior of the closet and began to spread over her skin.

It was the first time in three years that Bryn had used his powers, although he fervently wished that he had practiced more, because today he just didn't have it in him.

His body was now completely phased and Caitlin's arms touched the air where his chest used to be. At first it seemed to be working, but her body was still resolutely solid and her skin was acting as a barrier to his phase. No matter how hard he pushed, his light only illuminated her like a torch and rebounded. He willed his hand to become solid again and only succeeded in phasing the rest of his body back.

"What's going on?" pleaded Caitlin through teary eyes, her hands finding his chest again. "Where's all this weird light coming from?"

"Long story," said Bryn. He tried not to chuckle. After all, this thing that he could do was bizarre. Seven years and he was no closer to understanding it. "I'll tell you about it later, when we're safe. If this works we'll both get out of this alive."

He tried again. This time, he transformed first and slipped his hand just past where he thought Caitlin's arm would be. He expected his fingers to bounce off her shoulder, yet the results were breathtaking: he felt her flesh heat up and admit his light underneath its surface.

She gasped. And in that moment, as he tried to project the phase across Caitlin's body, he felt her. He felt the softness of her skin and her heartbeat and her breaths. He felt the way she stared fearfully at him, in the dark of that cramped closet, and he even felt the scent of her hair. It was far more than a touch could ever give.

Then explosions split the air like thunder. The shooter was right outside. A number of things happened very fast: six shots issued from only feet away, Mrs. Jordan groaned in pain and crumpled to the ground, and Caitlin screamed. Then the attacker fired again, this time at the closet door, and his bullet tore through thin wood panels to find the only thing in its path which was the head of a fifteen-year-old girl.

The glow winked out of existence and the girl crumpled and fell, face-first on the cold linoleum, like a puppet suddenly cut from its strings.

"CAITLIN!"

Bryn's anguished cry ripped out of his lungs. He didn't care that the shooter heard him and ran towards the noise, or that Mrs. Jordan now lay in a spreading pool of blood with six bullets embedded in her torso.

Deep down he knew that it was not his fault, but he blamed himself for his lack of skill and inability to finish the phase. I could feel it! It left my hand and touched her! If I had only had another minute to phase her, she would still be alive! I don't deserve to use this power if I can't control it when I need it!

His mind tortured him with if-onlys. Caitlin's blue eyes stared lifelessly at the ceiling and a single tear trailed across her perfect cheek, the cheek that would never smile again.

"NOOOOOOO!"

At that moment the gunman crashed back through the doorway, drawn to the shout. He was unprepared for what he saw, for it was something eerie and insane that had no place in the world of reality. A girl lay dead from his gun and a boy kneeled at her side. The boy- burned. There was no other word for it.

He couldn't tell where the coruscating bursts of light ended and the flesh began. The room pulsed and rippled with its intense glow, as if a solar firestorm was being generated by mere skin. Yet it hardly mattered. That was all he noticed before he raised the gun and emptied its clip into this strange vision in front of him.

Bryn stood as the bullets whizzed harmlessly through his chest. If anything, the blinding flashes of light coming from every inch of his body only intensified. He fed his powers with the unendurable pain of losing Caitlin. Mere bullets could never stop him. They couldn't even harm him in a normal phase. Somehow, his unbridled rage was giving strength to the orange-red light streaming from his body and it was actually burning small scorch marks into the floor. Never had he been able to influence, let alone burn, physical objects with his abilities before.

With an animal roar of rage, he phased directly into the path of the gunman. The intense heat of Bryn's anger scalded his flesh. The killer dropped the gun in order to protect his face, but he was completely outmatched by what came next.

A white-hot fist collided with his skull. The gun clattered to the ground and discharged. In the blink of an eye, Bryn teleported across the room; although he couldn't pick up solid objects while he was in a phased state, the fear he had caused by unleashing such power gave him more than enough time to grasp the fallen baseball bat, lunge over to the terrified killer and bludgeon him in the head. It was over in seconds and was as if some creature of rage possessed him- his arms were swinging and his lungs were screaming but his mind was on his fallen friend- and he now stared down at a bloodied corpse, a baseball bat in his hand that dripped with the same blood.

I killed him.

I did this.

Yet all the killing in the world won't bring her back.

Anger fought revulsion… sorrow fought duty… and for a minute Bryn couldn't even move his legs. The bat fell to the floor. Is this how it feels when everything's taken away from you? In a single day everything's gone to hell… curse whatever goddamn demon gave me these powers because they're beyond useless. I couldn't save her. But maybe I can save someone else by ending this.

Taking down one of them would be for nothing if there were others loose in the school with handguns, hunting down his fellow students like rabbits. Bryn knew what he had to do.

He found that it was as easy as walking across the room, phasing into a more bullet-resistant state, and leaving the classroom behind.

Caitlin's dead… the only friend I've ever had save for my sister… for a moment his mind wandered to the lifeless brunette in the biology room. And in that single moment of grief, he let his guard down and with it his concentration. The light emanating from him fizzled out.

It was also that easy to die. Because not even a second after he entered the hallway, a trio of gun blasts roared at close range and his body exploded.