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Alan Hulster snorted from the middle of the classroom. “I think reading a scoreboard is about the most advanced math Merrick is capable of.”
Half the class laughed. Gabriel looked back at him. “Keep it up and you’ll find out what else I’m capable of.”
Now the class did that ooooh sound that predicated a fight or a trip to the principal’s office. Hulster laughed again, but it sounded a little strangled. He didn’t hold Gabriel’s eyes. “Whatever, man.”
“That’s enough.” Ms. Anderson gestured back to the board, her expression patient. “Go ahead.”
Gabriel put his pen against the whiteboard. Christ, his hand was shaking.
The lights in the classroom flickered, the fluorescent bulbs buzzing with power.
Get it together. He took a deep breath.
“Maybe you should start with something easier,” called Hulster, fed by Gabriel’s obvious hesitation. “Maybe line up some cheerleaders and he can count them ”
“Shut up.” Another flicker.
Hulster laughed. “Look, man, I can’t help it if you’re too stupid to ”
Half the lights in the classroom exploded.
Mayhem. Girls screamed and students bolted for the doors.
Ms. Anderson was trying to assume some kind of control.
Gabriel felt the power in the air, the way the electricity wanted to arc onto paper, to clothing, to find something consumable and burn. He stood there in front of the board, the stupid marker clenched in his fist, trying to keep the electricity right where it was supposed to be.
The end-of-class bell rang, flooding the hallways with people.
Ms. Anderson raced after students who’d already made it out of the classroom.
If anyone was hurt, it was his fault.
“Are you all right?”
His eyes flicked open. He didn’t even remember closing them.
Layne stood there in front of him, her backpack hanging loose over one shoulder. They were the only people left in the darkened classroom.
Gabriel swallowed. “No.”
She frowned. “Do you need me to get the nurse ”
He shook his head quickly. “No . . . yeah . . . I’m fine.” He paused. “Why do you keep trying to help me?”
“Because you look like you need it.”
He studied her, the dark-framed glasses, the length of braid that fell down along one shoulder. He’d dismissed her as being nondescript, but she really wasn’t. Her hair shined in the braid, and her eyes were bright and intelligent. No freckles, just soft, clear skin. Being smart wasn’t always easy, not in high school, anyway. Maybe she dressed this way on purpose, to avoid attention. It made him think of that note Taylor had tossed onto his desk, the comments from that dickhead Hulster. Everyone was so quick to pounce on weakness.
“Hold still,” he said, reaching out. “You have glass in your hair.”
He could swear she stopped breathing. He picked two pieces free and then had to use both hands to work loose a third that had gotten trapped.
“I could help you,” she said.
“Nah,” he said. “I think this is the last piece.” He picked at a shard caught by her ear.
“No, I meant . . .” Her voice almost squeaked. “I meant with the trig stuff.”
