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14
On Monday morning, Nick stood in front of his father and swallowed his pill. It wouldn’t give him superpowers, but it would stop the storm in his head. That had to count for something.
“Toast and eggs on the table,” Dad told him. He looked tired, the bags under his eyes almost purple. “I want you home after school. I mean it, Nick.”
“Yeah,” he whispered. “Okay.”
“You look like crap,” Gibby told him at the train station.
“Thanks.”
“That bad?” Jazz asked.
Nick shrugged.
“Nah,” Owen said, coming up from behind him, putting his arm around Nick’s shoulders. “Nicky here just needs some lovin’. Don’t you, Nicky?”
Nick rolled his eyes. “Not from you.”
“You wound me, sir.”
Nick shoved Owen away.
“Hey,” a voice said from behind him.
Nick turned. Seth stood there, backpack slung over his shoulder. His green tie was in a Windsor knot today. It looked nice. Nick was extremely annoyed.
“You look like crap too,” Gibby said.
And he did. Seth was pale, his curly hair messed up more than usual. His chinos were wrinkled, and he had a scuff on his loafers.
“I think we’ve all got a case of the Mondays,” Jazz said, standing up from the bench. “It’ll get better.”
“Can I talk to you?” Seth asked Nick.
Nick shrugged. “Later. I can’t be late for first period. I’m grounded.”
Seth frowned. “I want to tell you—”
“Later, Seth.” And he turned toward the stairs that led to Franklin Street.
Owen fell into step beside him. Nick didn’t turn to see if the others were following.
“And since Mr. Bell seems to find my lesson so illuminating, perhaps he would like to explain Euler’s formula, and what it produces for sine, cosine, and tangent?”
Nick snapped his head forward, finding Mr. Hanson glowering down at him in front of his desk. Other students were staring at him. Some were whispering behind their hands, glancing back at him, smiling mean little smiles. “Sorry,” he muttered. “I wasn’t trying—”
“That’s certainly an apt statement,” Mr. Hanson said, already glowering at Nick. “You weren’t trying. Maybe, in the future, consider trying at all, Mr. Bell. I would hate to email your father as he requested when there were signs of… apathy.”
The whispers got louder.
Nick sank lower in his seat.
“All right?” Jazz asked as Nick slumped onto the lunch table, laying his head on his arms.
“No,” he said, voice muffled. “I think I want to die.”
“Yeah,” Gibby said, reaching over and rubbing the back of his head. “That’s not dramatic at all.”
