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11
It’s well known that regardless of what else they are, teenage boys are inherently stupid.
Oh, theytryto act like they aren’t; their egos don’t allow for such magnanimity. They strut and preen like tiny little show dogs, carrying themselves with an undeserved sense of accomplishment. They can be rude and mostly daft, their lack of self- and spatial-awareness making it a slight wonder they’ve somehow managed to stay alive in order to puff out their body-spray-saturated chests and put copious amounts of product in their hair.
Theproblemwith this is, sometimes, certain events can occur to break through this shield of teenage futility.
Nicholas Bell was a stupid teenage boy. He was partially aware of this fact, but still. He was absolutely convinced that he could become an Extraordinary, that he was destined for something more. Maybe he wasn’t a tiny show dog, per se, but he did believe himself to be somewhat invincible.
That was, of course, until Bob Gray flapped his lips and told Nick something that altered the shape of the entire world.
“Oh my god,” Nick said while in bed, staring up at the ceiling.
“Oh my god,” Nick said, three hours later, still staring up at the ceiling.
His mother smiled at him like she always did.
In addition to being inherently stupid, most teenage boys tend to have an attention span that leaves a lot to be desired. Now, imagine if you will, an inherently stupid teenage boy who is afflicted with an attention deficit disorder of the most hyperactive variety regulatedby something with the ridiculous name of Concentra. And, as luck would have it, this same teenage boy got maybe an hour or two of sleep before his alarm went off and he managed to trudge his way down the stairs like some amorphous blob.
Only to reach the kitchen and remember he was angry with his father.
“Crap,” this teenage boy muttered when he saw his dad in the kitchen and the previous day’s events burst through the fog.
Dad grunted in return.
Cereal sat on the counter next to an empty bowl and a carton of milk. This was almost enough to distract Nick since he was reminded from one of his late-night internet adventures that Canadians had bags of milk instead of cartons or jugs (something he would never understand), but then he remembered Dad asking why he had to be this way, and he forgot all about Canadian milk bags. Nick’s lunch sat in a brown paper sack next to the milk.
He and Dad had fought before. They were two guys living together under one roof, so it was to be expected. However, even after the Great Romance of Nick and Owen when Nick wasn’t doing so hot in school and his father had sat him down to have the talk where Things Were Going To Change, he’d never felt like… this. Like he was a burden.
Dad leaned against the counter, the newspaper in his hands, but Nick knew he wasn’t reading it. He was waiting to see what kind of mood Nick was in.
Well, two could play at this game, because Nick was in a foul mood. But it wasn’t the usualI hate everything because all my feelings are real and validkind of foul mood that seemed to grace sixteen-year-old boys facing an identity crisis. No,thisfoul mood was tinged withmy best friend’s uncle told me my best friend wants my junk and stuffand alsoI wish I had superpowers but it’s not working out so well.
It was unquestionably the worst kind of foul mood, and he was probably the only person in the world who felt this way. No one could ever understand.
The cereal was off-brand. It was called Cinnamon Bread-Shaped Chomps. Nick wondered if this was Dad’s way of apologizing, because Nick wasn’t allowed to eat Cinnamon Bread-Shaped Chomps, given how much sugar was in a couple of spoonfuls. He was suspicious, sure he’d open the box up and see raisins inside atop bran flakes as a finalscrew you.
Imagine his surprise when Cinnamon Bread-Shaped Chomps spilled into the bowl.
A tiny pill sat next to the spoon on the table too, so that pretty much made the cereal moot.
It was then that Nick had a terrible idea as he poured milk over the cereal, one that he was sure he’d probably end up regretting, but seemed like a good one in the here and now.
“I’m taking my pill,” he announced grandly.
Dad looked over the paper, his expression bland.
Nick made sure his dad watched as he put it in his mouth.
He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.
Dad went back to the paper.
Nick pulled the pill out from under his tongue. It was gritty in his fingers. He shoved it into his pocket. It left an acidic taste in his mouth, but it was soon nothing but a distant memory under cinnamon and something that was vaguely bread-shaped.
His dad wanted him to be someone different?
Fine.
