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dad.ā€

It was the first punch I ever threw. He never saw it coming. Connected full on, knocked Coreyā€™s head back. He tried to swing, but couldnā€™t land anything, didnā€™t look like such a great athlete with me rushing him through the circle, throwing him into the wall.

Coreyā€™s eyes were closed when his head smacked against the brick. His lip split on the next punch, shot blood everywhere. The third punch dropped him hard.

Kids screamed for me to stop, a couple said, ā€œFuck him up.ā€

I obliged. Got on top of Coreyā€™s chest and kept punching his face. Made it so he wouldnā€™t ever say anything about anyoneā€™s mom again. Then I grabbed his head and slammed it into the ground so he wouldnā€™t even think it.

A giant hand flung me off and I smacked into the wall. Mr. Mosley got on his knees, wiped the blood off Coreyā€™s face. He told Gina to get the nurse.

My father was called.

I was suspended. We drove home in silence. Iā€™d rarely heard his thoughts. Heā€™d always kept his distance, seemed to move when I got in range.

I was afraid to listen in the car, already knew he was pissed. He told Mr. Mosley the suspension wasnā€™t nearly as bad as what I had coming at home.

As we passed by the high schoolā€™s football field, I thought back to our game, spiking the ball. Stevenā€™s robot dance.

Dad was so pissed he could barely speak. ā€œI told you never to cheat.ā€

ā€œWhat?ā€

ā€œI told you never to cheat!ā€

I hadnā€™t mentioned the game to Mr. Mosley or my dad.

ā€œSo Iā€™m going to make this real goddamn clear. If you ever pull that shit again at school, with your friends, with anyone...ā€

I could hear his guilty thoughts, the ones about whipping me with his belt.

ā€œDad?ā€

Iā€™m sorry. I should have told you.

And right there I learned I wasnā€™t alone.

Dad pulled the car over and told me the truth. Some of it was out loud. The rest was just between us. He said Mom didnā€™t need to know. She knew enough. About him. But not about me. Itā€™d be too much to handle. I had to keep it in check, had to learn to control myself, hide what I could do to keep us safe.

Theyā€™d split us up, send me to live in an orphanage. My father would lose his job, the one he hated, but it put food on the table, a roof over our heads.

I asked if there were others. He told me there were, but that we should never associate, never seek them out. The world was already starting to learn the truth. Soon theyā€™d start coming for us. Brightside didnā€™t exist yet. But thereā€™d be repercussions.

Dad said people were being institutionalized. Thrown in nuthouses. Like my grandmother.

ā€œI thought she lived in Florida?ā€ I said.

ā€œShe does. Just not in a condo.ā€

My entire life, I thought Dad hated me. Turns out, he was just scared, trying to protect me.

After that, things changed. We went on more trips. He helped me be a better son, giving me silent instructions to help Mom in the kitchen with the dishes.

He showed me how to hunt. Taught me to field-strip a shotgun. Bolt always rounded-side up. Center the hook in the receiver. The slide should drop right in.

Dad learned all this in the War. He said it was the last time heā€™d abused his ability. It saved his life, but got his platoon killed.

The shotgun was my grandfatherā€™s. A Mossberg 12-gauge. American metal. Dad took me to the range, let me fire it. The kick nearly ripped off my shoulder. I never wanted to shoot it again. Dad said, ā€œNever let fear take control.ā€

He loved to lecture. I was young enough to listen, just couldnā€™t put it into action. I didnā€™t tell anyone what I could do, but I couldnā€™t stop hearing othersā€™ thoughts. Iā€™d hear answers for tests. When I discovered Lacy liked me in seventh grade, I got my first kiss. I couldnā€™t turn off the thoughts, no matter how many times Dad told me I could. He said I just had to focus my mind. We got into fights. I ran away twice. Came back only to fight some more.

When I moved out for good at seventeen, Dad begged me to reconsider. He didnā€™t want to be left alone with Mom. He grew paranoid. Refused to leave the house. Heā€™d call me at odd hours once he heard about Brightside. He sent me articles about the town, but always hidden on the back of an article about something else: fishing, a new vodka, the risks of smoking. He didnā€™t want to draw suspicions, said I couldnā€™t either. I didnā€™t want to hear it. I told him I was smart, I wasnā€™t going to get caught. But that was before Saul, before BMW, before Michelle.

* * *

DADā€™S BRIGHTSIDE GIFTS didnā€™t stop with Billy Bass. He sent a fishing pole. More D-Cell batteries. He sent a tuning fork, even though Iā€™d never played an instrument. His letter said I should learn new hobbies. He wrote heā€™d been learning to kayak.

None of it made sense. I worried heā€™d developed dementia. It explained the last few years, the paranoia. There were studies linking telepathy to brain damage.

I shoved all the gifts in the closet. Some I didnā€™t even unwrap. I didnā€™t want to think about him, that if Iā€™d just listened to his advice, Iā€™d be in the real world, not staring at Rachelā€™s empty desk every day or hiding from Krystal in the Square.

The darkness was closing in. I didnā€™t want to leave my room. I just wanted to stay in bed, stare at nothing, but I didnā€™t have a choice. Isolation got you sent to the Cabin so I looked for reasons to go outside and act like everything was fine. I took walks, hung out with Danny, bought him some new comic books. He reminded me of Steven. But as bad as it was for Steven and me as kids, it was nothing compared to how Danny had it. The out loud taunts hurt, but not nearly as much as the silent ones, the kind even bullies kept to themselves.

Danny had heard them all, but somehow he was still happy. I envied Danny and tried to learn from him. I even stopped feeling sorry for myself about Rachel, Michelle, Krystal...

But still I felt awful for how things ended with Steven.

By eighth grade weā€™d stopped hanging out, rarely spoke. Iā€™d been listening to other peopleā€™s thoughts, started hanging out with the jocks, the pretty girls. I knew what they wanted to hear. Said all the right things to make them think I was cool. Steven wasnā€™t, never would be, so I cut him off.

Then he got sick. Real sick. His parents pulled him out of school. I knew I should visit, but I couldnā€™t face him.

Dad found out, heard me thinking one night at dinner when Mom asked how Steven was doing.

Dad drove me to Stevenā€™s house to make me apologize. He sat in the car, while everything was yelling at me to run. I breathed in, breathed out, told myself Iā€™d be okay. I didnā€™t use the doorbell because I didnā€™t want to wake Stevenā€™s parents if they were sleeping. Iā€™d asked Dad to just let me do this over the phone, but he refused, said I needed to look Steven in the face, hear what Steven was really feeling.

I knocked on the door, prayed his parents would tell me to go home.

I didnā€™t know his parents well, even though Iā€™d been over there a hundred times. They kept to themselves and never said a whole lot, hardly ever more than hello. Steven said they didnā€™t really speak English, but I knew he just didnā€™t want them doing it around me, embarrassed of how they sounded.

Stevenā€™s mom opened the door, her straight black hair now frosted gray, her eyes tired black holes above pursed lips.

I bowed my head to show respect. ā€œHello, Mrs. Chang. Can I see Hong?ā€

Calling Steven by his real name reminded me why Iā€™d cut him off in the first place.

Mrs. Chang gave the slightest nod and stepped to the side, revealing the path of clear plastic protecting the bright white carpet.

I slipped off my shoes and set them next to the other two pairs. His mom was waiting, not saying a word, glad I was there.

The plastic crinkled under my feet, the sweet smell of rice mixed with incense. I couldnā€™t turn back so I went down the hall. Stevenā€™s room was the last one on the left.

The door was closed, nothing on it, his sign gone. HONGā€™S ROOM, nice and neat block letters, the most rebellious thing I ever convinced him to do, no way heā€™d ever write Steven.

I opened his door. His room used to be blue. Now it was brilliant white, every single inch. No more Star Wars posters. No superhero cardboard cut-outs below them. All of it was gone, Steven was done with childhood.

Everything else was just as white. The carpet, the walls, the ceiling. The candles in the corners. Everything gone except the giant silk screen that hung in front of the window, the soft white fabric with its border so green, a blue river and a big white bird floating down the middle of it.

I stepped forward. Steven, whiter than heā€™d ever been. So pale. So weak. So small.

Stevenā€™s head was propped three pillows high. All his hair was gone, all that was left was his skull and some skin, his thin slits for eyes staring straight ahead at the picture. He was thinking about death and what it would be like.

Steven winced and let out a long sigh that sounded painful to say. ā€œUnnhhhh.ā€ Keeping his hand under the sheet, he grabbed hold of his hip. His bones hurt. All the time, even with the meds.

I stepped closer so my legs touched the bed. Seeing him like this made it hard to think. I didnā€™t know if I should call him by his real name. I cleared my throat so I wouldnā€™t scare him and said, ā€œHey, man.ā€

Steven slowly turned his head and blinked twice. His thoughts trying to figure out how he felt about me. If he hated me for making fun of him at school because he still played Dungeons and Dragons or if he was too embarrassed to be seen like this, bald, deteriorating, naked under the sheet. Or if he was just glad someone had finally cared enough to come.

I had no idea what to do. No one had ever told me what to say to someone dying. Someone who had less than ten days, two weeks at the most according to our teacher, Mrs. Kauffman. Sheā€™d made us make this giant card. We all signed our names, some words of encouragement. I only wrote, ā€œFeel better.ā€

I nodded at the picture covering the window. ā€œCool goose.ā€

Steven spoke so low, I had to lean forward. ā€œSwan,ā€ he said. ā€œThatā€™s what Hong means.ā€

Iā€™d never thought his name actually translated into anything. ā€œThatā€™s what it means?ā€

ā€œNot gorilla,ā€ Steven said through a cough. Then smiled.

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