Chapter 7
Ezra
The scent of pancakes and sausage wafts into the dining room.
Conin’s at the stove, dutifully preparing a meal that I’m not sure I can stomach.
I haven’t been able to keep most food down lately.
And even more so, the humiliation from last night won’t stop.
It rattles me. I’m so fucking embarrassed.
What did I say to Conin and Melissa? Did I say anything at all?
There are brief glimpses of Conin undressing me .
. . he saw everything, though I’m grateful he kept me in the same pair of underwear.
My cheeks are heated, and my heart beats a million miles a second.
Conin doesn’t say anything, nor acknowledge what happened the night before.
His eyes, however, look blotchy. Did he . . . cry?
The news channel is on, for whatever reason.
Ms. Bresshet, most likely. Their house is liberal and modest, decorated with Ikea furniture and adorned with photos.
I’m in a good chunk of these pictures—like I’m a part of the family.
The time I got to experience Disneyland because Conin’s mom was kind enough to bring me along; she insisted on buying the two of us Mickey Mouse ears, to my chagrin.
The time, on the same trip, at a pier of a beach I can no longer recall—Conin and me, arms draped around each other’s shoulders.
The time I attended Conin’s first football game; he, Ms. Bresshet, and I were amongst the field of burly football players.
Our first sleepover at five years old and the blanket fort we built in that very living room.
Mom and Miss Bresshet were close back then.
Lukeman Gray widened the rift between them, but Ms. Bresshet kept me in their lives.
This only makes my guilt over the silence much worse.
I shouldn’t have ignored Conin as I did.
The tension at home, Conin and Melissa and their more frequent hangouts .
. . Maybe that’s why. Maybe I saw it as more than what it was.
When the two would ask if I wanted to hang with them, I’d say no.
Being the third wheel in a relationship with someone I wanted to be with would suck.
And I didn’t want to confirm my worst fears.
That’s when the texts went ignored. Conin was persistent at first, until he gave up, and the messages tapered down to once a day.
Vaguely, the memory of last night resurfaces. I asked if they were an item. I think, and god, please let me be correct, Conin said it wasn’t like that. But the damage was done. Lucky for me, he hasn’t said anything about it.
“A recent recidivist attack at an elementary school in Chicago has revived a debate on recidivist reform within Congress. According to the Recidivism Act of 1994, every individual to possess transcendental abilities, or the more popularly dubbed term, superpowers, must register and be closely monitored by the U.S. government. However, the House of Representatives at first debated whether this act would directly violate the constitutional right to privacy and anonymity. The verdict declared mandatory testing for traces of transcendental abilities unconstitutional. Thus, a great many unregistered recidivists have existed under the government’s nose.
U.S. citizens have flocked to their congresspeople in droves to express their outrage on the attack on Buford Elementary and demand a permanent solution to this age-old conflict.
We will keep you updated when more information as the ongoing situation unfurls. ”
Conin abruptly changes the channel. My heart won’t slow. A trembling sensation erupts from the tips of my fingers and swiftly spreads. I try my hardest to suppress the shakes so Conin won’t notice.
“We don’t need to watch that,” he says and switches the news to a Star Wars movie.
Attack of the Clones. My favorite of the nine.
He judged me at first, until I recited an extensive list of why it was my favorite and why others should overlook its shittier qualities. I don’t need any judgment, thank you.
“Shit’s just depressing,” Conin whispers and hurries back to the stove before he burns the entire meal. It wouldn’t matter to me—I can’t eat after what I heard.
Another recidivist attack . . . and it’s no wonder the world views us as criminals.
I first learned of the law and people’s animosity toward someone like me back in sixth grade.
In school, we were taught about the Recidivism Act of 1994—proposed legislation set into fruition that would criminalize people with superpowers under the Second Amendment.
Some argued that powers were a right, considered a concealed weapon.
Although it is an American’s right to possess a concealed weapon, the discourse over dangerous abilities was a heavy topic of discussion because those who possess offensive, potentially dangerous powers are in direct violation of the law.
They always harbor these abilities. Naturally, these supposed “weapons” are not typically possessed by law-abiding citizens nor those of the police and military.
Recidivists are unpredictable; these abilities could be used to benefit for personal gain or perpetrate unlawful acts.
Or in many cases, are simply too powerful for the beholder to control.
And what if these powers were to fall into the wrong hands?
What could they do in sensitive places like schools or government buildings?
What damage could they wreak? Buford Elementary will now serve as a reminder of the harmful consequences superpowers can cause.
Every single one of these factors is why these people, people like me, are named a recidivist—someone who repeatedly commits a crime.
It was clear the American people were scared.
Soon, our neighbors turned against us. Superpowers were no longer deemed concealed weapons or a means of self-defense.
When our superpowers were considered an infringement upon the Second Amendment, recidivists were only ever viewed as the result of their sinful behavior.
It became our prominent feature. The government created the Scarlet Letters.
In our case, if you’re a registered recidivist, you had to go out in public with an “R” badge pinned to your clothing. It’s humiliating, but not common.
Meanwhile, concealed firearms were encouraged by the government.
Guns could protect American citizens from recidivists.
They were willing to overlook the prevalence of gun violence over what they couldn’t understand.
States offer concealed carry permits, which in return will require background checks.
If these individuals are lawful, they will be protected by the Second Amendment.
This idea was quickly twisted from a place of prejudice.
Citizens used this opportunity as an excuse to carry guns around with them.
And if this resulted in someone getting shot?
The perpetrator could claim self-defense.
However, the government would protect powered individuals if they were registered.
The downside would be living a constant, monitored life.
Certain rights would be revoked and the way you’d be treated by others .
. . it’s no wonder so many committed suicides.
So many runaways . . . to seek refuge even with the possibility there is none.
And, in certain cases, if the government believes your power to be dangerous, they have the right, under the law, to deactivate or strip you of it.
This always results in the recidivist’s death.
This, or you’re detained for the rest of your life.
If Congress finds a reason to break our right of anonymity, we’re all screwed.
As much as I hate to admit it, I hope the anti-vaxxers speak up again.
Not everyone sides with mandatory testing.
I was eleven when my abilities first manifested.
Before then, there was this instinctive knowledge to keep silent about my powers, if my parents’ reactions to my development were any indication.
Our technology isn’t advanced enough to detect powers at birth and it doesn’t remain a concern, as so many recidivists’ powers don’t develop until later in life.
So, I’ve lived a life under the radar. Thax and I both have.
But it’ll be harder if we’re required to test within the near future.
It’s difficult to believe the government will be forgiving when we’ve kept our identities a secret for most of our lives.
My parents have remained silent because they’d be complicit if we were found out.
Lukeman’s threats over the years were only ever that: threats.
My parents made it clear as they raised us that we were freaks for the powers we possessed.
Thax needed to vent, didn’t know how to control his pent-up frustration and hurt, which is why all his scorn and spite were taken out on me.
And yesterday . . . I have no doubt there was truth to Lukeman’s words.
Something changed. I could hear it in his voice, the indication he’d finally cracked.
Moving forward, I need to tread carefully.
I fear now more than ever of my discovery.
If Conin finds out, would he turn me in?
We haven’t talked in weeks, but we’re still close, akin to brothers.
I want to believe we’ll always remain close.
His comment about the news, however, didn’t sound promising. It sounded downright belligerent.
“It’s scary, huh?” I say, ignoring the movie. Conin’s opinion is something I need to know. We don’t talk about this often enough.
Conin shifts and bends over. The softness of his belly bulges over the waistline of his joggers.
I nearly faint—melt into goo. One thing’s for sure that will distract me: it’s fucking Conin Bresshet.
His ears are adorned with fresh studs that weren’t there several weeks ago.
I don’t remember him telling me about them.
Maybe he mentioned it in one of the many unread texts, but the sight of them catches me off guard.
I like how they look on him. I really, really like how they complement his already handsome complexion.
And I realize, in that excruciating moment, the hard-on pressed against the sweats Conin dressed me in.
My dick pitches a tent against the fabric.
My face grows hot. Thank god for the cover of the table.
Conin finishes the food, but he takes that moment to glare in my direction, hands on hips, stern disposition in full display. He looks like Ms. Bresshet. Ms. Bresshet is scary at the worst of times.
“Are you not going to tell me what happened last night?” Conin asks instead.
“I was hoping not to,” I reply. More often than not, Conin tends to evoke the truth out of me. He’s one of the rare souls I can open my heart to, though there are secrets I keep to myself—things that are better if no one knows.
Conin’s pause is loud. Shattering. I deflate. There’s no deflecting this.
“We haven’t talked in weeks,” he says. “Not properly. And then you showed up high on my doorstep last night. I had to change your clothes and put you to bed. I was afraid you were going to choke on your fucking vomit.”
He’s angry. Seething. He trembles and I can see the tiny reverberations of his body even as the darkness of the kitchen masks his silhouette.
Shit. I totally fucked up. Conin hasn’t been this mad at me in so long.
He rarely gets mad. Under that stoic facade is someone brimmed with emotion, I know that much.
Conin’s sudden change in mood has me disoriented.
“Jeez, Co. I’ve never seen you this angry before—”
That was the wrong thing to say.
“We’re not going to joke about this, Ezra! You didn’t tell me your scars were . . . all over you! Some of them are even fresh.”
“Conin—”
“Is that why you’ve been quiet? Because things at home have gotten worse?” he mutters. The plates of food have been abandoned and forgotten. I can’t conjure a sarcastic retort—there’s nothing in me. And as usual, I keep my mouth shut. Better that way.
“And what about all my texts? You haven’t responded to a single one! I even called you, for fuck’s sake!”
Oh, he’s swearing now. This is serious. I look at my phone and groan when I see that the text was never sent. I tell him as much, but Conin isn’t having it.
“That’s it. You’re not going back there. I’m texting my mom and you’re staying here until we figure something out,” says Conin.
I don’t speak. There’s half the urge to run, but where would I go? Conin’s texting his mom and when he finishes, his eyes find mine.
“Where are you?”
Without fail, he knows. When we were kids, he’d point out when I stared off into space—those moments I was lost in thought. I wandered far away. Somewhere dark. He reels me in, a fisherman at sea.
“I’m here,” I lie. The fallacy escapes as a stutter. The tears well, though I demand them not to come. I don’t want to cry in front of Conin. Not again. “Thank you,” I whisper.
Conin sits down. He’s adjacent to me, his whole body sitting in attention to mine.
“You don’t have to tell me, but what happened?”
The question can remain unanswered, but I feel compelled to tell him. He deserves this much.
My voice cracks. It’s pathetic and embarrassing. “He shattered my violin.”
Conin lets out an audible gasp. A sob parts my lips.
Even as my body numbs, I can sense the anger that emanates from him.
Conin reaches out, just as he used to when we were kids, and embraces my bony figure.
The embarrassment is there at first—tiny, insignificant, until it dissipates.
I take the intimacy of this moment to break down and cry.