I Am Number Four ll-1 Page 4

  “Nobody did.”

  “You were in school for an hour and a half. Your first Legacy developed, you were nearly in a fight, and you left your bag in a classroom. That’s not exactly blending in.”

  “It was nothing. Certainly not a big enough deal to move to Idaho, or Kansas, or wherever the hell our next place is going to be.”

  Henri narrows his eyes, pondering what he just witnessed and trying to decide whether it’s enough to justify leaving.

  “Now is not the time to be careless,” he says.

  “There are arguments in every single school every single day. I promise you, they aren’t going to track us because some bully messed with the new kid.”

  “The new kid’s hands don’t light up in every school.”

  I sigh. “Henri, you look like you’re about to die. Take a nap. We can decide after you’ve had some sleep.”

  “We have a lot to talk about.”

  “I’ve never seen you this tired before. Sleep a few hours. We’ll talk after.”

  He nods. “A nap would probably do me some good.”

  Henri goes into his bedroom and closes the door. I walk outside, pace around the yard for a bit. The sun is behind the trees with a cool wind blowing. The gloves are still on my hands. I take them off and tuck them into my back pocket. My hands are the same as before. Truth be told, only half of me is thrilled that my first Legacy has finally arrived after so many years of impatiently waiting. The other half of me is crushed. Our constant moving has worn me down, and now it’ll be impossible to blend in or to stay in one place for any period of time. It’ll be impossible to make friends or feel like I fit in. I’m sick of the fake names and the lies. I’m sick of always looking over my shoulder to see if I’m being followed.

  I reach down and feel the three scars on my right ankle. Three circles that represent the three dead. We are bound to each other by more than mere race. As I feel the scars I try to imagine who they were, whether they were boys or girls, where they were living, how old they were when they died. I try to remember the other kids on the ship with me and give each of them numbers. I think about what it would be like to meet them, hang out with them. What it might have been like if we were still on Lorien. What it might be like if the fate of our entire race wasn’t dependent on the survival of so few of us. What it might be like if we weren’t all facing death at the hands of our enemies.

  It’s terrifying to know that I’m next. But we’ve stayed ahead of them by moving, running. Even though I’m sick of the running I know it’s the only reason we’re still alive. If we stop, they will find us. And now that I’m next in line, they have undoubtedly stepped up the search. Surely they must know we are growing stronger, coming into our Legacies.

  And then there is the other ankle and the scar to be found there, formed when the Loric charm was cast in those precious moments before leaving Lorien. It’s the brand that binds us all together.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I WALK INSIDE AND LIE ON THE BARE MATTRESS in my room. The morning has worn me out and I let my eyes close. When I reopen them the sun is lifted over the tops of the trees. I walk out of the room. Henri is at the kitchen table with his laptop open and I know he’s been scanning the news, as he always does, searching for information or stories that might tell us where the others are.

  “Did you sleep?” I ask.

  “Not much. We have internet now and I haven’t checked the news since Florida. It was gnawing at me.”

  “Anything to report?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “A fourteen-year-old in Africa fell from a fourth-story window and walked away without a scratch. There is a fifteen-year-old in Bangladesh claiming to be the Messiah.”

  I laugh. “I know the fifteen-year-old isn’t us. Any chance of the other?”

  “Nah. Surviving a four-story drop is no great feat, and besides, if it was one of us they wouldn’t have been that careless in the first place,” he says, and winks.

  I smile and sit across from him. He closes his computer and places his hands on the table. His watch reads 11:36. We’ve been in Ohio for slightly over half a day and already this much has happened. I hold my palms up. They’ve dimmed since the last time I looked.

  “Do you know what you have?” he asks.

  “Lights in my hands.”

  He chuckles. “It’s called Lumen. You’ll be able to control the light in time.”

  “I sure hope so, because our cover is blown if they don’t turn off soon. I still don’t see what the point is, though.”

  “There’s more to Lumen than mere lights. I promise you.”

  “What’s the rest?”

  He walks into his bedroom and returns with a lighter in his hand.

  “Do you remember much of your grandparents?” he asks. Our grandparents are the ones who raise us. We see little of our parents until we reach the age of twenty-five, when we have children of our own. The life expectancy for the Loric is around two hundred years, much longer than that of humans, and when children are born, between the parents’ ages of twenty-five and thirty-five, the elders are the ones who raise them while the parents continue honing their Legacies.

  “A little. Why?”

  “Because your grandfather had the same gift.”

  “I don’t remember his hands ever glowing,” I say.

  Henri shrugs. “He might never have had reason to use it.”

  “Wonderful,” I say. “Sounds like a great gift to have, one I’ll never use.”

  He shakes his head. “Give me your hand.”

  I give him the right one and he flicks the lighter on, then moves it to touch the tip of my finger with the flame. I jerk my hand away.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Trust me,” he says.

  I give my hand back to him. He takes hold of it and flicks the lighter on again. He looks into my eyes. Then he smiles. I look down and see that he is holding the flame over the tip of my middle finger. I don’t feel a thing. Instinct causes me to jerk my hand free anyway. I rub my finger. It feels no different than it did before.

  “Did you feel that?” he asks.

  “No.”

  “Give it back,” he says. “And tell me when you do feel something.”

  He starts at my fingertip again, then moves the flame very slowly up the back of my hand. There is a slight tickle where the flame touches the skin, nothing more. Only when the fire reaches my wrist do I begin to sense the burn. I pull my arm free.

  “Ouch.”

  “Lumen,” he says. “You’re going to become resistant to fire and heat. Your hands come naturally, but we’ll have to train the rest of your body.”

  A smile spreads across my face. “Resistant to fire and heat,” I say. “So I’ll never be burned again?”

  “Eventually, yes.”

  “That’s awesome!”

  “Not such a bad Legacy after all, huh?”

  “Not bad at all,” I agree. “Now what about these lights? Are they ever going to turn off?”

  “They will. Probably after a good night’s sleep, when your mind forgets they’re on,” he says. “But you’ll have to be careful not to get worked up for a while. An emotional imbalance will cause them to come right back on again, if you get overly nervous, or angry, or sad.”

  “For how long?”

  “Until you learn to control them.” He closes his eyes and rubs his face with his hands. “Anyway, I’m going to try to sleep again. We’ll talk about your training in a few hours.”

  After he leaves I stay at the kitchen table, opening and closing my hands, taking deep breaths and trying to calm everything inside of me so the lights will dim. Of course it doesn’t work.

  Everything in the house is still a mess aside from the few things Henri did while I was at school. I can tell that he is leaning towards leaving, but not to the point that he couldn’t be persuaded to stay. Maybe if he wakes and finds the house clean and in order it’ll tip him in the right direction.

  I start with
my room. I dust, wash the windows, sweep the floor. When everything is clean I throw sheets, pillows, and blankets on the bed, then hang and fold my clothes. The dresser is old and rickety, but I fill it and then place the few books I own on top of it. And just like that, a clean room, everything I own put away and in order.

  I move to the kitchen, putting away dishes and wiping down the counters. It gives me something to do and takes my mind off of my hands, even though while cleaning I think about Mark James. For the first time in my life I stood up to somebody. I’ve always wanted to but never did because I wanted to heed Henri’s advice to keep a low profile. I’ve always tried to delay another move for as long as I could. But today was different. There was something very satisfying about being pushed by somebody and responding by pushing back. And then there’s the issue of my phone, which was stolen. Sure, we could easily get a new one, but where is the justice in that?

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I WAKE BEFORE THE ALARM. THE HOUSE IS COOL and silent. I lift my hands from under the covers. They are normal, no lights, no glow. I lumber out of bed and into the living room. Henri is at the kitchen table reading the local paper and drinking coffee.

  “Good morning,” he says. “How do you feel?”

  “Like a million bucks,” I say.

  I pour myself a bowl of cereal and sit across from him.

  “What are you going to do today?” I ask.

  “Errands mostly. We’re getting low on money. I’m thinking of putting in a transfer at the bank.”

  Lorien is (or was, depending on how you look at it) a planet rich with natural resources. Some of those resources were precious gems and metals. When we left, each Cêpan was given a sack full of diamonds, emeralds and rubies to sell when we arrived on Earth. Henri did, and then deposited the money into an overseas bank account. I don’t know how much there is and I never ask. But I know it’s enough to last us ten lifetimes, if not more. Henri makes withdrawals from it once a year, give or take.

  “I don’t know, though,” he continues. “I don’t want to stray too far in case something else happens today.”

  Not wanting to make a big deal of yesterday, I wave the notion away. “I’ll be fine. Go get paid.”

  I look out the window. Dawn is breaking, casting a pale light over everything. The truck is covered with dew. It’s been a while since we’ve been through a winter. I don’t even own a jacket and have outgrown most of my sweaters.

  “It looks cold out,” I say. “Maybe we can go clothes shopping soon.”

  He nods. “I was thinking about that last night, which is why I need to go to the bank.”

  “Then go,” I say. “Nothing is going to happen today.”

  I finish the bowl of cereal, drop the dirty dish into the sink, and jump into the shower. Ten minutes later I’m dressed in a pair of jeans and a black thermal shirt, the sleeves pulled to my elbows. I look in the mirror, and down at my hands. I feel calm. I need to stay that way.

  On the way to school Henri hands me a pair of gloves.

  “Make sure you keep these with you at all times. You never know.”

  I tuck them into my back pocket.

  “I shouldn’t need them. I feel pretty good.”

  At the school, buses are lined up in front. Henri pulls up to the side of the building.

  “I don’t like you not having a phone,” he says. “Any number of things could go wrong.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll have it back soon.”

  He sighs and shakes his head. “Don’t do anything stupid. I’ll be right here at the end of the day.”

  “I won’t,” I say, and get out of the truck. He pulls away.

  Inside, the halls are bustling with activity, students loitering at lockers, talking, laughing. A few look at me and whisper. I don’t know whether it’s because of the confrontation or because of the darkroom. It’s likely that they are whispering about both. It is a small school, and in small schools there is little that isn’t readily known by everyone else.

  When I reach the main entrance, I turn right and find my locker. It’s empty. I have fifteen minutes before sophomore composition begins. I walk by the classroom just to make sure I know where it is and then head to the office. The secretary smiles when I enter.

  “Hi,” I say. “I lost my phone yesterday and I was wondering if anyone turned it in to lost and found?”

  She shakes her head. “No, I’m afraid no phone’s been turned in.”

  “Thank you,” I say.

  Out in the hallway I don’t see Mark anywhere. I pick a direction and begin walking. People still stare and whisper, but that doesn’t bother me. I see him fifty feet ahead of me. All at once the thrill of adrenaline kicks in. I look down at my hands. They’re normal. I’m worried about them turning on, and that worry might just be the thing that does it.

  Mark’s leaning against a locker with his arms crossed, in the middle of a group, five guys and two girls, all of them talking and laughing. Sarah is sitting on a windowsill about fifteen feet away. She looks radiant again today with her blond hair pulled into a ponytail, wearing a skirt and a gray sweater. She’s reading a book, but looks up as I walk towards them.

  I stop just outside of the group, stare at Mark, and wait. He notices me after about five seconds.

  “What do you want?” he asks.

  “You know what I want.”

  Our eyes stay locked. The crowd around us swells to ten people, then twenty. Sarah stands and walks to the edge of the crowd. Mark is wearing his letterman jacket, and his black hair is carefully styled to look like he rolled straight out of bed and into his clothes.

  He pushes away from the locker and walks towards me. When he is inches away he stops. Our chests nearly touch and the spicy scent of his cologne fills my nostrils. He is probably six one, a couple inches taller than I am. We have the same build. Little does he know that what is inside of me is not what is inside of him. I am quicker than he is and far stronger. The thought brings a confident grin to my face.

  “You think you can stay in school a little longer today? Or are you going to run off again like a little bitch?”

  Snickers spread through the crowd.

  “I guess we’ll see, won’t we?”

  “Yeah, I guess we will,” he says, and moves even closer.

  “I want my phone back,” I say.

  “I don’t have your phone.”

  I shake my head at him. “There are two people who saw you take it,” I lie.

  By the way his brows crinkle I know I have guessed correctly.

  “Yeah, and what if it was me? What are you going to do?”

  There are probably thirty people around us now. I have no doubt that the entire school will know what has happened within ten minutes of the start of first period.

  “You’ve been warned,” I say. “You have till the end of the day.”

  I turn and leave.

  “Or what?” he yells behind me. I don’t acknowledge it. Let him dwell on the answer. My fists have been clenched and I realize I had mistaken adrenaline for nerves. Why was I so nervous? The unpredictability? The fact that this is the first time I’ve confronted somebody? The possibility of my hands glowing? Probably all three.

  I go to the bathroom, enter an empty stall, and latch the door behind me. I open my hands. A slight glow in the right one. I close my eyes and sigh, focus on breathing slowly. A minute later the glow is still there. I shake my head. I didn’t think the Legacy would be that sensitive. I stay in the stall. A thin layer of sweat covers my forehead; both of my hands are warm, but thankfully the left is still normal. People filter in and out of the bathroom and I stay in the stall, waiting. The light stays on. Finally the first-period bell rings and the bathroom is empty.

  I shake my head in disgust and accept the inevitable. I don’t have my phone and Henri is on his way to the bank. I’m alone with my own stupidity and I have no one to blame but myself. I pull the gloves from my back pocket and slip them on. Leather gardening glove
s. I couldn’t look more foolish if I were wearing clown shoes with yellow pants. So much for blending in. I realize I have to stop with Mark. He wins. He can keep my phone; Henri and I will get a new one tonight.

  I leave the bathroom and walk the empty hallway to my classroom. Everybody stares at me when I enter, then at the gloves. There is no point trying to hide them. I look like a fool. I am an alien, I have extraordinary powers, with more to come, and I can do things that no human would dream of, but I still look like a fool.

  I sit in the center of the room. Nobody says anything to me and I’m too flustered to hear what the teacher says. When the bell rings I gather my things, drop them into my bag, and pull the straps over my shoulder. I’m still wearing the gloves. When I exit the room I lift the cuff of the right one and peek at my palm. It’s still glowing.

  I walk the hall at a steady pace. Slow breathing. I try to clear my mind but it isn’t working. When I enter the classroom Mark is sitting in the same spot as the day before, Sarah beside him. He sneers at me. Trying to act cool, he doesn’t notice the gloves.

  “What’s up, runner? I heard the cross-country team is looking for new members.”

  “Don’t be such a dick,” Sarah says to him. I look at her as I pass, into her blue eyes that make me feel shy and self-conscious, that make my cheeks warm. The seat I sat in the day before is occupied, so I head to the very back. The class fills and the kid from yesterday, the one who warned me about Mark, sits next to me. He’s wearing another black T-shirt with a NASA logo in the center, army pants, and a pair of Nike tennis shoes. He has disheveled, sandy blond hair, and his hazel eyes are magnified by his glasses. He pulls out a notepad filled with diagrams of constellations and planets. He looks at me and doesn’t try to hide the fact that he is staring.

  “How goes it?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “Why are you wearing gloves?”

  I open my mouth to answer, but Mrs. Burton starts the class. During most of it the guy beside me draws pictures that seem to be his interpretation of what Martians look like. Small bodies; big heads, hands, and eyes. The same stereotypical representations that are usually shown in movies. At the bottom of every drawing he writes his name in small letters: SAM GOODE. He notices me watching, and I look away.