Glimpse by Steve Whibley Page A

about living people, it’s a lot less cool and seems more like a curse.”
    Lisa turned to me. “Didn’t I tell you he watches too many movies?”
    â€œI think I said that too,” I added dryly.
    â€œI don’t watch that many movies,” Colin defended. “It’s not possible to watch too many movies.”
    â€œYour mind just shoots straight to the most impossible explanation on its own?” Lisa asked. “You don’t even consider things that actually make sense?” She crossed her arms over her chest. “And, yeah, you can watch too many movies. You have a bigger movie library than Netflix.”
    That was true. Colin did have a lot of movies, but you couldn’t really blame him. His dad was a location scout for a movie production company, and his mom used to be an actress. So movies sort of ran in his family.
    â€œHe said glimpse ,” I said. “That’s it. I don’t think that sounds much like a curse.”
    Colin tapped his chin thoughtfully.
    Lisa sighed. “Dean, don’t listen to him. It’s just stress—that’s what makes the most sense. Your hallucinations started after you saw two men beating another man in the alley and then you got trampled at an electronics store. One of those things would have been enough to freak anyone out, Dean. Especially the beating. It freaked you out, right?”
    â€œI guess so.”
    â€œDean, don’t—” The morning bell cut her off. “We’ll talk later, at lunch or on the way to your birthday party after school.”
    â€œOh, man, I’m sorry.” Colin put his hand on my shoulder. “Happy birthday.”
    â€œYeah, thanks,” I said. “Maybe if I make a wish right now instead of waiting until I blow out the candles, the rest of my birthday will be insanity-free.”
    â€œIt’s worth a try,” he said.
    I forced a smile and headed to class. As I walked down the hallway, I closed my eyes for a brief second and muttered a single wish. I just want everything to make sense . I guess in the end I got what I wished for.
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    ***
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    Mr. Woodward—or Woody , as he preferred to be called—was an ex-army sergeant who had served two tours of duty in Vietnam. He was also my English teacher. He had a slight limp, the result of a landmine incident that left his right side partially paralyzed. Still, he managed to stand ramrod straight and only hunched the slightest bit when he walked. Everything he said sounded like marching orders, and even though it might not have been true, it was widely believed that if you spoke out of turn in Woody’s class, you’d wake up strapped to a metal bed frame with a couple car batteries wired to your nipples. With a rumor like that, you don’t risk standing out. No matter who you are.
    â€œCurse!” Woody barked when I entered the class.
    â€œYes, sir?”
    â€œI understand you killed a couple muggers last Friday.”
    The class gasped in unified shock and spun in their chairs to look at me.
    â€œW… what? No, sir, I didn’t kill any—”
    â€œNo matter, son. They probably deserved it.” He placed one hand on his desk and leaned forward. “What did you use? A knife? A rock?” He looked down and flexed his fingers. “Or just your bare hands?”
    â€œSir, I wasn’t even the one who called the—”
    He held up his hand. “No, no. Better not say anything else. Let it die down a bit.” A smile threatened the corners of his mouth. “Don’t want you saying anything that might be used against you, right?” He gave a curt nod. “Let’s get started.”
    I took my seat, a bit confused—which wasn’t that odd in Woody’s class—and cracked open my copy of Macbeth . Now, Shakespeare is tough enough to follow as it is. So if you ever find yourself having to listen to it read in the monotonous chant of