Mayhem by Artist Arthur

“Look, Jake, I know what you’re going through,” I know I’m in trouble.
    Not the grounded-for-life kind of trouble—my dad doesn’t do that. Besides, my life is so dull that grounding me wouldn’t actually seem like punishment. This feels deeper, though, like he’s about to talk about stuff I’d rather not talk about, which is just about anything. Especially now when I’ve resigned myself to lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling with its water stains from the leaking roof, thinking about how the girl I might be just a little bit in love with still obsesses about somebody else.
    â€œThis is hard for me,” he says, clearing his throat and running his hands through his hair. It’s been too long since he visited Henley at the barbershop, but I bet that’s not what he’s here to talk about.
    â€œWhat happened to your nose?” he asks abruptly.
    I don’t think that’s what he’s here to talk about, either.
    I shrug. “I got in the way of the ball in gym. No biggie.”
    â€œIs it broken?” he says with concern.
    â€œNo. The nurse says probably just bruised.” She’d said more, but I didn’t want my dad thinking we really should go to the hospital. He seems okay with that and moves on.
    â€œI don’t want you getting mixed up in this supernatural stuff,” he says finally, and sounds like it’s taken a huge weight off his shoulders.
    I roll over, prop my head up on my hand and look at him. “Why?” It seems like a simple enough question but Dad takes an outrageously long time to think about the answer.
    â€œIt takes people away.”
    As far as answers go, this isn’t what I expect. Not from Dad.
    He continues, “Your mother knew about the ‘curse’ or these ‘powers.’” He lifts his fingers to make those silly air quotes. Now I see where I get my geekiness.
    â€œMy own father was the one who said he saw something in you the day you were born. He knew you’d be one of them. I think he was talking about your birthmark but I didn’t care. I just wanted him to shut up.”
    Dad sighs and stares at my computer screen for a minute. Then he looks back to me and his eyes seem kind of odd, more sad than mad.
    â€œMe and your mother, we were happy together. And we were happy when we had you. And then all that changed.”
    I remember feeling that way. Like all was well and then… “Because she left?”
    He shook his head. “No, because of that power.”
    â€œMy power,” I say since it doesn’t seem like he wants to acknowledge it.
    â€œShe was scared of it, scared of the things you could do,you might do. All the stories and the predictions. It worried her so much.”
    I nod like I understand and I think on some level I do. On another level I can feel the pinpricks of anger brewing. It’s so normal to me now, this feeling of discontent, of simmering rage. More often than not I’m upset about something or agitated. I’m beginning to think that’s my nature.
    â€œYou don’t believe in the power, do you?” I ask suddenly, wanting to know, wanting to hear him say it.
    â€œOh, no, son. I do believe in it. I believe it made my uncle insane and drove him away from all he knew and loved. I believe it’s dangerous and that’s why I want you to stay away from it, Jake. I don’t want you anywhere near what might be happening.”
    â€œWhat is happening, Dad. It’s already started and I’m already involved. I don’t know if I can stop now.”
    â€œYou can!” he says, turning to me, leaning over so his elbows are pressing into his knees. “You have to. It’s the only way to guarantee you’ll be safe, that we’ll all be safe.”
    I feel myself shaking my head, disagreeing with my dad. It’s not something I do often, just because it seems easier to keep my opinions to