Sneak Peek at my upcoming novel!

Hey there, Patrons!

I want to give you a glimpse of my upcoming novel. I hope you enjoy. Please share any responses that you have!

Chapter One

I didn’t intentionally set those guys on fire—I am no arsonist. I didn’t even know that I was capable of such things! Even if they deserved it (and they did)—I would never purposefully roast another creature. They may have made my life a living hell, but they did not deserve an attempt to burn them to a crisp.

I might throw up again—I did twice last night. The queasiness rolls over me when I close my eyes and envision what happened yesterday. I see myself opening my mouth to scream but, instead, out rushes a torrent of flames. The memories...bluhahach. Then, there’s the gut-twisting, nerve-tingling terror of being glued to the television all night, waiting for my picture to show up on the news screen. WANTED: Teenage Terrorist. WARNING: Do Not Approach. The heartbeat-driving, mind-wringing dread of keeping an ear trained toward the front door for the noise of combat boots on cement and tactical gear breaking through wood. Men arriving to truss me up and cart me off—a caged monster.

It’s all too much. I peel and scarf down a fifth banana, hoping that this one will finally quell my nausea. Mom eyes me warily from across the table. She knows something is amiss—I normally eat a lot, but not this much. Well, seldom do I, anyways. I refill my cereal bowl and quickly gulp most of it. Four refills this morning—up from the typical three. Mom can always tell when I am eating my feelings. Bless her, though, for not asking me about it. I know she feels guilty for mentioning it too often (and the ensuing insulation regarding my burgeoning weight). It’s not like I enjoy having to upgrade my pants size every few months.

“Honey, it’s almost seven,” she says, glancing at her watch. She pulls back her chin-length, blond hair to put in the same simple, diamond studs that she has worn every day I can remember. I’ve often wanted to ask where they came from—if they have any special sentimental value—but, on the off chance they were a gift from my father, I’ve refrained. “You better get a move on so you’re not late.”

I nod and chug the rest of the wheaty dregs. My stomach is still heaving—and I briefly consider one, final refill. Instead, I grab what remains of the cluster of bananas and throw them into my bag—I can munch them along the way. She’ll be having to stop for more food for me on her way home from work anyways.

I cross to where mom is flipping through a stack of documents, choosing which ones she needs to add to her bag this morning. I give her a quick peck on the cheek and say, “I love you, mom.”

“Love you too, Bondi. Have a great day,” she says, forcing cheerfulness. I notice my birth certificate in the stack. Why is she holding that, I wonder? She notices me looking and quickly covers it with the other documents. Her eyes are tired—tired and concerned. Not that those two expressions are uncommon—being a single parent and having me for a son have pretty much permanently affixed both expressions in place. But I sense that there’s something heavier, there. A hidden sadness that has been breaking through of late.

I wonder if she somehow knows. Maybe somebody texted her? No, she would have said something. I imagine her heaviness stems from the continued disappointment of her realizing what I am becoming.

I shouldn’t even be going into school (events being what they are) but I don’t really have another choice. I would have to explain everything to mom if I asked to stay behind—and it’s not like there’s a friend’s house at which I could camp out. No, I will just have to be brave and face whatever penance is mine to claim. I hurt those guys—whether I willingly meant it or not doesn’t matter. These were my actions, and I will have to stand accountable for them. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself. It’s easier said then done, I note as my knees threaten to give way.

The morning is gray—gray and gloomy. The sort of dawn that makes you want to curl up under the covers with a book and hide out. The temperature is still warm enough, though, to still feel grateful for living in this part of the world—it’s that brief sliver of autumn before the air burns your lungs with frost. Soon, the ice on the ground will be more than paper-thin. Soon, the Eurth will be slick with frozen rivulets, permafrost, and dandelion-like flurries. I hate winter—but the mid-fall here is glorious.

Today, the clouds hug the ground, low and heavy. They, appropriately, seem ready to burst with teardrops. As bad as yesterday was, I have an inkling that today will be even worse. How could I have been so stupid? If I had made different choices, I would never have felt like I had to fight for my life. I should have known better. Stay in control, Bondi! If there’s anything you’ve learned over your eighteen years, it’s that. You always have to be the better one.

I sigh and scratch at the elastic webbing wound round my torso that binds down my…abnormalities. I didn’t bother to re-wrap this morning, so it’s clumpy in places and itches. I really should have taken a shower—I spent the whole night sweating and probably stink like a wet animal. I can feel the cloying, salty remains on my off-color skin.

It takes me almost a full hour to walk all the way to school. Normally, I don’t mind the distance—but, today, the walk feels like pallbearer’s march. A long, slow death walk to an inaudible dirge. My legs are intransigent; I’m pulling my shoes out of boot-sucking mud with each step. I don’t want to go.

By the time I make it to campus, the sun is peeking its wary head over the horizon. The clouds make it wraith-like, a spectral memory of a sun. It casts opalescent lines on the sparkling grass, which crunches under my feet like crackling glass. Oh, no. I see the news vans—they’re already here. Set up with their satellite dishes spiraling skyward. I am confident that they are waiting for me. Should I turn around? There’s a small crowd gathered out front of the high school’s front steps. Not just reporters but members of the public, too. Bagha, some of them have brought hand-painted, poster board signs! They’re too far away for me to read—but I can imagine what they’ll say. They’ll be about me and definitely not be pronouncements of support.

School’s for Friends not Fangs. Keep Mythicals Where They Belong. Separation is NOT Discrimination. ...or something along those lines.

I slink along the edge of the marsh toward the backside of the school. The soccer and lacrosse teams practice early in the morning, so I am hoping that they leave the gymnasium door unlocked. Not one for sports myself, I can’t fathom getting out of bed two hours early to chase around a damn ball. Pardon me for saying so—and I am keenly aware that this is an unpopular opinion—but I just don’t understand the general public’s fascination of chasing around a round hunk of leather and rubber. I mean, sure, if the ball were filled with gold, or chocolate, or ten dollar bills...I could understand the appeal. But why is the ball so enticing? Why do they feel compelled to shove it into hoops or goalposts or wherever-the-hell-it-is they’re supposed to stick it? I just don’t get sports.

I jiggle the handle—fortunately, it is unlocked. I scurry inside and quietly shut the door behind me. Students aren’t supposed to be in the corridors before classes begin without written permission. Never having been a member of a before-school club (not that I haven’t tried to gain admittance), I have no such script to proffer to an inquisitive member for the faculty. No, I better just keep to the sides of the blue- and gray-checked hallways and dive into doorways if I sense someone coming.

I figure the safest place to wait out the beginning of classes is in the cafeteria. There, students gather to finish up last bits of homework, play Dungeons and Demons, stream videos, and gab. It’s usually not too crowded—and, benefiting today’s situation, it looks out onto the entrance courtyard. I can spy on events as they unfold.

My progress toward the waiting area is unopposed. I dump my belongings, check my sweat-dampened wristwatch to see how many minutes remain before the first bell, and fan the tails of my shirt to admit a draft. Only eight o’clock, and I am already sweating profusely. I feel like a pig—which is ironic, seeing as how pigs aren’t capable of sweat. But that hasn’t stopped my delightful peers from calling me thus. Sweaty piggy boy—just one of the delightful monikers with which they’ve dubbed me. Dog. Fatso. Fag Dragon. Asshole...

I sit down and take out a pencil and a notebook. I do some light sketching and pretend to be engrossed in my artwork—but really, I am studying the windows with my peripheral vision. In this instance, I feel grateful for my ever-so-slightly too-widely-spaced eyes. Outside, there’s a kid with an arm in a sling, wildly gesticulating with his other arm as he talks with two news reporters. I can only see his back, but I recognize his shape and tremble from the memory of last observing it. A gaggle of onlookers circle around. I can finally read some of their signs—and it’s about what I anticipated:

School is for learning, not zoo-keeping!

Learners—NOT burners!

Keep my child safe from monsters

Mythicals = No Safety, No Peace

I mean, you’d think after all of these years they’d come with expressions that were a bit more clever. If scrounging up a touch of empathy or kindness from them is too much, could they at least hone their wits? Am I really asking for too much?

Despite my glib dismissal of their inflammatory rhetoric, the vice around my internal organs clicks a few notches tighter. I reach into my bag and pull out the three bananas that remain. I swallow them in quick succession and consideringly eye my two packed lunches. I always bring two because A) my hunger is seldom sated and B) too often, one of the lunch bags ends up stomped on, thrown in the trash, or spat into and torn apart. I’ve learned to always hedge my bets with a reserve.

I am just about to turn away and focus on my drawing in earnest, when I notice something. A young woman—I think I know her—has turned toward my window and is staring at me. I hunch down a little lower, causing her eyebrows raise toward her hairline. Shit. She’s identified me.

She’s tapping her neighbor next to her and pointing. He turns, sees me, too—and his mouth opens in a shout.

Oh, no. This isn’t good. This is not how this morning was supposed to go!

I hurriedly cram all of my stuff into my knapsack and scramble for the hallway. I hear the CLANG of electric, steel doors bursting open—but I don’t turn to look. I can feel the pulsing stomp of shoes and boots on the terrazzo tiles behind me.

I’m booking it—bursting down the halls at top speed. I am not a good runner, but, thankfully, adrenaline and terror are powerful catalysts for locomotion. Feeling like I’m pursued by a mob of angry villagers ready to burn me at the stake (which, in all fairness, is not far off from the truth), I am flinging myself down stairwells, racing through corridors, and hurtling through unlocked vestibules. Anything and everything I can do to put physical distance between me and them is my aim.

I briefly consider hiding in a bathroom stall—but I figure that’s too obvious. Most of the students know I already spend too many passing periods and lunchtimes crouched in the handicap stalls, pretending to disappear. They’ll look for me there.

No, instead, I head toward the art hallway. There’s a pottery classroom I’ve been in a few times, and there’s a big closet in the back where they store extra supplies. Maybe it’ll be open—maybe I’ll be able to escape this rampage with my body intact.

Luck is on my side—and as I sprint into the classroom, I see the closet door standing ajar in the back. I hurry within, quietly pull the door closed, and fumble for the lock. My fingers meet with empty space. Shit! I picked a hiding spot that can’t be bolted shut.

I stagger to the back and yank in front of me whatever I can grab, namely some mops and brooms. Not much of a camouflage, but to my flustered brain, it’s better than nothing. A two-hundred-and-twenty pound quarter-dragon hiding behind a few mop and broom handles. Well planned, Bondi. I shake violently—the wood and plastic ratattatatatatat against each other. Flirk. I wish everyone would just go away. I wish they’d leave me here to die in peace from terror and shame.

I really should not have come to school today. Or yesterday. Or, perhaps, any day ever.

I hear voices getting louder. I can tell they’re spreading out, buzzing through the surrounding rooms like a swarm of angry bees. At least one has entered the pottery room beyond my door. Just a thin sheet of wood separating me from what they’ll undoubtably claim to be justified retribution. Tearing my arms and legs from my torso, that’s what I am imagining. Drawing and quartering—slicing me into four and tying each limb to horse set to gallop in opposing directions. It’s been a hot minute since I’ve heard a story about people like me being lynched so viciously—but it doesn’t mean that it couldn’t happen here today. Putting me in my rightful place, that’s what they’ll say it was.

I shake harder and cannot stop. I sincerely wish I could—because I am drawing attention to myself. Voices are mounting—others are filtering in. They know I’m here—they are sniffing me out like a fox hound hunting its pray.

“Shhh. Do you hear that?” one of them asks.

“That’s just the air vent,” replies another.

“Nah. I don’t think so. It’s coming from in there.”

My grip tightens. I hear snaps and crackles as handles shatter within my fists—sharp stabs of jagged plastic press through my greenish skin. The top lengths of broom and mop clatter to the floor. I can’t let go.

They are approaching. They’re being tentative, unsure what lurks behind closed doors.

“You open it,” one says.

“No, you.”

“I’m not going to be the one to confront that freak. What if he burns me?”

“He’s still young, he might not know how to control it yet.”

“Didn’t stop him yesterday.”

“Alright, let’s all go in there.”

“Okay. On the count of three?”

“Sure.”

My breathing ceases. My ribcage prickles with icicles. Is this what the prologue to death sounds like?

“One...” two of them say together.

My heart is a jackhammer demolishing concrete. I close my eyes, and tears run down my cheeks.

“Two...” a few more join in.

A blistering coal flares in my belly. My throat swells with heartburn. This is not where I am going to die!

“Three!” They all shout as the door budges open.

Chapter Two

I hear a voice calling out to me, but it’s little more than a dull murmur past the pounding of my heartbeat. My ears are filled with my blood’s pulsing as if a timpani were inside my skull.

I’m on the floor—sticky and aching. I still clutch the remnants of those cleaning utensils to my chest. Trying to move, I roll away from the wall down which I had slid in a near faint. Assorted, broken janitorial instruments tumble away from me. An observer might think I was playing an oversized game of pickup sticks based on the piles of snapped brooms and mops. I try to press up to standing—or even just sitting—only to discover that my hands won’t unclench to let go of the fragments of handles that remain.

The baritone voice calls out again, and this time I can make out the words. “Are you alright, Bondi? I got them to clear out. It’s just you and I. Will you come out?”

After three attempts, I mange to hobble up to standing—terror still squeezes my body into one giant knot. I stumble against the closet door that miraculously remains intact. Principal Tate, the man on the other side, arrived just in time to use his body as a barricade against the mob’s bloodlust. I force my hands to unclasp by stretching them against my torso, unintentionally pressing the splinters deeper into my flesh. Quivering, I open the door.

The classroom is empty—a few desks are upturned, a few larger pieces of furniture are shoved aside, art supplies are scattered everywhere. Standing before me is the burly and square-jawed Principal Tate. He is chewing on the corners of his overgrown mustache—and, even as distracted by my pain as I am, I yet again notice his biceps filling out the sleeves of his polo shirt. My gaze rises to his silvered hair and crinkled eyes that are usually so warm. Today, he looks stricken, his forehead furled.

“Oh, Bondi...” he says, now seeming to be at a loss for words. His eyes travel up and down my frame.

I look down for the reason for his dismay. Not only have I so thoroughly sweated through my clothes that it looks like I went for a swim—but my hands are dripping syrupy, almost-black blood. It’s stained my shirt and pants; I marvel at how there is so much of it in such a short time. Shards of blue plastic and wood stick out of my palms—and I notice that sweat isn’t the only reason I’m wet. I apparently lost control of my bladder while inside; my boots and pants are sopping.

I sigh and want to weep. Keep it together, Bondi. You can cry tonight, when you get home. Not now. Not in front of others. Don’t let them know how they’ve gotten to you.

“Well, I, uh…” The Principal puts a hand on my shoulder, feigning calm. “Let…let’s get you cleaned up, shall we? I can have someone bring you one of the gym uniforms after Ms. Pratchett gets a look at your hands and makes sure you don’t need stitches. Alright?”

I nod numbly. The next moments pass by in a blur. The school nurse cleans my wounds, removes the intrusive splinters, and wraps my palms in gauze. Mr. Harmon, one of the Physical Education teachers brings me an XXL uniform…the largest the school has. I find myself sitting in Mr. Tate’s office, staring blankly at the wall in front of me. The clock ticks past eight-forty-five. So little of the morning has passed—yet so much has already happened. I don’t remember hearing the first bell sound to herald the commencement of the school day.

How could I have been so stupid? Why didn’t I just stay home?

Principal Tate comes to sit in the swivel chair across the desk from me. He presses his fingertips together in a steeple position and studies me from behind his cuticles. I look around the room—looking but not really seeing. My mind has become unusually quiet—it’s stalled in neutral.

“So,” he says after what feels like an inordinately long period of waiting and breathing. Our conversation has officially commenced.

I stare back. I have no words. As far as I’m concerned, I just escaped with my life for the second time in two days! I knew the people in this town wouldn’t be pleased about yesterday evening—but I didn’t imagine that it would escalate so. After all, I grew up here. They know me…sort of. Know me well enough to know that I’m not someone dangerous. Well…mostly not dangerous? (Can I even say that anymore?) I’m still one of them—even if I am a little...different. I never expected them to chase me through the halls with proverbial torches and pitchforks.

I blink my double eyelids. I watch Tate try not to viscerally respond to the gesture.

“I’d like to hear about events in your own words, Bondi, if you don’t mind. We’ve all heard the news story—but I am mature enough to recognize that it is only one, very specific—and dare I say: speciesist—perspective. And, as I said downstairs to those parents, the events of last night happened on school property, so it is my responsibility to assign punishment, not the police. No one was maimed or permanently injured. You only have me to convince.”

Tate rolls his chair around so he’s on the same side of the desk as I. He places his elbows on his knees and leans in, making deliberate eye contact. This is good; he’s been trained to come across as empathetic, I can tell. Maybe it’s more than affect? His eyes appear genuinely filled with compassion. I feel compelled to trust him. I’ve only had a handful of meaningful interactions with this man over the past few years, but for some reason I trust that he will truly listen.

“Will you tell me the story from your point of view?”

I sigh and shake my head. Tears are threatening to overrun my lower lids, but I take a deep breath and squash them. Keep it together, Bondi. Not here—not now. Cry later.

“Okay...” my voice croaks, “I’ll tell it as best as I can.”

I knuckle my forehead with my bandaged hand and knead my temple. I search for where to begin. There are so many interlocked backstories that coalesce to tell the true tale of how yesterday escalated. I imagine that Mr. Tate knows about some of them—or at least can surmise, with me looking the way that I do—but not all. I figure that the simplest, most straightforward answer is best. Don’t get lost in the details.

“As you undoubtedly already know, two days ago, Dane attacked me in the gym locker room while I was changing. He tackled me—while I was in only my underwear—forcing me onto the ground and proceeded to pummel my chest, my stomach, my...nether regions. Some of the students got him to stop—but most egged him on.

“I did nothing to provoke him; he just thought it was funny. Laughed the whole time he did it. None of the teachers were there, and when he finally got off me, he threatened to do worse if I reported him. But, later in the day, Mrs. Sommers saw the bruises on my arms that were already appearing and asked me about them. I didn’t mean to tell her…but some of it came out.”

I tenderly lift the bottom of my shirt to show the purple and blue blotches that cross my abdomen. I know Tate had probably heard about this happening, that he was likely the one who had final word about Dane’s punishment.

“I knew he was angry—I knew he’d seek out a way to take it out on me. I knew I should have just skipped school yesterday. But I didn’t, I came...like an idiot.”

Mr. Tate interrupts me with saying, “You should never feel afraid to come to school, Bondi. This should be a safe space for you.”

Not rolling my eyes takes a Herkulean effort. Does he not get the absolute absurdity of that statement? He seems sincere, but school has never once felt like a ‘safe space.’ It’s felt like one, never ending, perpetually-heartbreaking gauntlet. An endless series of trials where I am supposed to prove that I won’t break under the taunts, physical attacks, psychological abuse, and soul-crushing indecencies that my fellow students hurl at me. It’s a painful ordeal that I have to survive. No, it is a far cry from safety.

Not wanting to voice those feelings, knowing that he could never understand, I simply nod and carry on. “Someone—him or one of his cronies—shoved a note in my locker. Telling me that he was going to be waiting outside the school to ‘cut to me shreds.’ I thought it was an exaggeration. I thought that I’d be able to book it out of here and disappear in the crowds.”

Again, he cut me off. “Why didn’t you tell anyone? Did you report to any of the faculty that a student was threatening you?”

My eyes go wide. I want to tell him that it’s not unusual for me to receive ten threatening notes in a week. I want to tell him that this was just one of dozens of instances where I felt like someone had a vendetta against me. I want to tell him that no one on the staff either could or would protect me—that they didn’t really care. Sure, they pay lip-service to the idea of inclusion and safe space—but when push came to shove, no one on the faculty is going to put themselves on the line for a person like me.

I want to say all of this—but, instead, I just say, “No.”

He nods. I breathe. He waits. This is the part he’s waiting to hear. I gulp and continue on.

“After school, he was waiting for me. I don’t know if he had members of his posse standing at each of the exits letting him know which way I was headed, but he came upon me just as I was crossing the marsh. He was with four others. Big guys, all of them. And two of them had knives out. They said that they...that they were going to ‘peel my skin off and shove it down my throat.’”

The tears are flowing now—I can’t stop them. I reach for a tissue on the Principal’s desk to blot my face and nose before continuing on. “I ran. They pursued. Eventually they got me cornered in a thicket of trees. One of them threw a stone that hit my face.” I gesture to a scabbed abrasion on my cheekbone. “And then...then...something happened. Something that I’d never done before. Something that I didn’t even know I could do... it just... it just took control of me....”

Mr. Tate nods and adds, “And that’s when you discovered that you could breath fire—and you burned three of them.”

I move my head side to side. The news program I saw early this morning had said such. I can’t believe that I somehow managed that. It’s all such a blur, the event. The world was spinning around me, and I had hardly a clue what I was doing or what was happening. Blind panic.

“The rest...I don’t really recall,” I finish. “They ran away, I found myself at home without a memory as to how I got there. I guess I must have run the whole way—cutting through the forest. My clothes were in tatters. But I... Principal Tate, you have to understand that I didn’t mean to do it. It was purely an accident. Like I said, I didn’t even know I could. And even if I did...I mean, it was in self-defense, wasn’t it?”

He shakes his shoulders like a dog shaking water. He clearly looks uncomfortable with all of this.

“The young men say that you attacked them. They were minding their own business—and you burst through the bushes to attack them. Completely unprovoked.”

“But, that’s ridiculous!” I shout incredulously. Mr. Tate raises a hand to cut me off.

“Certain people might be inclined to believe them, but I know precisely who those young men are. I know their history of causing trouble—and as you said, Dane’s history of violence toward you is documented. I am inclined to believe a version of the true story that’s much more closely aligned with your telling. The trouble is: there are no witnesses. And even if there were, even if it was in self-defense, three young men had to get burns treated at the hospital because of you, Bondi. This isn’t an easy situation for me to manage. I hope you see that.”

I nod. I try not to look too pathetic. I don’t think the Principal has the authority or the temperament to send me to a juvenile detention center—but the possibility does not escape me. I wring the edges of the t-shirt I have been given, and wince as the open wounds on my palms sting from the pressure. I flatten my hands onto my lap.

Mr. Tate stands up and paces. He walks over to a wall and examines the photographs and framed documents.

“You know, my brother married a Mythical. First in my family to do so.” He plucks one of the pictures off the wall and passes it to me. I gingerly take it in my hands. “There were many who called him a fool for doing so—even amongst our immediate family. But I thought he was brave. And I couldn’t love his wife more if she were human.”

The super-saturated photo shows a slightly-younger version of Mr. Tate standing next to a man who is clearly his brother. They both have the same face shape and slightly receding hairline. His brother is the groom, and he is standing beside a stunning woman in a floor-length wedding dress. She is practically buried in a cascade of ruffles and lace. One would almost think she were fully human if it weren’t for the exceptionally pointy ears that extend past the folds of the veil and the too-bright eyes that glow magenta.

He smiles and takes the photograph back, replacing it on the wall. “She’s a nymph,” he explains. “They met in college. Went to one of those big-city schools where they are more accepting of interspecies relationships like that. Not out here. Not where you’re the only one who looks like you do. They’ve been trying for years to have a child, but no luck yet. Do you get it from your mother or your father’s side?”

I’m taken aback—this is not where I anticipated this conversation going. “Dad. My dad was half dragon. But, I didn’t ever know him. Flew off before I was born.”

Mr. Tate nods and says, “And there’s no one else around like you. No one else to make you feel a little less...a little less odd. Such a shame.” There was once a Transmorphic kid in my fourth grade class, I want to tell him; but his family moved him away when they saw how bad the bullying was here. He escaped after only four months, the lucky goat.

He sighs and sits again. “I wish we had more diversity in this school, Bondi. Hell, I wish we had more diversity in this county. I don’t remember it being this way when I was younger. I swear, there were a few—not many—but a few Mythical and Transmorphic families around. But they seem to all have...vanished. And all that’s left is us humans. Take us or leave us—we are not an easy bunch.”

He studies me. This has evolved into a more frank and revealing conversation than I anticipated. I feel seen. I feel…heard. Why didn’t he tell me this years ago? I would not have expected that the Principal of my school would end up being the one to show me the most compassion. I would have thought it’d been, you know, a social worker or something. But, hell, I will take it where I can get it.

“So I want you to understand where I am coming from, Bondi. I want you to understand that I understand the difficulties of your situation. I know how hard it’s been for my brother, how hard it is for people like you.” He pauses and bites his lip. “Which is why it is so uncomfortable for me to say what I am about to...”

Wow, that was a setup for an abrupt turn in this conversation. My hands clench the seat below me and hold my breath.

“I can’t have you in school here, Bondi. It’s not good for you or the other students. It’s clear that we can’t protect you—and as you grow into yourself, it’s clear that we don’t have the faculties for us to protect the other students from you.”

A barrel of ice water pours down my back. What did he just say?

“I am not expelling you per se, but you are no longer invited back. You can finish out your school year at home—or maybe transfer to another district where they can accommodate people with your...special requirements. I’ll do my best to prevent any of the families from pressing any charges…no one was seriously injured, and I do believe that you were the one attacked. We can show a history of violence with at least one of the boys toward you.”

“But...but...” I feel myself speaking without realizing that I am. “If I don’t finish out my senior year, I won’t be eligible to attend college this fall. It…It’ll prevent me from moving away from this place. There aren’t any schools within even an hours drive that has a single other Mythical in attendance, let alone a program designed for one. And my mom works two jobs; she can’t help facilitate remote learning. You are...you are...” I am out of words. This can’t be happening.

“I am only doing what’s best,” Mr. Tate replies, trying to look caring, “both for you and everyone else. You’ll be happier alone. You will feel better without others poking and pointing out your differences everyday. I am confident we can get you set up with something better—I can have Ms. Scott, our resident learning specialist, reach out—“

But I have stopped listening. This can’t be happening. It can’t. As horrendous as school is—the living, waking nightmare that it has always been—the only thing worse is imagining that I never get to leave. Without a high school diploma, I can’t get a real job. Without graduating, I can’t escape to university and learn to spread my proverbial wings. This...this is an absolute catastrophe.

I tune back in as Mr. Tate is finishing up saying, “I think, ultimately, we’ll all be much happier.”

I just nod. I say, “Okay.” I find myself ushered out of the room and put into the backseat of a car idling behind the school. The woman at the wheel doesn’t introduce herself. I find myself being driven toward home. Excommunicated from the fellowship of fellow students—not that any of them really liked me or welcomed me. Now, for the first time, I am inexorably alone. There will be no chance of ever meeting anyone to befriend me or believe in me. No teachers to root for me—or a guidance counselor to advise me. No, I will be all by myself. The monster shoved into the dungeon. He’s too dangerous.

She pulls up to my house—the sun has barely risen over the tree line. The woman drives off without a word.

I am alone. Utterly and completely alone. I stagger up the back steps and retrieve the key hidden underneath the flower pot. Mom is long gone to work, I know.

I sit at the kitchen table and stare at the shrapnel that my life has become. Everything I had fell apart today. And...and I was I right. Today is proving to be the worst day of my entire life. Like, it couldn’t get one iota worse.

I imagine mom coming through the door. The school will have inevitably phoned her. She will look like she hadn’t been crying—she will try to strive to be encouraging. But I know that she’ll be scared. Scared not only for my future—but for what I’m becoming. Something that she can’t help me with. I am becoming a man that she can’t guide or control. I am becoming stranger, more dangerous.

I am a peril to her by living with her. She’d be so much happier—have to work so many fewer hours—if it were only herself that she has to take care of. Her face wouldn’t have to be painted with grief—with a sadness—that never seems to fully fade. I wonder, not for the first time, if her reoccurring expression might also mingled with disappointment. That she is disappointed that I hadn’t turned out more like her. That I couldn’t have been born looking entirely human. She’d be happier—I would too.

And what about the police? I know what happens to people like me in jail cells.

I stare at my bandaged palms, and an idea blossoms into my brain. I can’t say that it’s a good idea...but it’s one that has been lurking in the shadows for some months now. I’ve batted it away, buried it, but it keeps coming back.

Everyone would be so much better off if I weren’t around.

That’s it. That’s the truth I’ve long been avoiding. The world—my mother—would be happier if I weren’t in the picture. If she didn’t have me to take care of, she could live the life she really wants. If the other people in town didn’t have me—they could be happy with their homogenous, entirely human life together. And me...I wouldn’t have to be perpetually reminded what a freak I am. How vilified. How deplorable.

Maybe I could go find a place with people like me. A place where I won’t feel so unique. Feel so...ashamed.

And suddenly, without realizing it, my mind is made up. I envision myself packing my bags, stuffing a nap-sack with food and water, and charting my way toward freedom. I don’t know what lurks out there—I have no clue what awaits outside of the confines of this bubble—but I am going fro it. In a matter of moments, I have my whole agenda arranged. I know where mom keeps a stash of emergency cash—that should be enough to get me started out on—and I can…figure out the rest along the way.

Within only a few minutes, I’ve decided. The world here will be better off without me. I am going to run away. Quickly, before mom gets back.