Blast Protocol

Chapter 13

(before)

"Silas. Look at me."

I didn't want to look. I wanted to keep doing what I was doing. I was thirteen years old, and very, very determined. I had decided that I would stare at the bumpy, textured wall in the hall just outside the principal's office, and stew in my emotions.

I was sitting in a low chair. It had thin, wooden armrests that dug into my elbows, so I kept my arms folded. Meanwhile, my mom stood, towering next to me, a silent sentinel. Well, semi-silent.

She stepped in front of me, positioning herself between me and the wall. Forcing me to look up at her. She leaned down, and her hair dangled, framing her face, chin-length and wavy. Her eyebrows were knit together with concern. They were the same eyebrows as Gemma's. Sometimes, when she and Mom looked over at me, in surprise, it was like I was seeing double.

"It's not like you to get into fights like this," Mom said. She traced the fat, injured part of my lip with her finger. Then my left eye, dark and swollen by this point. It felt stretched and taut, like a drum.

I winced and pulled away. Not just because it stung, but because I didn't want anyone at school to see this. And maybe Mom picked up on that, because she stood upright, allowing some personal distance between us, adjusting the strap of her purse on her shoulder.

A school bell rang, somewhere on the other side of the school.

"They said you refused to go to the nurse," Mom said.

"My eye's pretty swollen, isn't it?"

Mom nodded.

Ah, well. It was probably going to get worse, too.

"They said you started it." My Mom was watching me, gauging my reaction.

The muscles in my arms and hands flexed and squeezed, as if on their own. I turned my gaze downward, toward the floor. Smooth and shiny, with a bar of light from the hallway lamp overhead.

"They started it."

"How?"

I didn't want to say. Saying it would give it power, again. The very thought made red heat bloom in my cheeks. Anger and embarrassment merging together.

"A few of the boys, they were putting down Dad, right in front of me." I was looking at my knuckles. Tight, white knuckles, some of them encircled by crusts of dry blood where the skin had broken. "He's brilliant, isn't he? I tried to explain that. But I guess their parents say nasty things about him. Lots of the adults do. And the other kids believe it. They pile on, and—"

"Did you get any hits in?" Mom said. Her voice was soft and low. I had a hard time getting the measure of it. I couldn't tell if she was mad. But I wasn't about to lie.

I nodded, slowly.

"Good," she said, just as quiet.

I blinked in surprise, still gazing at my knuckles. I opened my mouth to speak, but then one of the teachers came around the corner, walking the length of the hall. She was wearing high heels, and they made clop-clop-clop's on the hard floor, getting louder and louder. She must have heard about the situation with me, because her eyes were ahead as she passed us by. She disappeared around the bend.

"Your Dad's awkward, sometimes." Mom said. "People pick up on that. People are good at singling others out, making them feel different. It doesn't hurt that your father is so successful in his field. They don't get that. And they don't like it. That's why they want you to feel bad about being his son. But you don't, do you?"

I shook my head. "No. Not ever."

"Good."

I felt the air shift as she sat down next to me.

I unclenched my hands. "I thought you would be mad."

"Not at you. I'm actually proud."

I turned to look at her. She was dead serious. Not an ounce of humor or disapproval on that maternal face.

"Why?" I said.

"Because." She reached around my back and put a hand on my shoulder. "You stood up for yourself, and you stood up for your family." She leaned close. "If it happens again, I won't fault you for doing the same thing."

I stared. And I started to actually smile, a little. Partly because, to me, it seemed absurd. Like the rules of the universe had flipped on their head.

"But...what if I get kicked out of school?"

She shrugged, smirking. "You can always homeschool."

Okay, now that had to be a joke.

But then her expression turned sober, again. "I'm serious, Silas. What those boys were doing, it wasn't just about your father. It was about putting you down, too. And I won't stand for that. And neither should you. Never let anyone diminish you. Never let anyone tell you who or what you are. Only you get to decide that."

I thought about that.

"You're saying that when people say things, I shouldn't let it get to me? That I need to be the bigger person?"

She shook her head, looking more severe now, but also excited. In a way I didn't quite understand.

No, maybe I did understand it. It was like... a 'zest for life'. A passion for what it means to be alive in this world.

"No," she said. "Well, I mean, yes. But no. Listen to me, Silas.

"You're a Turner. Like me, like your sister. And especially like your father. And if one thing is true about a Turner, it's that they don't give in. To anything.

"Never give up. Always fight."