Mildred and I manage to help him onto the sofa and give him a fleece blanket. Mildred leaves to get Orwell, leaving me with the boy.
He’s staring at me with the same expression of a deer in the headlights. “Who are you?”
I sigh. All the new kids are like this. “Alright. Question for a question, okay?”
He nods. “Who are you?” He repeats.
“My name is Anna Louise Gillian. Who are you?”
“Isaac,” he says tersely.
“Last name?”
He smirks. “That’s another question. It’s my turn.”
I nod at him. He’s going to fit right in. It’s a good thing he can speak English, a lot of the new Children can only speak their sign’s language.
“How old are you?” He asks.
“Thirteen. You?”
“Same. I think.”
So he is my age. Really old for a newbie.
“Who are your parents?” I ask.
He points a finger at me. “It’s my turn.”
I exhale out of frustration. “How about this: I’ll ask you as many questions as I want, and you can ask me the same amount of questions later.” I say this in hopes that he’ll forget I made him the deal.
He nods.
“Who are your parents?” I repeat.
“I’m pretty sure they’re dead,” he says bluntly.
“That’s not what I meant. Who raised you?”
He takes a deep breath. “This is going to sound crazy,” he says, “but fish.”
Alright. He’s probably a first generation. “When’s your birthday?”
“Why are you asking me all these questions?”
I shrug. “No one said you had to answer them,” I reply.
He glares at me. “March 6.”
First generation Pisces. There’s just one more thing: “Isaac, what can you do?”
“What do you mean?”
I look him dead in the eye. “Don’t play dumb. You know what I mean.”
His eyes widen. “No. No. I can’t do that. It’s unnatural, I promised Rina I wouldn’t.”
“Show me.”
“No.”
“Show me or you can’t stay here.”
Isaac breathes shakily and stands up. He lowers his head, closes his eyes, and unfolds his hands.
Swirling torrents of water splash from his hands. Water rises up in crystal-clear towers, droplets circling one another. A waterspout forms and falls in on itself.
It’s beautiful. He’s got more control over his element than I do, and it shows.
Waves, waterfalls, whirlpools, currents – they’re all displayed in the circle of water.
The top of Isaac’s wall evaporates into steam, leaving the air hot and humid.
“Wow,” I whisper. I look at Isaac. He’s blinking back tears, his hazel eyes wet.
His voice wavers when he asks me the question. “Am I a freak yet?”
“No,” I reply, “you’re just right.”
