Realm Seeker Studio

I HAD NO IDEA I could blow things up with my mind. That all changed during Tuesday’s chemistry class.

I’m sitting in the back of the chem lab, hoping the teacher — Mrs. Mikowsky — can’t see me. I’m already at a social disadvantage, having started the first year of high school halfway through the school year. And in a new country.

Everyone else knows each other, has formed their little cliques, selected their best friends. By now, they’ve joined clubs, sports teams and whatever else they do for entertainment in Nairobi. 

Not that I’m into clubs, cliques or teams. But I don’t need to add to my new-kid woes by having teachers highlight my academic inadequacies.

“Hey, Trev. Dude,” the skinny kid at my table whispers as he bounces on his chair.

“Don’t,” I say.

“Don’t what, Trev?”

“That.”

“Oh. Right. The Trev thing.”

“You got it.”

“But Trev’s cool. I mean, you call me Jay instead of Arjan.”

“You told me to.”

“I know, right?” Jay grins. “That’s how it’s gotta be. Trev an’ Jay. Two dudes cruisin’ the hallways, keeping it real. Got a nice ring to it. Am I right?”

“Sure.”

“Really?”

“No.”

“What if I call you Gold Eyes. That’s a cool name.”

“No. It’s not. And they’re not gold. They’re amber.”

“Yeah, but gold sounds cooler.”

“Mr. Shah,” Mrs. Mikowsky calls out. Her voice is as hard as her wooden clogs clomping against the tiles. “Is there anything you’d like to explain to the class?”

“Um… I love covalent bonds?” Jay says.

Other students giggle or make derisive noises. The teacher frowns and continues her lecture. Jay resumes his bouncing while playing with his pen.

“Please stop bouncing,” I mutter, and massage my temples.

The headache started last week on Wednesday, the first day of school after the December holidays. It blossomed into something approaching a migraine yesterday. Today, it’s in full force, gripping my head like a clamp around a watermelon. And I’ve seen what happens when you squeeze a watermelon too tightly.

Great. Just what I need. An exploding head.

I fold my arms on the table and rest my forehead on them. The glaring light from the window next to me still stings my eyeballs. I glance sideways at the view, which is hardly inspiring. 

The utilities building looms next to the chem lab. Its signs scream, ‘Keep Out,’ ‘Flammable Materials,’ and ‘Danger: Electricity.’ Pipes carrying water and compressed gas sprout out of the building like metal vines.

“You going to the social this Friday?” Jay asks. “You don’t wanna miss it. Everyone who’s everyone will be there, and…”

I zone out to his mumbling, fidgeting, and bouncing. The guy’s a poster child for ADHD. He’s also basically a genius when it comes to anything digital or computer-related. He’s already saved me from a miserable computer science assignment. He all but gave me the answer sheet.

“Hey, Trev? I mean, Trevor?”

I lift my head and try to ignore the spots dancing in my vision. I’ve had bad headaches before. Usually when I’m around people too much, especially indoors. But this one’s on a whole other level. There’s a constant boom in my skull. Like a heavy metal band is playing drums up there, with a soloist thrashing on an electric guitar.

“What, Jay?”

Jay’s face lights up at my use of his self-appointed nickname. “It’s all cool, dude. We can go together. You know, show up fashionably late. Rock the scene. Impress the girls. Whatcha think?”

“Sounds terrible.” I dig my fingers into my scalp, then fumble for the small bottle of pain killers I’ve been carrying around the past several days. The bottle’s empty. How many pills have I taken today? More than the recommended limit, by the looks of it.

“Maybe we can meet everyone else at Sloppy’s,” Jay continues. “There’s a branch just up the road from us, you know? You heard of Sloppy’s, right?”

“Sure.”

Mrs. Mikowsky is rambling on about covalent bonds. Her bright orange, frizzy hair blocks out whatever she’s written on the board. Her clogs thud on the tiles, echoing the boom in my head. Who wears wooden clogs?

Covalent bonds… I’m pretty sure I learned all this in another school, in some other country, the name of which I’ve already forgotten. My parents move around a lot because of their work. Diplomatic something or other. Yet another reason to avoid getting close to anyone. Especially someone who can’t stop twitching and talking.

The teacher’s voice drones on as she paces in front of the class, her wooden clogs keeping time with the slow, unsteady drum of her emotions.

Slow drums equal boredom. That’s what I’ve learned after several years of being able to hear people’s emotions. I rub my forehead and try to push away the teacher’s inner music. I don’t need her drums, as dull as they are, adding to my own.

“Food’s not so great, but their milkshakes’re pretty awesome.” Jay pauses to take a breath. “I mean, maybe not awesome awesome, but you know. Edible. Or drinkable. Whatever. But the atmosphere, dude! On a Friday night? It’s rockin’. Just don’t eat your hamburger, unless it’s super well done. Like, almost burned. Because that meat? You want it fully cooked. My sister… I mean my oldest sister, not my younger one. She got food poisoning real bad last week. My mom told her that’s what happens when you go out for dinner instead of eating at home with the family. But who wants to eat curry every single night? Am I right?”

Why can’t he just stop?

Jay’s voice isn’t the real problem, though. The combined emotional noise from everyone in the lab pushes against my brain. My head pulses with the sheer volume of it all.

“Yeah, I totally agree,” Jay says. “That teacher really needs to stop.”

Did I say something out loud? I massage my forehead, trying to pay attention.

“I mean, what’s she thinkin’, trying to teach us? Am I right?” Jay laughs like he’s made the best joke. It sounds like I’m sitting next to a donkey.

I lower my head onto my folded arms again, then change my mind. The long, narrow table I share with Jay is covered with chemicals, Bunsen burners and some other stuff we need for the experiment. But I know I won’t last long enough to light the burner, never mind titrate a solution, or whatever we’re doing today. I raise one arm without looking up.

“Yes, Mr. Finch,” the chem teacher bellows.

I wince. I’m pretty sure the teacher isn’t shouting at me, but it sure feels like it. “Need to go to the nurse’s office.”

“That’s the second time this week, Mr. Finch, and it’s only Tuesday.”

The rest of the class laughs. The irritating, tittering noise filters through twenty different instruments. They’re all out of tune, and out of sync with each other. The orchestra from hell pounds at my brain, adding to the drums and the guitar solo.

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to sit there and do the work this time, Mr. Finch,” Mrs. Mikowsky says. “We can’t be skipping out on class every time we’re bored, now can we?”

“Why not?”

I don’t mean to say that out loud. The headache makes it hard to know what I’m thinking and what I’m saying.

“If you intend to pass high school chemistry, which you need to do, then you might want to actually stay in class,” Mrs. Mikowsky retorts. “All right, enough of that. Can anyone identify this purple liquid? Anyone? Did anyone look at the assignment yesterday? The one I asked you to read before today’s lab? Yes, Sarina.”

I scrunch my eyes closed. Sarina’s emotions sound like a screeching violin, especially when she’s showing off. Meanwhile, Jay’s cymbals are swishing a constant rhythm, almost in time with his bouncing.

“So we got a plan, Trevor? You wanna do that?” Jay whispers, ignoring Sarina’s brilliant explanation about the nature of the purple liquid we’re going to be experimenting with.

“Do what?” I mumble against my arms.

“Go to Sloppy’s, hang out with everyone, then head over to the social. You think your driver can take us? That would be awesome, dude.”

I almost smile at the thought of Mr. Bones taking me anywhere but home. “Doubt it.”

“No prob. We’ll catch a LittleCab.”

“Not happening.”

“Why not? It’s brilliant. You can even crash at my place afterward. Not that you wanna do that. Might be better if we stay at your place. My home’s pretty busy. Can we do that?”

Jay’s cymbals grow a few sizes, the swish shifting into a metallic tap.

I squeeze my fingers against my forehead, willing my brains not to ooze out of my head. Why can’t Mom and Dad let me homeschool? Away from all of this noise and emotionally-inspired orchestras? That would be a dream. It’s quiet at home, with only Mr. Bones around, doing whatever he does in the house. 

I’m pretty sure I’d do really well at school if I didn’t have to actually be in a school. Kids are so emotional and loud. The stronger the emotions, the louder the musical instruments.

I roll my head to the side and stare at Jay. He has more energy than five other fourteen-year-olds put together. Doing homework with Jay is like trying to focus on a word puzzle in the middle of a rock concert.

“Okay, Trev,” Jay says and slides off his stool. “I hope you were payin’ attention. ‘Cause I wasn’t. Chemistry’s so boring. Am I right? Why can’t we just do what we wanna do? I’d do computer science all day, every day. What would you do? And what is this purple liquid for?”

I stare bleary-eyed at Jay, trying to focus my vision. But everything’s blurry now. 

Normally, the instruments are more muted, more distant. More manageable. But not lately. The past several days at this new school feel like I jumped into the middle of a gymnasium in which ten marching bands and five badly trained orchestras are all playing at top volume on untuned instruments. The resulting headache keeps building up with every passing hour.

I’m now at the point when I’m sure I’m going to throw up. Vomit and that purple liquid probably won’t give the desired results for our chem assignment.

“You have forty minutes to do this lab,” the teacher screams. “Let’s move.”

Is the teacher really screaming?

“No, not really.” Jay gives me a strange look. “She wasn’t even shouting. You wanna hear shouting, you take a class with Principal Stevens. Hey, you don’t look so good, dude. You gonna throw up? You are, aren’t you? I don’t have a change of clothes here. Aim in the other direction. Okay? Hey, are you listening?”

Bunsen burners hiss. Chemicals sizzle and pop. They fill in the gaps between the clanging music swirling around me. 

My stomach clenches, and my vision begins to dim. The sheer overwhelm makes me tremble. I focus on slow, deep breathing, just like Mom taught me. Breathe in. Hold it. Breathe out. Breathe—

Stools scrape against tiles. People move around. Beakers clink against each other. Voices. Laughter, except it sounds like cackling.

I hold my breath, squeeze my eyes shut, and push against the energy, trying to keep it away. I imagine a bubble around me, a bubble of silence. But everything smashes against me, cracking at the bubble.

“I really have to go.”

“Hey, dude. Bathroom’s across the hall. Holding it in isn’t good for your digestive system, you know. That’s what my dad says. He’s all into that Ayurvedic stuff.”

“Sure.”

The imaginary clamp around my head is feeling pretty real and a lot tighter. I’m on the verge of blanking out. I’m not going to make it to the bathroom.

But right before that can happen, I shout wordlessly and shove all my mental focus against the noise.

My energy hurtles out of me, like a tsunami sweeping across the landscape, cleaning it of debris. Beakers shatter. Flames sputter. The energy keeps rolling outward, enveloping everything in its path. It only stops when it reaches the utilities building next to the lab. The wave smashes into a large gas cylinder.

A second later, the utilities building explodes.

AND THAT’S HOW I BLEW up a building and almost destroyed the school.

The windows shake. Students scream and fumble for their phones. The teacher tells everyone to stay away from the broken glass. No one listens to her.

I cover my face with both hands and wait for my head to crack open. Instead, the headache recedes enough for my vision to clear.

The school PA system crackles to life, and Principal Frederick Stevens’ voice barks out, “Evacuate immediately. Repeat, evacuate immediately. This is not a drill. Not. A. Drill.”

“So cool.” Jay pumps both fists. Then he holds out an arm, his fist pointing at me.

I flinch, wondering if he’s about to punch me. But no. He’s just doing that thing some people do when they want a cooler greeting than a high five.

“Dude, fist bump. No chem lab!” Jay yells.

“Sure.” I stuff my books and other paraphernalia into my bag, exhaling heavily as the clamp around my head loosens some more. I don’t plan on blowing up buildings every time my head hurts, but it’s good to know there’s another option if I run out of pain killers. Not a great option, though.

Jay bounces next to me as we line up and start filing out of the lab. “Bets on how long it takes this time.”

“Let’s not,” I say.

I’ve only been at the school for a week, and I’ve already experienced a fire drill, an active shooter drill, and an evacuation drill. It’s good the school takes safety and security seriously, but three drills in a week?

The evacuation drill wasn’t nearly as fast as it should be. If you need to evacuate a thousand people from a sprawling, three-school compound, shouldn’t the school use multiple escape routes to speed up the process? Having all the cars line up on one narrow road leading to the one entrance gate doesn’t sound like a great plan.

Then again, what do I know? I’m only fourteen, new to high school, and I hear things that no one else can.

Jay’s still chattering about how long it’s going to take. He’s bouncing up and down in time with his words. I’m not sure Jay knows how to walk, at least not in a straight line. He bounces, skips, runs in circles, or sprints. Sometimes, all at once.

Teachers shout instructions as we shuffle out of the room and down the hallway. Their tension leaks into their voices and their instruments. Mrs. Mikowsky’s dull drum has picked up its tempo.

I distract myself from the noise by wondering how long before my family moves again. My record stay in any one place is three and a half years. My shortest time, three weeks. Whoever my parents work for — some international disorganized nongovernmental entity — they sure move around a lot.

We finally reach the emergency exit and follow the growing crowd of students toward the pickup area. The tension across my shoulders and in my head loosens up. Being outside makes it easier to handle everything. It’s quieter under open skies or in forests. The emotional energy can’t echo off any walls. Trees and bushes also help. They absorb a lot of the noise.

Jay nudges me. “Wanna work on that computer assignment?”

“Not really.”

“It’ll be awesome.” Jay’s totally oblivious to my disinterest. He’s now bouncing so hard, he’s actually jumping. He’s a small, scrawny kid and looks like he should be starting middle school, not high school. He has more energy than anyone I know. 

I’m tempted to look at his legs. Maybe he has those prosthetics that are made out of springy metal. Either that, or the kid’s part Maasai. Those guys are famous for how high they can jump. Well, Jay is about to beat their record.

“Way better than stupid chemistry, Trev. All we gotta do is…” He switches to a language that sounds like English, but isn’t really. It involves a lot of computer words like digital, software, circuitry, and I have no idea what else. He’s gushing like it’s the latest breaking news. It sounds like blah blah to me.

I hum and nod my head at appropriate intervals. It’s only been a week, but I’ve already learned the best way to handle Jay is pretend to pay attention, then zone out. Because once he starts on a computer-related topic, he cannot stop talking. Nothing short of another explosion or duct tape will do the job.

Despite his oddities, I count him as my one — and only — friend. I’m okay with having a minimal number of friends. The fewer, the better. Some kids ask way too many personal questions. And I have no idea how to answer them.

Jay interprets my weary nod for enthusiastic agreement. “So you agree, huh? We’ll swap out the blah blah for the blah blah. Then upload the blah blah software. It’s gonna be the best project ever. You’ll see. We’re gonna ace computer science.”

“Sure.” I glance at my watch. 

It was a gift from my parents, and it’s a pretty impressive-looking thing. The brochure says it can go as high as the moon and as deep as the deepest crevice in the Pacific Ocean. I’m not sure how deep that actually is, but I figure it’s deeper than I’ll ever go. 

“One hour,” I say.

“An hour for what?”

“It’ll take one hour to evacuate.”

Jay grins like I’ve given him a personal challenge. “Oh, it’s on. I say forty-nine minutes from now until we exit the gate.”

I tilt an eyebrow.

“No, really. One hour is way too rounded, dude. I’m going for forty-nine minutes. Loser pays for dinner. Sloppy’s, am I right?”

My stomach groans on my behalf. Sloppy’s isn’t well known. But as bad luck would have it, someone opened a branch in Nairobi. The fast food restaurant is only a block away from Forest View, the gated community where Jay and I live. 

Talk about bringing down the neighborhood. The Sloppy’s chain deserves The Most Disgusting Food award. Not sure if that award exists, but it should, if for no other reason than to give it to that place. I swear they have an official policy to recycle their cooking oil until it’s so dark, it can be used for greasing car engines. And who screws up French fries? That takes talent. But Sloppy’s does it. As for the hamburgers…

Again, my stomach clenches and makes an unhappy noise.

“How about I pay you not to go there?” I ask.

Jay laughs. The sound reminds me of our last home, which was next to a field of donkeys. Those things bray, not neigh. And Jay’s in full braying donkey mode. It’s so loud, a couple of girls at the front of our column crane their heads around and roll their eyes in disgust.

“I’m not joking, Jay. I can’t stand the food at Sloppy’s,” I add, interrupting his laugh.

“Why not?”

I shrug. “It reminds me of something that’s way past its expiry date.”

“You’re hilarious, Trev,” he says between guffaws.

“It’s Trevor. Unless you want me to call you Arjan?”

Jay shudders. “No, thanks. Way too difficult to pronounce.”

“Not really.”

“Whatever. Jay’s way better. Am I right? I mean, Jay sounds like something really cool, like a bird or… or a sports team. A really popular, winning sports team. Did I tell you I went to see the Blue Jays with my uncle once? It was the best game ever.”

I switch off as our line shuffles closer to the parking lot. As part of the evacuation procedure, the school has already sent a text message and placed a phone call to all the parents and guardians. Mom and Dad work in a non-family post in the Congo. They don’t have regular access to phone and internet services, so I’m glad I’m not allowed to live there. So the school has sent the message to our driver, Mr. Bear Bones, instead. 

I’m hoping the Bear part isn’t the name his parents gave him because that would be mean. Who names their kid after a smelly, hairy carnivore? You might as well call someone Hyena. 

Anyway, Mr. Bones is my guardian when my parents are in another country. While the school’s pretty uptight about safety and security, Mr. Bones is on a whole other level of obsessed. We live in a high-security, gated compound of forty houses. But he insists on entering our house ahead of me. As if someone might be lurking in the hallway, preparing to pounce. He also marches around the house every evening, locking doors and windows, then double checking the locks.

The guy’s several degrees north of paranoid. No way can anyone get past the compound’s trained security teams, the unfriendly guard dogs, the eight-foot wall topped with lines of electric fencing and CCTV cameras. A stray cat can’t even enter the compound without permission. Plus, there’s the home security system my parents installed. What does he think is going to happen?

But the really crazy thing about Mr. Bones? He’s the only person I’ve ever met who doesn’t have an emotional instrument. I don’t hear anything from him. Not even the strum of a solitary guitar string.

Which means he’s either a stone-cold, heartless serial killer, or a zombie.