Behold ! Read online

  Pris had watched the tableau unfold, and had seen the look of rage flitter across Ham’s face at Candy’s cutting reference to him. She had also seen his right hand ball into a fist, and jerk in the queen’s direction. Ham’s normally bright red aura had flared with striations of yellow and silver, making it look like a fiery sunset over the desert.

  “Are you okay there, Ham?” Pris asked with sincere concern in her voice. When he turned his visage to her, the momentary stab of anguish in his eyes was unmistakable, before shutters dropped over the pain and he smiled disarmingly.

  “Why wouldn’t I be?” Ham asked in reply. “That was the best demonstration of Karma I’ve seen since my neighbor ran over his son’s bicycle. He didn’t see it because he was too busy yelling at me for being in the way on the sidewalk when he came roaring into his driveway.”

  “We better eat up and get started toward your next classes,” Tiffany said as she walked up to their table with three trays balanced in her hands. “What happened there?” she asked, nodding toward the melee still underway at the next table. The other girls, like a pack of feral animals, had turned on Clarise and were remonstrating against her clumsiness, stupidity, right to be in the group, and so on.

  “Karma,” Ham replied, digging into his spaghetti while Tiffany began carefully cutting up Priscilla’s food into small bites before feeding them to her.

  “Wow, waitress skills and understanding of quadriplegic eating habits,” Pris observed benignly. “You’re a regular Mother Theresa.”

  “You know, if we’re going to be friends, you can drop the caustic routine,” Tiff said neutrally. “You won’t get any pity from me, and I’ll only offer to do those things for you of which you’re incapable.”

  Pris studied Tiffany for a long moment and nodded. “I guess I could use another friend,” she allowed. “Now I have two.”

  Ham had wolfed down his meal and was backing away from the table as Tiffany collected their trays. “Gotta go empty the bag, meet you in class,” he tossed over his shoulder.

  “That sounds like a good idea, Pris,” Tiffany observed. “Shall I check yours?”

  Torn between embarrassment for a stranger to handle one of her intimate needs and the desire to allow Tiffany to prove her previous statement, Pris responded by wheeling her chair around. “I’ll meet you in the handicap stall near the front office,” she replied.

  “AS NEITHER ONE OF US died or killed anyone, I’d say our first day at the new school was a success,” Ham was saying as they rolled into the shade of a spreading elm tree while waiting for their parents to pick them up.

  Most students were either headed toward or already aboard busses, except for those who had cars and driver’s licenses, or friends with the same. A group of six boisterous older boys were gamboling across the campus toward the student parking lot and passed nearby. One separated from the group and approached them.

  “Hey guys, check out the Hot Wheels,” he called gleefully to his friends.

  Priscilla sensed trouble immediately; his aura was mostly fiercely red, but darkened throughout by roiling black and gray blotches.

  “Can I push you somewhere?” he asked Ham and Pris.

  “We’re fine, thank you, we don’t need any help,” Priscilla answered as civilly as she could.

  The bully wasn’t hearing it. “Oh, come on, my friends and I would be happy to help you. Hey, Mike, grab the guy and we’ll race,” he suggested, moving behind Priscilla.

  “Come on, Butch, leave them alone,” the one called Mike answered. “I need to get to work.”

  “She said we don’t need any help,” Ham ground out between clenched teeth. His right hand was fisted on his control plate, and trembled with suppressed rage.

  “Well, aren’t you just the ungrateful type,” the bully scolded. “Pete, grab Mr. Ungrateful and I’ll race you to the car,” he commanded another of the party.

  Pris watched as Ham’s fist twitched violently to the side, and they all heard a sharp crack from above. All heads looked up just in time to see a large tree branch break and swing down directly at their assailant. Butch had no time to react other than to duck his head, and the large branch hit him squarely in the back, sending him sprawling. The sprinkler system had been on earlier in the day, and a puddle of muddy water stood in a low area a few yards away. Butch was hurled by the blow to land face first in the pool. His friends rushed to ensure he was unharmed, and helped him limp toward their waiting vehicles. A horn sounded, and Priscilla looked up to see her mother’s van at the curb 30 feet away. A look of clear concern was on her face, but Pris pretended not to notice.

  “I’m waiting with you until your ride gets here,” she informed Ham. “I’m not leaving you alone in case those miscreants return.”

  “Miscreants?” Ham mimicked. “I don’t have a ride,” he said, changing the subject before Pris had a chance to lose a volley of derision at him. “I usually just roll home,” he explained when she looked alarmed. “My dad often works late, and he texted me saying he would be tonight. My chair has enough juice to make it home; this is all planned out. I’ve made the trip several times from my house to school and back during the summer so I know the way,” he explained. I’ll see you Monday, have a good weekend.”

  “Wait...but...ah, can we offer you a ride home?” Pris stuttered, flaming because it was the second time in one day he had reduced her to stammering.

  “I appreciate it, but I don’t think your van is equipped to secure two chairs,” he reasoned. “Besides, I really like the neighborhood. It’s fun to roll along and watch the world.”

  “Maybe I can roll home with you,” Pris blurted out. She didn’t even know where it came from; it certainly wasn’t anything she’d thought through.

  “Again, I appreciate that, but we live in opposite directions,” he replied. At her look of curiosity, he added, “I checked out your address when Tiffany was filling out your registration sheet, and I know the city pretty well. You live five miles from me, that way,” he said, pointing away from the school. “I live that way,” he concluded, pointing over his shoulder toward the school. “I’ll see you Monday,” he said, turning his chair around to roll down the sidewalk back toward the school.

  “Well, how about dinner then?” she called back, trying not to sound desperate.

  The retreating form stopped, and his voice drifted back to her. “What’s for dinner?”

  “Mom and I are celebrating with pizza because some idiot in public education decided it would be a good idea to start school on a Friday,” she called in return.

  Ham turned around and rolled back closer. “Deep dish or thin crust?”

  “The Pizza Piazza has every kind of pizza imaginable,” Pris replied.

  “Does your van have lock downs for two chairs?” Ham asked seriously.

  “Mom will figure something out.”

  “Not necessary, my dad designed this chair,” Ham shared. “It has its own lock down straps built in. All I need are three points to hook onto.”

  THE PIZZA PIAZZA DID indeed have every kind of pizza imaginable, as well as a video arcade, Skee Ball lanes, and a huge assortment of activities and equipment for even the most finicky teenager; or adult. Marrisa loved to play Skee Ball, but had chosen not to as Pris couldn’t join in.

  “Mom, go play; the relaxation will do you some good,” Pris said emphatically.

  “Oh, I feel like I’m abandoning you,” Marissa replied.

  Clearing his throat, Ham offered, “Pardon my interjection, Mrs. Benson, but Priscilla and I have a great deal to discuss if we want to be ready for class on Monday. You’d actually be doing me a favor by allowing us the opportunity to talk at length about the future.”

  Marrisa looked from Ham to Pris, who nodded encouragingly. After another moment, she did a little dance hop, and skipped off to buy her tokens.

  “That’s the first time I’ve seen a mature woman actually skip,” Ham commented.

  “Who says my mom’s mature?” Pris
retorted.

  “She’s raising you by herself, isn’t she?” Ham shot back. It took a moment of silence for the callousness of his comment to hit home, and then he could only hang his head.

  Pris just looked at him blankly. “What?”

  After a minute longer, Ham said, “I am so, so sorry; I didn’t think about what I was saying. I only meant...”

  “I know what you meant, and it’s okay,” Pris replied gently.

  “So, why did you want to get rid of your mom,” Ham paused, blanching. “Wait, erase that. I can’t believe I just committed two faux pas’ in less than a minute. Why did you want to speak privately with me?”

  “Will you stop being so sensitive?” Pris scolded. “I know you’re not trying to hurt my feelings.”

  “You do?” Ham replied. “Oh, good, I’m so glad.”

  “Sure, you can’t help it if you’re a boy, and by your very nature crude, insensitive, and boorish,” Pris said sweetly, with a wicked twinkle in her eye.

  Ham’s head came up, and his eyes sparkled as well. Then he grinned, and they both burst out in unfettered laughter. Each time the laughter began to die down, they would lock eyes, and it would start all over again. After five minutes, when the laughter began to take on a hysterical edge and they were finally able to stop, Ham looked at her and said simply, “What?”

  Suddenly serious, Pris said, “I think you caused the lunch tray and the tree branch to happen.”

  Ham turned his head at an odd angle and looked at her as if studying a rare and fascinating alien life form. “Do what?” he asked.

  “You heard me,” Pris replied.

  “You’re not making any sense.”

  “Of course I am; I was watching, you weren’t,” she corrected. “In fact on both occasions, I witnessed you balling up your fist and jerking it at the troglodytes in question; just before the accidents happened.”

  “That’s crazy talk,” Ham replied.

  “We can test my theory,” Pris suggested.

  “And exactly how would we do that?” Ham asked.

  “Said Troglodyte and crew just walked in the front door,” Pris said, cutting her gaze over the corner of the booth.

  Ham craned his neck around far enough to see them out of his peripheral vision. “They wouldn’t dare try something in this crowd,” he observed.

  “Methinks thou dost misunderestimate the stupidity of the American jock,” Priscilla snarked.

  “Wait a minute; did you just butcher Shakespeare, and quote George Bush, all in the same sentence?” Ham gasped in mock horror.

  “You’re so much quicker than you appear,” Pris smiled.

  “So, what’s the plan?” Ham asked, enthralled in spite of his misgivings.

  “I’m going to the service counter to sweetly inquire as to whether anyone might have the time to provide service to a pair of wheelchair-bound customers,” Pris informed him.

  “Ah, and you suppose they’ll follow you back here?” he asked.

  “Oh, and here I just said you were quicker than you looked,” She snarked.

  “Well, what then?” Ham asked impatiently.

  “They’ll watch where I go from a distance, and then fabricate some ridiculous plan which will seem brilliant to their feeble minds. We’ll see right through it, of course, and thwart them, but not before you get the opportunity to get good and angry,” Pris explained. “Then we’ll get to test my theory.”

  “Hold on a minute,” Ham cautioned. “Let’s just say for the sake of discussion, because I don’t have any mind powers, that I actually do. Won’t demonstrating them here be a bit... awkward?”

  “Well, silly man, the first two times you did it, you made it look like it was an accident or someone else’s fault,” she reminded him. “I have faith your subconscious mind will work that out, despite your conscious mind’s reluctance.”

  “There’s no talking you out of this, is there?” he asked hopefully.

  “None whatsoever,” she replied, with a wicked grin.

  THREE

  “YOU MADE ME LOOK LIKE a fool today,” Butch hissed in Hamilton’s ear. “Now it’s gonna be your turn to get all wet and look stupid.”

  Ham and Pris had seen them separate at the front of the restaurant after holding a brief but animated discussion. Apparently, Mike still didn’t want anything to do with it, because he had left the building. That hadn’t stopped Butch from coercing or persuading his three lackeys to cooperate with his plan.

  “Um, actually, Butch, I had nothing to do with you getting wet,” Ham tried in his most convincing voice. “The tree branch knocked you down. Did these guys not tell you that?”

  “Yeah, they told me, but I know somehow you had something to do with it,” Butch replied, although by the confused looked on his face, even he was apparently struggling with the reasoning behind his conclusion.

  “Look, Butch, if you want to get even with the reason you got wet, maybe you should go water the tree?” Ham suggested.

  Butch was a credit to most muscle-heads in that he actually thought the idea through for several seconds. Then he leaned in close to Ham’s face and snarled, “Are you being a smart-ass?”

  “No, not at all,” Ham replied innocently. “I was just applying logic to our discussion. If you want to repay your getting wet with wetting something, and the tree is what caused you to get wet, then the tree should be your target. Unless you think maybe the sprinkler system is actually to blame as it was the source of the water. In that case, you could...”

  “Just shut up,” Butch barked. Heads turned from several booths around them, and at least one employee stopped sweeping to watch what was transpiring.

  If my power only works when I get mad, this will never trigger it, Ham thought. I’m having too much fun.

  “I’m done talking,” Butch said, and plucked a half-full pitcher of soda off an empty table. Holding it level with his face, he leered at Ham and said, “Let’s see how you feel when your girlfriend is the one getting wet.”

  Extending his arm straight out from his side, he moved the pitcher over Priscilla’s head. Then just as suddenly, his arm bent at the elbow and he dashed the contents into his own face. He stood dazed for a moment, blinking to clear the stinging soda from his eyes. Then he held the empty pitcher out again and quickly bent his elbow, smacking himself in the face with the plastic vessel.

  “Hey, stop,” he yelled, as he extended his arm and smacked himself again, this time causing his nose to bleed. “Stop,” he yelled again. “Make him stop.” A third time he bashed himself in the face, this time hard enough to crack the plastic container.

  His three goons had stood watching, stupefied, until Butch began yelling, then all three of them grabbed his arms and held him fast. Butch struggled and twitched for several seconds, then broke into sobs. His retinue helped him to the front door, and they all went outside.

  Pris had sat silently throughout the entire ordeal, and now burst into gales of laughter. “That was amazing,” she extolled. “Was that conscious, or just suggestive?”

  “Shh,” Ham cautioned. “People are still watching us, and they can hear you.”

  “Okay, roll over here and pretend to console me so we can talk quietly,” Pris suggested.

  Once their faces were less than a foot apart, Ham admitted, “I just thought; he doesn’t realize he’s really only going to hurt himself, because once he dumped a pitcher of soda on a girl in a wheelchair, he’d probably get expelled, kicked off the football team, and maybe even arrested.”

  “So you just suggested he was hurting himself, and then he actually did it?” Priscilla confirmed.

  “So it would seem,” Ham replied. “And it wasn’t anything creepy like I was in his mind or seeing through his eyes. I just thought it, and he did it. I wasn’t even really thinking about him specifically; I was just waiting to see what happened if he actually dumped the soda on you.”

  “Wait, so you weren’t trying to protect me?” Pris bristled.

&nbs
p; “No, not consciously, anyway,” Ham started to answer before he saw the look on her face. “But as soon as I realized he was serious, I of course had to take drastic measures to prevent it.”

  “Sure you did, Buddy,” Pris groused. “Sure you did.”

  Marrisa walked up to the table and paused briefly. “I’m sorry, were you two having an intimate moment? I can come back in a little while,” she continued as she began to turn away.

  “Mom, don’t be ridiculous,” Pris said sternly. “We just couldn’t hear each other over all the noise, and Ham moved closer so we didn’t have to shout.”

  “Well, alrighty then,” Marrisa said in her best Ace Ventura.

  “So, what did you win me, mom?” Priscilla asked. Marrisa had been holding one hand behind her back since she had arrived. She now produced a white, winged horse with a horn on its forehead; its wings were a glistening metallic blue.

  “A pegacorn,” Priscilla exclaimed.

  “Pegacorn?” Ham repeated questioningly.

  “Sure, silly man; a Unicorn with wings, or a Pegasus with a horn, isn’t it beautiful?” she breathed as Marrisa set it on the cross brace on the front of the wheelchair.

  “Actually, it is quite... unique,” Ham observed. But Pris wasn’t listening; her eyes were locked on her prize.

  IT HAD BEEN ON HER seventh birthday; her father had surprised her by bringing home a giant stuffed Pegacorn from a novelty store. She had fallen in love with it, and had sat on it for most of the remainder of the evening. It wasn’t many days before her weight had buckled the legs to the point it became, in effect, a low cushion. After some cajoling, Pris had agreed it would best serve as her guardian while she slept, so it took up permanent residence at the foot of her bed. She had named it Fred.

  After the accident, during the more than a year Priscilla spent in the hospital undergoing reconstructive surgeries, Marrisa had sold their home and found an apartment with handicap access and amenities. When Priscilla had finally been released from the hospital, after the surgeons and specialists informed Marrisa there was nothing else they could do, Priscilla was shocked at her new home.