Gifted

Chapter One

“What makes a hero? Courage, strength, morality, withstanding adversity? Are these the traits that truly show and create a hero? Is the light truly the source of darkness or vice versa? Is the soul a source of hope or despair? Who are these so called heroes and where do they come from? Are their origins in obscurity or in plain sight?”

― Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Notes from Underground

. . . .

|Sunday|

Jake

“Jake, listen to this!” Mina says, tugging at my arm insistently.

I glance up from my computer at my sister: All of five foot four inches, with curious blue-green eyes, a heart-shaped face, and almost shockingly pink hair (and it’s not dyed that way), she stands before me with a grin on her face.

She starts gabbing at once: “So today, I was walking around the park and a little boy and his mother were playing nearby and—”

“And the little boy pointed at you and said, ‘Look Mommy, it’s one of the super-people I saw on TV!’” I finish with a smile, seeing the scene unfold in her head. Mina nods happily.

“Well, Lauren always said it was only a matter of time before the others began to see us as just ordinary people—so to speak,” I say. “And the mother’s reaction?”

“She just smiled and waved at me,” Mina says. “Said ‘hello’ and that was that.”

“If you want to come, I’m going to the Supermart right now,” I tell her.

She shakes her head. “Chris is coming over later, she wants to talk about plans for Homecoming—‘course it’s a bit early, at a month and a half away, but whatev. And remember: Katie’s coming over tomorrow afternoon, it’s her birthday, you know—you remembered her birthday was Monday, right?” Her eyes grow wide and her eyebrows arch, expecting an answer.

I log off, get up, and walk into the living room without replying, where my mother, Diana, is reading Tolstoy’s War and Peace for the umpteenth time. It’s a bit of a family joke; seeing as we don’t age after a certain, individual point, Diana decided to read the famously-long tome in her infinite spare time. She liked it so much the first time that she just kept rereading it.

“Hey you,” she greets me, glancing up at me.

“Hey, Diana,” I say. “How’s W and P coming...again?” I smile.

“No matter how many times I read this,” she says fondly, “I can always find something new to appreciate about it.”

I look at her: Her soft brunette hair, slightly curly, currently worn in a short fluffy bob; her small button-like nose, which is buried back in her favorite book; her large green eyes: her youthful appearance forever captured when she ceased physically ageing at the age of twenty.

I glance at the TV, which is on and tuned to CNN. Annie Sloan, our local newswoman, is standing in the shade of a red-and-yellow leafed tree blooming in the bright colors of fall.

“Annie Sloan here, channel two, and it’s three o’clock on Sunday, August 21, 2011, and it’s a beautiful day!” she says enthusiastically, gesturing at the colorful scenery behind her from where she stands in front of the news station. “Skies are clear, the sun is bright and hot, and the temperature is at a toasty 87 degrees Fahrenheit. Now, turning our attention to the upcoming weather, let me direct you to Jack Thompson—”

Before my brain melts, I head outside to the lawn.

One of my abilities is something I call blipping. This is more or less personal teleportation: As long as I am thinking clearly of my desired destination, I should arrive there nearly instantly. Because of this, I’ve never even considered getting a license to drive, nor do I think I would ever want one.