"So Sage is an unfairly exceptional jockey already, isn't she?" Peter strides beside Artie, his long hair damp from the showers. It's been a long afternoon, but at least no one fractured any ankles today.
In fact, despite everything that happened in the last twenty four hours, a sense of cautious optimism has lifted the Jackalopes' spirits.
"Yup. I mean, she's no Talia, of course, but-"
"But she'll do." Peter finishes Artie's sentence.
Artie nods in reply, huffing and puffing as he pulls his wheelchair's wheels along. "She'll do."
"What position do you think the new coach will have her play in?" Peter says.
"Probably wrangler. I think Sage has what it takes. She's agile. Ferocious. Packs a mean punch. Slightly out of her mind. You know, standard wrangler traits." Artie says.
Just like Genesis O'Toole, he chooses not to add.
He'd never hear the end of it from Peter.
They fall into a companionable silence as they make their way over to the parking lot where Genesis waits for them. Talia can't drive her little brother and his friend to and fro anymore, for obvious reasons, so Gee has stepped in to help out a few teammates in need.
Gee!
Artie's heart flutters at the thought of spending more time in her jeep. Sure, his wheelchair barely fits in her backseat beside Peter. But then Artie gets to feel Gee's arms wrap around him while she helps him move to the front passenger's seat. These transfers only take two minutes, but they're some of the best two minutes of his life. Her warmth against him. Her muscles rippling-
Artie really has to stop this. He feels like such a pervert.
His crush on the older jockey has done nothing but intensify recently.
Genesis O'Toole.
Peter calls her 'the bashful Barbie messiah' behind her back. Artie understands his buddy is trying to be derogatory, but he can't help but agree she certainly looks like something touched by the divine. Tangled blonde curls sprouting above a warm smile. Freckles sprinkled across an adorable button nose. Large emerald eyes.
To Artie, Genesis looks heavenly, but she's so much more than that, too.
As soon as Gee steps foot into a tub and onto the Court, it's pretty obvious she isn't your garden variety cherub.
She is the avenging angel of death.
Finally, with the quiet becoming far too much for him, Peter expertly derails Artie's train of thought. He's become very good at it over the years. He probably guessed exactly who Artie was thinking about, on top of everything else.
"So the team almost has every position covered now." Peter says.
"We still need a new thaumaturge." Artie adds.
"Oh, not this again!" Peter sighs, exasperated.
"Dude. I talked you into joining the team back in the day and I'm determined to talk you into this too." Artie says.
"You did not! I wanted to join. An excuse to punch the things that killed my... Anyway, I didn't need convincing. This is totally different." Peter gazes into the far distance for a few seconds.
"No it is not, Peter. Look. Only ten percent of the entire world's population is able to manifest humors at will. My sister has that gift, but she can't help us right now. Obviously. You're the only one I know who can!" Artie says.
"I can't though, can I? You've seen me try to manifest. Sometimes it works, other times everything just goes haywire." Peter says.
Artie stops his wheelchair several hundred feet from Gee and her jeep. He reaches up and grips Peter's arm, tightly.
"You can do this, bro. I believe in you. Just trust me. No one on the team knows everything you're capable of. Not yet. But I do, and they will. And soon we'll all be counting on you. Talia's not on the team right now. We can't count on her anymore. But you and I, we're brave as hell. We can get through this. We can accomplish great things." Artie says.
Peter visibly shudders. "Well if you're so brave, how come you haven't told blondie over there how you feel about her?"
"Low blow, bro. Low blow."
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
The clock on Peter's bedroom wall is clearly taunting him.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
As soon as Gee dropped him off at home, he whipped past his Oma trying to ask him if he had a good day, stumbled up the carpeted staircase leading up to his room, finally arrived in his room, and collapsed in a gawky heap in the chair by his desk.
The cluttered desk has really taken on a life of its own at this point, with books and papers and music sheets tumbled on top of one another in an abstract pile. Peter should probably clean the jumbled mess up. But after tourneytub practice, there's always homework hanging over him, just like that infernal clock.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
Why did he ever put it up there?
Why did he ever leave it on?
Peter attempts to flip through an aged algebra textbook, but his energy and his mind are just not in it. His mind keeps floating back to his most recent conversation with Artie. Deep down he knows his friend is right, of course, Peter is the Jackalopes' only chance of having any sort of reliable thaumaturge. But reliable is the key word there. And Peter knows he is far from what they need.
They need Talia, whose control over her own humors had achieved legendary recognition, at least locally.
At least, before yesterday...
Now everything is all messed up. And Peter is determined not to add to all that.
Hell, the awful gawkiness of his own body is enough to handle. Peter imagines handling a whole bunch of bodies he just manifested. The thought is simply too much.
And yet...
Peter clambers out of his chair and picks up his trusty old electric guitar from the corner of the room. He begins strumming the instrument experimentally, letting all the emotions and confusions roiling within him recede to a dim tide. Then he tries to pluck at a specific feeling, just as he's plucking a specific guitar string. The hope he tries to nurture. The hope he'll be able to help out his team. He clings to that hope. He plucks that hope. He breathes out that hope.
A cloud of what appears to be dust whistles out from Peter's mouth. It pools on the floor in a funnel. Very soon it turns into a mini-tornado. It whips up all the loose papers in his room, twisting and turning them around and around until they all scatter to the ground like autumn leaves. The wind from the humor's cloud finally dies down, leaving only Peter and his humor.
It looks like a girl.
With tawny brown hair and long limbs. In a simple fluttering white dress. Only thing is, the girl has no face. Just a blank stretch of skin where her eyes, nose, and mouth should be.
Peter should be afraid, but he's not. Something draws him towards her. Something inside him. Deep. Intense. Raw.
"Mom?" The word pours from his lips before he's even thought to speak it aloud. But now Peter has said it, it feels like the only thing he could have said in a moment like this.
The girl, no, the humor, is just standing here in the middle of his room. Unmoving. Unsaying. Without even a mouth to say anything with.
As if it's waiting for something.
Waiting for him.
To do what?
"What do you want from me?" Peter's words shiver out into the suddenly cold air closing in around him. He's having difficulty breathing now. But he forges on.
He just has to.
"I'm sorry Mom," Peter says, crouching down closer to the floor from the weight of everything. He places his guitar gently down as well, "I'm not like Talia. I'll never be like Talia. I'll never be as good as Talia at any of this. I can't- I'm not- I'm not good enough. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
Peter collapses onto the floor, great heaving sobs wracking up and down his body. He feels weak and useless. He probably is.
His Oma must have been listening at the door, because she comes rushing inside her grandson's room. She flies right through the humor, which vanishes into a thin and wispy nothingness. Oma, whose short white as snow hair bobs up and down with every step, kneels where Peter lies, nudges the guitar away, and grabs him up in the fiercest hug a ninety pound old lady physically can.
"You are good enough, Peter. You shouldn't say those things about yourself. You're wrong. You're more than good enough." Peter's Oma says.
"You really think so?" Now Peter finds himself in a kneeling position, he's able to wipe the tears from his eyes. Oma runs her hands along the length of his gaunt face, pulling his hair behind his ears. They touch foreheads.
"I know so. You surprise me everyday." Oma says.
Peter chuckles. The sniffs start to subside. "I surprise you? That could be a bad thing, you know." He says.
"Well, in this case it's not. And sure, Talia may have great thaumaturgical skills, but she can't help the team now, can she?" Oma says.
"No." Peter nods, conceding her point.
"But you can."
"b-b-But what if I mess up?" He says.
"Better than not trying at all, sweetheart."
***
It's just before practice the next day. It's Thursday, the day before the Jackalopes' Exhibition Game, and Peter can feel the energy in the tubhouse.
It crackles like a looming electrical storm.
Peter nervously asks everyone to gather around.
He's got something to show them.
He's terrified, but he is resolved now.
He's the only one who can take over as thaumaturge, and now is the time to reveal to the team what he's capable of. The new coach has her arms folded.
"What is it Donkersmit?" She asks, not unkindly.
"I-I-I can be- I mean, I am a thaumaturge. I can take over for Talia, for a while. I'm not her, but I can-"
"That's amazing news! Show us what you got." Coach Wu says.
Beside her, Sage Sawyer blows a bubblegum bubble. It bursts, and Peter jumps a little. Still, he refocuses himself. He catches Artie's eye, who gives him two grubby thumbs up. Peter's best friend doesn't even try to hide his excitement.
Peter forces himself to settle down. He starts breathing in and out, slowly. He stretches out his palm. He supposes it's a little dramatic, but he also realizes this moment probably calls for a little drama.
Luckily, surrounded by those he knows well, he doesn't feel too daunted. That is, as long as he stops thinking about everyone looking at him right now.
Peter closes his eyes.
Lets a tiny pink cloud escape his lips. It rolls to just above the surface of his outstretched palm, tickling the skin there. Out from the cloud steps an impossibly pink pig. It's just big enough to fit in his hand. White pigeon wings sprout from its sides. It's even wearing miniature versions of Artie's oversized goggles. It flies up into the air and starts zooming gleefully about the hangar.
Peter opens his eyes.
Coach Wu gives him a golf clap. The rest of the team, for the most part, are a little more enthusiastic, striding over to him and slapping him on the back.
"Excellent. Peter Donkersmit, you are now the starting thaumaturge for the Jupiter Jackalopes," Coach Wu says. She limps over to whisper in his ear, "only thing is, we're gonna need a bigger pig."
Peter nods while a nervous chuckle escapes his belly.
Let the games begin.
***
Photos courtesy of Nihal Demirci on Unsplash: https://unsplash.com/@nihaldemirci. Edited.