Paraworld Zero (3 page)

    “Not just the kids at school. Butch has it in for me.”

    “Butch?” she said, surprised. “Butch is as gentle as a lamb.”

    “No he’s not!” Simon shot back. “He’s the meanest person I’ve ever
met.”

    “Look, Simon, Butch has had it pretty bad. His parents were murdered a few
years ago…” She paused, then continued, “…on his birthday, of all days.”

    “What happened?” Simon remained intent on his game.

    “I’m only telling you this so you’ll understand where he’s coming from. What
I tell you stays in this room, okay?”

    Simon nodded.

    “His mother and father were stabbed to death, and the killer was never found.
You remember when he first came here? He was the most troubled boy I’d ever seen. It took days
before he could talk to the police.”

    “I didn’t know,” Simon whispered.

    “Not many people do.” Mrs. Trimble stood up to put the alcohol back into the
bathroom cupboard. She started to walk away.

    “Where’s my mom and dad?”

    Mrs. Trimble turned around. The young boy had switched off his video game and
was looking up at her, longingly. Although she had been the only mother he had known, it wasn’t
enough; he had to know the truth.

    “Where’s my mom and dad?” he asked again, more firmly. He wasn’t about to let
her dodge the question—not this time.

    She looked solemnly at the carpet. “You don’t know, do you?” she whispered.
“I never did tell you… I suppose it’s about time I did.” She sat next to him, and Simon’s stomach
churned in anticipation.

    “I wasn’t there when it happened, but I was told that when you were born, you
really gave the doctors a show. Your mother was—how should I say this?—not
well-to-do.
”

    “What do you mean?”

    “She was homeless—a vagrant, I suppose. She came into the hospital with no
money, no ID, and just the clothes on her back. Well, she did have something. Come with
me.”

    The two of them walked out of the room and into the hall.

    
What in the world could it be?
His stomach did somersaults, and his weak lungs forced him
to take a deep puff from his inhaler to compensate for his excitement.

    In all the years Simon had been at the orphanage, he had never been inside
Mrs. Trimble’s bedroom—not many of the children had—but that was exactly where the old lady was
leading him. She pulled out a key and unlocked the door.

    Nearly everything in the room looked older than Simon: a battered coffee
table and lamp, a few Oriental rugs, pictures of relatives, an aging record player, and so
on.

    Simon noticed a black and white photograph of a young man dressed in a
pilot’s jumpsuit, standing in front of an airplane. This must have been Mrs. Trimble’s son,
David, before he was shot down in the Vietnam War. Simon frowned at the old photograph. How could
he, a scrawny boy, remind her of the big, strong man in the picture?

    “This way,” she said.

    Mrs. Trimble urged Simon to the back of the room. She detached part of the
molding from the wall, revealing a secret compartment. Several shiny objects glistened from the
rays of sun that crept in through the wooden blinds. From within the tiny hole, Mrs. Trimble
brought out a jet-black medallion attached to a thin golden chain.

    “This was your mother’s,” she said, handing it to him. Simon stared at the
strange engravings embedded in the medallion. The metal was cold to the touch, but it seemed to
warm his heart.

    “Simon,” she continued slowly, “your mother isn’t coming back. She died in
the hospital when you were born. She said she wanted you to have this.”

    Simon felt as if his heart had just been ripped in two. “And where’s my dad?”
he asked behind a sniffle, dreading the answer.

    “I don’t know. Your father was never found. In fact, we don’t even know what
your mother’s name was… but I think you should know that she loved you very much. No one can
describe the love a mother has for her son.”

    Tears welled up in her eyes, and the two of them hugged. As they embraced,
Simon gazed at the old photograph sitting on the mantel. Mrs. Trimble’s large and handsome son
was just so different from what the boy had expected… so different from Simon.

    

    

    That night, Simon lay sobbing in his bed. Everyone in the house was asleep—or
at least, he thought they were—but then Dimitri’s small, familiar voice broke the silence.
“What’s wrong?”

    Simon wiped his eyes. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

    “I couldn’t sleep,” Dimitri said innocently. “Why are you crying?”

    Tears trickled down Simon’s face. “Because I killed my mother.” He wept
bitterly.

    Dimitri put his tiny arm around his friend and comforted him in the
dark.

Chapter 2
    

    

    “
Francis Eugene Oswald,
you get back here!”

    “Yeah, Francis, you get back here,” Dimitri said, imitating Mrs.
Trimble.

    Everyone laughed but stopped when the teenager snapped his head around in
disapproval. “My name is
Butch,
” he growled, slamming the door behind him as he left.

    “I don’t know what’s happening to that boy,” Mrs. Trimble said to no one in
particular. Butch had missed curfew last night and had come home with a black eye.

    The children ate their breakfast merrily while Mrs. Trimble beat the life out
of a bowl of eggs. “Simon,” she yelled, “come and eat, or you’ll be late for the bus!”

    “I’ll get ’im,” squealed Dimitri. He leapt from the table and ran up the
stairs. Simon lay motionless in his bed. “Simon! Simon! Wake up… wake up… wake up, Simon… wake
up, Simon.” Dimitri prodded relentlessly until Simon responded.

    “Go away,” the twelve-year-old mumbled incoherently into his pillow.

    “But you’ll be late for school.”

    Simon looked up at the little boy. No, not the puppy-dog eyes! He was
powerless to resist Dimitri’s long face. “Okay—squirt. I’m getting up.”

    Simon lumbered to the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. Several large
bottles spilled out into the sink. Mrs. Trimble had been informed previously that she should keep
the medications behind lock and key, but over the years she had become lax with the rules.
Besides, Simon was the most obedient child she had ever known.

    A large array of pill bottles, consisting of different sizes, colors, and
labels, rested on the shelves. They all had one thing in common: Simon’s name printed on
them.

    As early as the boy could remember, he had always been sick. If it wasn’t one
thing, it was another. He could have sworn he’d had the chicken pox three times now, and he was
the only kid he knew who received medical supplies as Christmas gifts instead of toys. Someone
even had the audacity to give him a thermometer—with his name imprinted on it, no less!—for his
ninth birthday.

    Simon swallowed half a dozen colorful pills. He slapped some cold water on
his brown hair and wrestled with the perpetual rooster’s tail on the top of his head.

    Back in the bedroom, he filled his fanny pack with his video game machine, a
couple of extra games to play during lunch, and some spare batteries. He glanced at his watch and
panicked. He
was
going to be late for the bus!

    Simon started to run when a glint of light caught the corner of his eye. He
looked over at his bed and discovered the source of the light. The medallion seemed to be looking
up at him, beckoning him.

    He walked over to his bed and picked up the cold piece of metal. A feeling of
caution—or was it foreboding?—came over him. He rubbed the medallion between his fingers
methodically. What was this, and why had his mother wanted him to have it?

    Simon raised the necklace above his head. Holding onto the gold chain, he let
the medallion drop. Mesmerized, he watched—for what seemed like an eternity—as the medallion spun
in front of his face, untangling itself from the chain. The round pendant appeared as though it
was suspended in midair, and Simon felt like life itself had gone into slow motion. With each
rotation of the hypnotic charm, a ray of light threw itself against his pale face. Faster and
faster… the medallion spun out of control. Suddenly, it stopped moving, as if some invisible hand
had intervened.

    Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, Simon put the medallion on for the
first time.

    “
SIMON!
” yelled Mrs. Trimble from downstairs.

    Startled, he opened his eyes, tucked the necklace under his button-down
shirt, and rushed down the stairs to catch the school bus.

    “You forgot your lunch!” Mrs. Trimble yelled after him, a bit too late.

    He ran along the sidewalk, waving his hands up and down like a wild bird. The
yellow bus finally stopped, and Simon boarded.

    “Sorry,” he mumbled as he passed the bus driver. The burly man sitting in the
driver’s seat shook his head disapprovingly but said nothing. The bus lurched forward.

    Simon swayed back and forth as he stumbled down the narrow pathway,
frantically searching for an empty seat. An outsider might have thought the driver was driving
recklessly on purpose to make the young boy fall down, but a seasoned passenger like Simon knew
that this was standard driving protocol for the bus driver. During a particularly sharp turn, his
body was propelled into an open seat.

    “Hey, Simon,” came the familiar yet troubled voice of an older girl.

    Simon stared with his mouth agape at Sara Parker. “Oh, s-s-sorry,
S-S-Sara.”

    He moved to stand, but she grabbed his arm to stop him. “Simon, it’s okay.
Please stay.”

    A look of confusion spread over his face. Although it was strange that the
prettiest girl in school wanted him to sit next to her, it was even more strange that she was
sitting alone in the first place. After a minute of awkward silence, the only thing the boy could
think to say was: “Where’s Butch?”

    “I don’t know,” she answered slowly. “I haven’t seen him since last night.”
She paused for a few seconds. “Simon, you know Francis pretty well, don’t you?”

    “Yeah.” Simon’s eyes widened at hearing her call Butch by his real name. The
last time he uttered the word
Francis,
he found himself dangling upside-down with his head stuck in a stinky
toilet.

    “He wouldn’t do anything
crazy,
would he?” she asked with hesitation in her voice.

    “Crazy? Crazy in what way?”

    “He wouldn’t…” she started. “He wouldn’t…
hurt
anyone, would he?”

    “Well,” Simon said thoughtfully, “Mrs. Trimble says he’s gentle as a
lamb.”

    Sara smiled. “Yeah, I think so, too.” But then a wrinkle appeared on her
forehead. “It’s just… sometimes he seems to be one way, and then the next minute, he’s a totally
different person. Last night he got beat up, and to tell you the truth, I just don’t know how
he’s going to react.”

    Simon nodded his head. He had a few ideas of what Butch would do to the
unfortunate soul who had injured him, but he thought it best not to share them with Sara.

    Several students dropped their bags as the bus came to a screeching halt. The
kids began to push their way down the aisle.

    Standing up, Simon said, “Well, I hope everything goes all right for you… If
you n-n-need someone to t-t-talk to…”

    “Oh, you’re so sweet,” she said, leaning towards him. For a split second,
Simon thought she was going to kiss him—but he’d never know for sure because, at that moment, the
impatient kids forced him down the aisle. What was he thinking? Of course she wasn’t going to
kiss him—maybe a pat on the head, but not a kiss. She was several years older than Simon, leagues
apart in social standings, and just so beautiful. But, still… she had leaned over.

    Sara, the prettiest girl in school, stood up and called out over the empty
seats, “Thank you, Simon.”

    Beaming from head to toe, the boy floated the rest of the way down the aisle.
Actually, he was carried and pushed by the students, but he hardly noticed.

    

    

    The first two class periods flew by without a problem, but Simon dreaded his
next class: math. He wondered why the school forced him to take math in the first place. Why
couldn’t he just buy a calculator instead and skip the class altogether?

    The school hallways were a beehive of activity. Simon’s locker stood at the
end of the building, which meant he had to brave his way through a sea of upper-class students
every day to get there—never a fun journey for the small boy. He hated being enrolled in one of
the few schools in New York that insisted on keeping grades seven through twelve in the same
building.