I Am Number Four

"I don't know," I say. My anger has reached new levels. I don't want to have to deal with Mark through Mr. Harris, and would rather take care of the situation myself, away from the principal's office.

Sam looks at me in surprise. Mr. Harris throws his hands up in frustration. "Well then, why in the hell are you boys here?"

"That's a good question," says Mark. "We were simply eating our lunch."

Sam speaks. "Mark threw it. I saw him and so did Mr. Johnson."

I look over at Sam. I know he didn't see it because his back was turned the first time, and the second time he was busy cleaning himself off. But I'm impressed at him saying so, for his taking my side knowing it will put him in danger with Mark and his friends. Mark scowls at him.

"Come on, Mr. Harris," Mark pleads. "I have the interview with the Gazette tomorrow, and the game on Friday. I don't have time to worry about crap like this. I'm being accused of something I didn't do. It's hard to stay focused with this shit going on."

"Watch your mouth!" Mr. Harris yells.

"It's true."

"I believe you," the principal says, and sighs very heavily. He looks at Kevin, who's still struggling to catch his breath. "Do you need to go to the nurse?"

"I'll be fine," Kevin says.

Mr. Harris nods. "You two forget about the lunchroom incident, and Mark, get your mind straight. We've been trying to get this article for a while now. They might even put us on the front page. Imagine that, the front page of the Gazette," he says, and smiles.

"Thank you," Mark says. "I'm excited about it."

"Good. Now, you two can leave."

They go, and Mr. Harris gives a hard look at Sam. Sam holds his gaze.

"Tell me, Sam. And I want the truth. Did you see Mark throw the meatball?"

Sam's eyes narrow. He doesn't look away.

"Yes."

The principal shakes his head. "I don't believe you, Sam. And because of that, here is what we are going to do." He looks at me. "So a meatball was thrown-"

"Two," Sam interjects.

"What?!" Mr. Harris asks, again glowering at Sam.

"There were two meatballs thrown, not one."

Mr. Harris slams his fist on the desk. "Who cares how many there were! John, you assaulted Kevin. An eye for an eye. We'll let it go at that. Do you understand me?"

His face is red and I know it's pointless to argue.

"Yep," I say.

"I don't want to see you two in here again," he says. "You're both dismissed."

We leave his office.

"Why didn't you tell him about your phone?" Sam asks.

"Because he doesn't care. He just wanted to go back to his lunch," I say. "And be careful," I tell him. "You'll be on Mark's radar now."

I have home economics after lunch-not because I necessarily care about cooking, but because it was either that or choir. And while I have many strengths and powers that are considered exceptional on Earth, singing is not one of them. So I walk into home ec and take a seat. It is a small room, and just before the bell rings Sarah walks in and sits beside me.

"Hi," she says.

"Hi."

Blood rushes to my face and my shoulders stiffen. I grab a pencil and begin to twirl it in my right hand while my left bends back the corners of my notepad. My heart is pounding. Please don't let my hands be glowing. I peek at my palm and breathe a sigh of relief that it's still normal. Stay calm, I think. She's just a girl.

Sarah is looking at me. Everything inside of me feels as though it is turning to mush. She may be the most beautiful girl I have ever seen.

"I'm sorry Mark is being a jerk to you," she says.

I shrug. "It's not your fault."

"You guys aren't really going to fight, are you?"

"I don't want to," I say.

She nods. "He can be a real dick. He always tries to show he's boss."

"It's a sign of insecurity," I say.

"He's not insecure. Just a dick."

Sure he is. But I don't want to argue with Sarah. Besides, she speaks with such certainty that I almost doubt myself.

She looks at the spots of spaghetti sauce that have dried on my shirt, then reaches over and pulls a hardened piece from my hair.

"Thanks," I say.

She sighs. "I'm sorry that happened." She looks me in the eye. "We're not together, you know?"

"No?"

She shakes her head. I'm intrigued that she felt the need to make that clear to me. After ten minutes of instruction on how to make pancakes-none of which I actually hear-the teacher, Mrs. Benshoff, pairs Sarah and me together. We enter a door at the back of the room that leads to the kitchen, which is about three times the size of the actual classroom. It contains ten different kitchen units, complete with refrigerators, cabinets, sinks, ovens. Sarah walks into one, grabs an apron from a drawer, and puts it on.

"Will you tie this for me?" she asks.

I pull too much on the bow and have to tie it again. I can feel the contours of her lower back beneath my fingers. When hers is tied I put mine on and start to tie it myself.

"Here, silly," she says, and then takes the straps and does it for me.

"Thanks."

I try cracking the first egg but do it too hard, and none of the egg actually makes it into the bowl. Sarah laughs. She places a new egg in my hand and takes my hand in hers and shows me how to crack it on the rim of the bowl. She leaves her hand on mine for a second longer than is necessary. She looks at me and smiles.

"Like that."

She mixes the batter and strands of hair fall into her face while she works. I desperately want to reach over and tuck the loose strands behind her ear, but I don't. Mrs. Benshoff comes into our kitchen to check our progress. So far so good, which is all thanks to Sarah, since I have no idea what I'm doing.

"How do you like Ohio so far?" Sarah asks.

"It's okay. I could have used a better first day of school."

She smiles. "What happened, anyway? I was worried about you."

"Would you believe it if I told you I was an alien?"

"Shut up," she says playfully. "What really happened?"

I laugh. "I have really bad asthma. For some reason I had an attack yesterday," I say, and feel regret at having to lie. I don't want her to see weakness within me, especially weakness that is untrue.

"Well, I'm glad you feel better."

We make four pancakes. Sarah stacks all of them onto one plate. She dumps an absurd amount of maple syrup over them and hands me a fork. I look at the other students. Most are eating off of two plates. I reach over and cut a bite.

"Not bad," I say while chewing.

I'm not hungry in the least, but I help her eat all of them. We alternate bites until the plate is empty. I have a stomachache when we finish. After, she cleans the dishes and I dry them. When the bell rings, we walk out of the room together.

"You know, you're not so bad for a sophomore," she says, and nudges me. "I don't care what they say."

"Thanks, and you're not so bad yourself for a-whatever you are."

"I'm a junior."

We walk in silence for a few steps.

"You're not really going to fight Mark at the end of the day, are you?

"I need my phone back. Besides, look at me," I say, and motion to my shirt.

She shrugs. I stop at my locker. She takes note of the number.

"Well, you shouldn't," she says.

"I don't want to."

She rolls her eyes. "Boys and their fights. Anyway, I'll see you tomorrow."

"Have a good rest of the day," I say.

After my ninth-period class, American history, I take slow steps to my locker. I think of just leaving the school quietly, without looking for Mark. But then I realize I will forever be labeled a coward.

I get to my locker and empty my bag of the books I don't need. Then I just stand there and feel the nervousness that begins to course through me. My hands are still normal. I think of throwing the gloves on as a precaution, but I don't. I take a deep breath and close the locker door.