Someone must have been
teaching Sylvia boxing. She got in a good right hook between my left temple and
eye socket before I realized she was getting physical. Sylvia hadn't tried to inflict
capital punishment on those who crossed her since fifth grade.
While I didn't use my
telekinetic power to shove her away, pin her to the wall, maybe even shove her through
the wall, honesty compels me to admit that Harry saved me. Maybe he had a little
ability to fly, or least do the long jump fast, and hard. He body-slammed Sylvia
from behind while she was spinning around and coming back in for another strike.
I was still catching my breath and seeing stars. Then suddenly the male five percent
of the faculty and staff stormed into the room and got hold of Sylvia.
Dr. Butterfield had heard
everything, and proved he had a future writing political speeches with the great
spin he put on the whole encounter. Without repeating a single word that either
of us said, he put everything on Sylvia. She was a resident at the school and I
was a guest. She had come back to the chapel when she should have been heading to
her next class. It all worked against her.
The headmistress came
to apologize while we were sitting in Dr. Butterfield's private quarters. He was
digging some very old ice from the back of his tiny English refrigerator to put
on my eye. She assured us that Sylvia had gone "beyond the pale" (yeah,
they still said that in Jolly Olde England) and had wasted the last of many second
chances granted her.
Whatever that meant, it
didn't mean Sylvia returned to Neighborlee High for the rest of our junior year.
Unfortunately, she did come back for our senior year.
I couldn't wait to get
home and report to the "We loathe Sylvia Grandstone club." It wasn't really
an official group, although a number of people in our graduating class confessed
they had looked into voodoo dolls and sending requests to the State Department to
keep her from coming back into the country.
No, that wasn't very mature
of me. It also wasn't very mature that I let Mum and Pop praise me for not using
my powers to slam Sylvia into the wall, or through a window, or just hold her up
in the air and spin her around like a WWE wrestling champion. I didn't use my telekinesis
because I didn't get a chance. Ten-plus years of self-imposed "never use our
talents where other people can see" made me hesitate. Even when it came to
a chance to work out my frustrations on Sylvia Grandstone and get payback for all
my friends at school.
So I really didn't deserve
any of the kudos I got. Sympathy for my black eye, yes, I earned that. Praise for
not slamming that spoiled brat snot into a greasy makeup smear on the stone
wall of the chapel? Nope.
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