The day was as normal as normal could be for Floyd. Just another Monday. He didn’t notice anyone staring at him or got the feeling that anybody was gossiping about him. More importantly than anything else, there were no incidents. That didn’t comfort him, however. He was utterly distracted with worry that he could be the cause of another student getting goosed. The very thought of it tortured him, but he couldn’t stay away from school. His parents would have most likely objected to that, and he didn’t want to tell them what had happened, that he was a danger to others. He was too ashamed.
After school, he simply went home and shut himself up in his room and did nothing. He didn’t read, or watch something on his laptop, or waste time on the internet. He simply did nothing. After dinner, he went right back upstairs and got back to it. Back to nothing. The one thing he did do was brood and sulk. He paced back and forth on the floor, continually scouring his mind for anything that could possibly end this terrible prison sentence his life had become. He came up with nothing. He was not the thinker that Piers was, and he knew it.
Another look around his room brought up nothing of interest but the box that was sitting atop his desk. It was Piers’ birthday gift to him. He’d been ignoring it, but now, with little else to occupy his mind, it suddenly felt as if the package was staring at him, wanting to be unwrapped. He picked it up. The box was light, and its contents were loose inside. He undid the bow and wrapping. Inside was a white box that looked like it might have once held a cake. He opened the top and lifted out the contents.
At first, Floyd didn’t know what he was looking at. It was a wooden hoop surrounded with tightly wound leather string. Tassels dangled down from it like limp limbs, sprouting feathers and studded with rings and beads. Floyd was perplexed for a minute, then he remembered what it was. It was a dreamcatcher. Had Piers actually made this? Floyd wondered how he found the time to do it, what with schoolwork, taking care of his grandmother, and running the house mostly by himself. The thought of Piers spending all that time and effort to make a present for him, after all he’d done and said to the boy, made Floyd’s eyes a little moist. It was, absolutely, one of the most thoughtful things anyone had ever done for him. Suddenly, Floyd hated himself more than ever.
Floyd went down into the garage and found a nail and hammer among his father’s tools, then he took it upstairs and used it to fix Piers’ dreamcatcher over his bed. Something about the device was bothering Floyd. Something about its mystical origins. Magic, dreams, and spirits. Spirits? What was it about spirits? He started to pace again. A few minutes went by, then an idea formed in his head. It was such a silly idea that he almost rejected it immediately. Silly enough that he couldn’t imagine telling it to anyone. Almost anyone would laugh in his face. Almost anyone would call him a doofus. Almost anyone would think he was crazy.
Almost anyone.
Floyd picked up his phone.
FLOYD: Hi
There was a long pause. Floyd wondered if Piers was thinking up what to say.
PIERS: Hello
FLOYD: How have you been?
PIERS: Good. Are we talking again?
FLOYD: I guess so
PIERS: I’m glad.
FLOYD: Wait. Listen to this
PIERS: Okay.
Floyd then told Piers about Babalú-Ayé. He’d never spoken to Piers about the night at Peyton’s house. He didn’t think it was relevant. Piers listened without asking a single question, then he excused himself. He had to investigate this. He came back an hour later.
PIERS: I think you’ve found something.
FLOYD: Okay. Hit me
PIERS: This spirit’s purpose does vaguely parallel the things you’re experiencing.
FLOYD: Go on
PIERS: Like you said, he seems to have something to do with bad luck and tragedies, especially illness.
FLOYD: Okay
PIERS: He’s got a mixed-up history, adapting from figures from other religions, like Saint Lazarus, an African god called Obalyuaye. He has other names in other places.
FLOYD: Babaloo Eye-ay?
PIERS: It’s spelled Babalu-Aye.
FLOYD: A god of misfortune
PIERS: Right. Well, spirit. It’s way more complex than that, but yeah. Where did you hear about this?
FLOYD: From Peyton. She’s got a shrine to him in her house
PIERS: She prays to Babalu-Aye?
FLOYD: No, but her family honors him. It’s a tradition
There was a minute or so of silence. Floyd assumed Piers’ head was swirling with ideas now.
PIERS: That’s very strange.
FLOYD: I agree
PIERS: It’s odd that she would have this connection to Babalu-Aye, while I believe you’ve been connected to him your entire life. I’m starting to think that, anyway.
FLOYD: Why do you think I’m connected to him?
PIERS: His feast day. It’s December 17th. Your birthday.
Piers was up in Floyd's room now. Pauline had found it odd that Floyd would have a friend over after eight o'clock, which she usually discouraged, but he'd been so down lately that she allowed it.
"Okay," said Floyd. "I get that this guy Babalu might have something to do with me, but why did everything reverse itself? I was fine the way I was. Well, not fine, but it was infinitely better than this. Did I make him angry, or something?"
Piers crossed his arms, thinking. "I'm not sure it's that simple as there is some powerful deity that you angered. To think that Babalú-Ayé gets angry like a person does might be woefully misguided. I'm not sure it works like that."
"Well, how do you think it works?"
"I don't know. Treating him as a person is probably the best we can do, right now, actually."
"Okay. So, what happened? Why would a chicken suit and a wig make him angry?"
"There may be more than one reason. It might be a whole perfect storm of things that made this happen."
"But the chicken suit and wig definitely had something to do with it, right? It all started with that. Looking stupid makes him mad? Embarrassing myself?"
"You're looking at it like an American. I'm not sure the way you dressed would be considered embarrassing in some parts of the world. Rather than embarrassing, Babalú-Ayé might have taken it as immodest."
"Immodest? How?"
"Well, if we're taking this seriously, it might have seemed like you were decorating yourself. Even showing off. Begging for attention. That might be the kind of thing that makes him angry."
"But how could taking away all the disasters possibly be a punishment? If he wanted to punish me, why make things easier?"
Piers frowned. "Is it really easier, Floyd? Really? From how you've been acting, it seems like things are far worse than before."
Floyd didn’t have to even think that over. He just nodded. "Yeah."
"See? He's punishing you by hurting other people. Could there be any worse punishment to you?"
Floyd shook his head. "No."
"Right. Not everyone would feel that way. Some people would prefer it this way. Perhaps a lot of people. Many would see it as a great relief to have this monkey off their backs."
"But why does he care about me at all? Why is he messing with my life? Why can't he just leave me alone? Just because I was born on his feast day? I'm not the only kid in the world with that birthday. Bill Pullman was born on my birthday."
Piers' face went blank. "Who?"
"Bill Pullman. Didn't you see Spaceballs?"
"No."
"Oh, okay. It's just some of that old stuff my brother makes me watch."
"Let's get back on track. There might be other kids with your problem. Like I said, if we're taking this seriously..."
"We are. Of course, we are."
"Right. Of course we are. There might be a reason for it, Floyd, but it might not be one we'd understand. It might not be, specifically, to make something happen, or to prove some a point. There's just no way to know for sure."
Floyd was really disappointed by this answer. He really wanted there to be a reason. At least one that was clear. "So, what do I do, Piers?"
"Hmm. Even if the reasons might be complicated, fixing it could be just as simple as it was to break it. It could be that we simply have to do something that pleases him."
"But if chicken suits and wigs make him angry, how in the world are we supposed to know what makes him happy?"
"That might take some thinking."
Floyd looked crushed. "I can't live like this, Piers. If we don't fix it before something else happens, I don't know if I can take it. If we don't fix it soon, I'm not even going to go to school. My parents can yell at me all they want, I'm just not doing it. I'll stay shut up in this room forever."
Piers nodded, understanding. "Maybe we just have to do some research. Learn everything we can. And we should do it quickly. Tomorrow is Dec. 17th. It could be a big day."
"A bad day, you mean?"
"That, too. It's Possible."
"I'm staying home then. I'll play sick."
"Are your parents going to believe that? Are you good at lying?"
"No. But I can't go, can I? Who knows what's going to happen?"
"But what if you have to?"
Floyd threw up his hands. "I don't know, Piers! I don't know!"
"Maybe you should tell them what's going on?"
Floyd shook his head. "They won't buy that. I know them. They'll just say it wasn't my fault, what happened to Peyton."
"And the girl at lunch?"
"They'll just say it's a coincidence. We've gotten so used to dealing with my Floydness. They'd never believe that everything changed overnight because I dressed like a bird."
"Hmm. I can see it their way."
Floyd’s eyes shot wide open. "What!"
"I'm just saying, I wouldn't blame them for thinking that. It's sensible."
"Okay. Whatever. What do we do?"
"We need to do some more research."
"What's that going to help?"
"I don't know. I can't think of what else we can do, though. Gathering information could yield a solution."
Floyd let out a long, tired breath. He wasn't confident this would get them anywhere. "Okay. Let's do that."
An hour or so later, although they hadn’t made much progress, it was getting late. Floyd’s father had said, as politely as possible, that his friend had to leave at 10 p.m. The boys agreed. They were both on Floyd's bed, staring at the screen of his laptop. Piers was absorbed, but Floyd was frustrated. "I don't think we're going to have any revelations tonight," said Floyd.
"I'm not really seeing anything I don't already know," said Piers. He didn't look away from the screen. "I'll keep looking when I get home."
Floyd shook his head. "No, Piers. I know you've got things to do. You're probably making meatballs or something for dinner tomorrow."
Piers looked over at Floyd. "I'm not making meatballs."
"I just mean, I know you're busy. You do a lot more around your house than I do here."
"Hmm. I guess I should go. I have to build a wall tonight."
Floyd's eyebrows popped up. "What do you mean 'build a wall'?"
"Nothing. It's not that interesting, actually."
"It isn't? I'm gonna be up all night wondering why you're building a wall."
Piers was up on his feet now, putting on his shoes. "We've got to be careful tomorrow. Anything could happen."
"I'll try to keep my eyes open. I don't know what more I can do."
"You might not know what to look for."
"I know."
"No, I mean that the rules may not apply tomorrow. It's a festival day, and we don't really know what that means. It could be a grace period, a cease fire, and you'll be left alone for the length of the day. But it could be the opposite, it could be that the forces at work will be even more potent tomorrow."
Floyd slumped. He suddenly looked exhausted. "I don't know, Piers. I don't understand why my life has to be so complicated. It feels really unfair."
"It is unfair, Floyd."
"Sometimes, I wish I could just quit. Quit being me."
Piers sat down on the edge of the bed. "I know how you feel."
"Do you? Hmm."
"I don't know what it's like to be you, Floyd, but I know how it feels to be overwhelmed."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"Yeah. I guess you do."
Piers let out a long breath. He was very tired, too. "My grandmother is going to die."
Floyd's head snapped to Piers. "Piers! I didn't want to make it sound like you didn't..."
"I know, Floyd. It's okay."
"I'm really sorry."
Piers sat there thinking for a moment, then he seemed to summon up a little strength. "We take her three days a week to get her blood cleansed because her kidneys don't work."
"Yeah. Dialysis. I know a little about that. I've seen people doing it."
"Yes. It's really hard on her, and taking care of her is really hard, too. The thing that makes it the hardest, though, is the fact that no matter what we do, no matter what she is put through, she's not going be with us much longer. There's just nothing we can do about that."
Floyd seemed remorseful. "Oh, jeez, Piers. Jeez. Listen to me, acting like I have it worse than anybody. I'm a jerk."
"No, Floyd, you're not. The thing is, I don't know what it's going to be like without her around. I don't want to think about it, but I can't just pretend it's not coming. It's coming. It's coming soon. Really soon."
"Jeez. That sounds awful, Piers."
Piers' head slumped. "It is."
"Yeah. I bet."
Piers' eyes grew distant, like he was staring off into space. "You wouldn’t believe what she was like before, Floyd. She was so great. She wasn't always like she is now. She wasn't always sick like this. She was so funny. She was so much fun. Everybody loved her. It wasn't very long ago, either. This all happened so fast."
Floyd didn't know what to say. He'd never really taken the time to understand Piers' life. How could he be so selfish?
"You know what I dream about, sometimes?" said Piers.
"What, Piers?"
Piers looked like he was going to cry, but then his face brightened a little. "There was a time when my grandmother, my grandfather, and my dad were all still alive. Everybody was here. Everybody was happy. I can't believe, sometimes, that it was ever like that. That I had everybody. I had everything. Besides my mother, my grandmother is the only thing left from that time. It feels like, when she goes, that time will go, too. That I'll forget that it ever happened."
Floyd shook his head emphatically. "You won't forget, Piers. You'll never forget. I promise."
Piers just sat there breathing for almost a minute, lost in memories that both hurt and healed him. Then he stood up, ready to leave and go home. He picked up his jacket off the floor and put it on, zipping it up. "If I ever do forget, I won't be me, anymore."
December 17th started with little more than a groan for Floyd. He hadn't slept the entire night, and when the sun rose, he watched it through the window, eyelids heavier than lead. He didn't know what to expect from the day, except that, later on, after dinner, there would be another birthday cake. He and Lloyd would eat it without looking at one another. Things weren't as strained as they had been. Their feud had somehow quieted down, the visible signs of hostility had now become more of a melancholy silence. They were like two exhausted fighters who'd retreated to their corners, awaiting the clang of the bell to call an end to the bout.
As Floyd stood there, he couldn't help reflecting. Had Peyton been right? Had his jealousy caused the accident? Though he had been jealous of Lloyd, incredibly jealous, and hurt, no part of him had wished such a thing would happen. If he could turn back the clock, he would throw himself in between her and the heavy mobile. He'd give anything for that. Floyd knew better than anyone how to deal with that kind of pain.
It was an uncannily warm day when Floyd left for school. As he walked, he began to perspire, so he took off his jacket and held it under his arm. The halls were bustling that morning, and Floyd was unusually cautious, for reasons we already understand. He had a sick feeling, far worse than the usual butterflies and jitters daily life taunted him with. At homeroom, Lloyd didn't meet his eyes when he entered the room, but Piers did. When he sat down his phone immediately chimed. He looked and was surprised. It was Lloyd.
LLOYD: What's up?
FLOYD: Meh
LLOYD: Are you going to drama after school?
FLOYD: No. Definitely not
LLOYD: Happy Birthday.
FLOYD: Thank you
Floyd wasn't sure where to take this. He wanted to make up with Lloyd but wasn't sure how to do it. He was just tired of this thing. More tired than Melanie was.
FLOYD: I saw Melanie
LLOYD: Yeah? What did she say?
FLOYD: She doesn't want you to stay away from her
LLOYD: You sure?
FLOYD: She thinks you're an idiot, but she still wants to be friends with you
LLOYD: Really?
FLOYD: I guess the Fab Four broke up
LLOYD: Yeah. You never know. Might be a reunion or something.
FLOYD: Probly not. The Beatles never had a reunion
LLOYD: Yeah they did. In 1995.
FLOYD: Really? I didn't know that
LLOYD: Watch it on YouTube.
FLOYD: Okay
Then that was that. Things were okay now. That's all it took. When the bell rang and the students all spilled out into the hall, Lloyd saddled right up to Floyd as if everything was normal.
"So, when did you talk to Melanie?" Lloyd asked.
"On the way to school."
"She thinks I'm an idiot?"
"She knows you're an idiot."
"Oh, you think I'm an idiot, too?" Lloyd laughed.
Floyd smirked. He was happy. "No comment."
The brothers separated and went to their classes. Floyd was beaming. The thing with Lloyd was over, and he hadn't felt so good in a long time. He wondered if he could make up with Peyton, too. Suddenly, it didn't seem like a crazy idea. Maybe he could. He wasn't expecting her to walk up to him and start chatting with him, like Lloyd did, but he wondered if there was a way to say he was sorry. Lloyd would help him, probably. Then he remembered that Lloyd and Peyton were a thing, and he his mood soured, again. He had to get over that, and he knew it, but it wasn't that easy. It was the hardest thing in the world, actually. Then, again, like Melanie had said, it's not like they were going to get married. They were 9th graders. The good news was that he had successfully not thought about his dream girl hating him for several minutes in a row, and that was a start. He would try to do better.
Floyd paid extra attention to his surroundings that school day. He took every step carefully. He’d taken extra care preparing his lunch, as well. So much care, he left the food out. Why risk it? He just had to face it - food was jinxed. He went to Center Court where he and Piers had a designated rendezvous. Floyd showed up early. Piers was there, eating a pack lunch, his bag sitting next to him on the bench. Piers pulled something from the wrinkled paper bag.
"You want these chips?" he asked.
Floyd almost tore the bag from his fingers. His fear of food overcome. "Yes!"
"I figured you didn't eat. You didn't have time. It's 12:07."
"Yeah. No unnecessary risks today.”
"I wouldn't call eating unnecessary."
"I would. Today it is."
For the rest of the day, Floyd kept on his toes. However, if he couldn't spot danger before, why would he be able to now? After his last class, he returned to his locker. It had been a long day and he was glad it was over. He grabbed his stuff and slammed the locker shut, and then he felt some kind of bug in his stomach. It felt like something was scurrying around inside him. He also felt a little dizzy. When he got his locker open and reached for his coat, he had full blown nausea. He bent over, his organs gurgling inside him, but he didn't vomit. Was this Babalú-Ayé? Was the spirit of sickness making his presence known? Could the guy be more annoying?
A boy standing nearby noticed his distress, his face showed concern. "You okay?" the student asked, taking a couple steps toward Floyd.
Floyd nodded. "Yeah, I'm fine," he answered. He stepped back and slammed the locker shut.
"What is going on?" the boy asked him.
"I don't know," said Floyd. He started walking away, his insides tightly coiled. "I'll be fine." Although he looked nothing that was on the same planet as fine.
The boy nodded. "Okay."
Floyd turned around and forced himself up straight. When he faced left, towards the main entrance, he could feel the struggle in his stomach increase. He swung around and found relief. The pained relented just a little when he faced the opposite direction. He began walking with heavy steps South, to the large rear entrance. When he got there, he walked through the doors and outside. It was a bit chilly to go without a coat, but he continued to follow his stomach down the concrete stairs that led to the field, his pain receding just a little with every stride.
He could see down the hill, with a panoramic view of the entire field. There were students running on the track. He walked down the steps between the two tennis courts, then down into the stands. At the bottom, at track level, his stomach felt almost completely well, again. He turned and made his way around and under the seats. He was finetuning his stomach, because when he was beneath the seats the pain finally disappeared. There was a sign warning him not to do this very thing, not to go under, but he ignored it. He sat down cross-legged on the grass. Though it was very cold out, he barely noticed it. He was too far down this rabbit hole to be bothered by weather.
Two thumping pairs of feet came to a rest right above him. The students sat down and began to talk. Floyd tried to concentrate. He was receiving messages from a higher power now and didn’t need distractions. Down on the grass, he closed his eyes and took some deep breaths. Even though the pain was gone, he felt a little raw, a little sensitive on the inside, like his organs had recently been scraped out with an ice cream scoop. Something new was happening inside him, something bubbling up from that emptiness. It wasn't more pain. It wasn't nausea. It was like a fascinating warmth. It was a unique, unfamiliar feeling. Like the first time he'd watched The Matrix. A revelation.
He felt his eyes shutting tighter, although it almost felt like he was not the one making it happen, and the darkness his eyelids created grew deeper and deeper until he was in something that felt like a lucid dream. All physical sensations around him ceased. The cold outdoors air shut off like a freezer door was slammed shut, cutting him off from it, leaving him somewhere blank. For a minute, it seemed like he was nowhere, doing nothing, then things began to return. Slowly, he began to feel like he was standing inside, with a carpeted floor beneath his feet. Light started to poke through the darkness. It was a dim light, as if far away, but it was starting to fade in. When he started to see again, his surroundings were out of focus at first, then sounds started to poke through the haze. The sounds, like the light, came from far ahead of him. In a moment, he could tell it was voices projecting. He was in the theater. He was at a play. And the place was packed.
Everything started to slowly gain clarity. People filled the auditorium seats, everyone facing forward, nobody noticing the boy goofing around in the aisle. He had the feeling that though he was here, he really wasn't. He was dressed differently, too. He was wearing a suit that he hadn’t worn in a long time. It had been hanging in his closet for what seemed years, and he was outgrowing it. He walked toward the stage. He saw the familiar costumes and set of Mr. Moderick's Gladiator. It was the scene between Commodus and Lucilla. On the stage were Lloyd, Shirley Branson as Lucilla , and Peyton in her non-verbal walk-on role. Peyton was just walking behind them across the stage, quietly doing what Roman servants did. Floyd took a few steps closer. It made more sense that walking toward the stage would bring things into better focus, but it seemed to be working backwards. As he got closer Lloyd and Peyton started to grow soft, their edges and features fading just a little.
He felt something rustle in his coat’s inside pocket. He reached in and felt around. It felt like a card of some kind. He yanked it out and looked at it. It was, indeed, a card. It was a Christmas card. It had a picture of a reindeer on the outside cover. He flipped it open. There were two words written inside in large, fancy, gold letters. It read:
Bother, Floyd.
Floyd didn’t have time to spend contemplating the message, because this fantasy might end at any moment. He replaced the card and turned around, walking back up the aisle, keeping his head turned, his eyes fixed on the blurry actors on the stage. They started to come in more clearly as he got further away for some reason. Pretty soon, he could see and hear them clearly. He watched for thirty seconds or so, then drew the conclusion that, even if he was having an important vision that may change his life forever, it almost wasn’t worth having to watch Mr. Moderick’s play. All of a sudden, there was a flash of light that stabbed Floyd’s eyes, like a quick peek of sunlight that leaves glowing circles in your eyes.
Then, in a giant flash, they were gone. All of them.
As sudden as a punch to the gut, the loudest boom Floyd had ever heard sounded, and now the stage was collapsing. The floor opened and sucked all three kids in. Flames tore up the walls and curtains, everything ablaze or falling apart. It was a nightmare come to life, bringing death. Floyd began to scream. "Lloyd! Peyton! Oh, my god!"
He ran towards the stage calling out both of their names, his arms pumping, hoarse cries tearing from his throat. He reached the edge of the stage and scrambled up onto the floor. Flames spat up higher and higher. He ran for where he saw them disappear, but there was nothing but a giant hole in the floor. Flames snapped all around him. What was once a stage for telling stories was now a hellish tale in of itself.
Floyd woke up and rubbed his eyes. He was back under the bleachers, the light of day annoying his pupils. He turned his head. To his right were two kids, possibly the kids who'd been sitting right above his head. They had probably heard him screaming and climbed down to see what was happening. Floyd’s eyes stung. He rubbed them and swung his attention to the two students.
It was Lloyd and Peyton. Of course, it was.
It took a second for his brain to catch up, when it did, to his utter horror, he realized just how bad this must look.
"What are you doing, Floyd?" demanded Lloyd. "Are you crazy? You're yelling like a wacko! Are you spying on us? On me and Peyton?"
Floyd was speechless. He shook his head. He didn't know what to say.
"I can't believe you!" Lloyd screamed, his anger burning hotter. "Why are you listening to us? What are you looking for, you jerk?"
Peyton's face was even worse than Lloyd's. She took a step forward, anger boiling behind her eyes. "You're a snake in the grass, Floyd Piccolo. A snake in the grass!" Peyton turned and stomped off, leaving Lloyd standing there alone.
Floyd's voice suddenly started working. "I wasn't spying! I swear I wasn’t! I swear!" His eyes pleaded at his brother, who now looked more sad than anything. His anger had turned to disappointment.
"I can't believe you, Floyd," he said. "I just can't..." Lloyd shook his head, turned, and walked away. Peyton seemed to be gone. Soon Lloyd was, too. Floyd remained where he was.
"Why do you hate me!" Floyd shouted. "What did I do!" He was screaming up at the general direction of the sky, but no response came. The universe was laughing at him, again. He would have done anything, right then, for an answer. To just know why.
"It wasn't a dream, Piers. It wasn't," said Floyd.
The boys were standing in Floyd's bedroom. Floyd had texted Piers, telling him that something big had happened. Piers had rushed over. After listening to Floyd’s story, he seemed confounded. "Okay. It's not like I don't believe you," Piers answered. "I just think you've had a strange experience, strange even for you, and we need to not jump to conclusions. We might interpret things incorrectly."
Floyd was frustrated. "I'm not jumping to anything. There's nothing here to interpret. There's going to be an accident. A big one. And it must be my fault!"
Piers frowned. "But why does it have to be your fault?"
"Because it's a goose incident. The biggest ever. I'm just being warned ahead of time."
"And why would you be warned?"
"You said that it might be a big day."
Piers nodded. "It's a possibility, but just one possibility among many. We need to be careful about assuming things. It's dangerous, especially for you."
"No. This was a gift, Piers. It's the one nice thing whats-his-name has ever done for me."
"But that doesn't make sense."
"Why?"
"If he’s malevolent, why would he warn you about about an accident you might cause? Why would he help you if he hates you?”
Floyd nodded. This was sensible. "Hmm. You're right."
"Of course, it could also be a ploy to get you there and trigger the incident. So, whether you’re meant to go or stay away is kind of impossible to say."
Floyd let out a long, exhausted breath. He spilled back onto his bed. His heart was too tired from breaking for him to cry. "Oh, man. This is the worst day of my life." The words seemed to echo in the air of his Floyd’s bedroom. The worst day of Floyd’s life? That was saying something.
While Floyd’s was despairing, Piers’ mind was still calculating, searching for answers. "There aren’t that many possibilities,” he said. “You may not be able to stop this thing. It's simply foretelling the future."
Floyd let out a long, seemingly endless breath. "It can't be that. It can't be. I saw Lloyd and Peyton..." Floyd was suddenly overwhelmed. "I saw them...I don't want to say it out loud again. It feels like I could make it come true."
"Maybe we should talk about exactly what happens."
There was a long pause before Floyd spoke. "It's an explosion. Like I said."
"Yeah, but what kind of explosion?"
"How many kinds of explosions are there?"
Piers became pensive, crossing his arms. "The stage collapses into the trap room underneath it. It's an open space, except for the elevator."
"Yeah. Everything kind of tumbled inward."
"Okay. It sounds like something destroys the floor. Or weakens it. You said Lloyd and Peyton fell in, and the room underneath was filled with flames."
For a moment, Floyd relived the vision. He took a deep breath. "I didn't see it all that clearly, though. Things were going in and out of focus."
“There was a loud sound?”
“Yeah. A boom.”
"Hmm. I think we need to get down there and have a look."
"You think it's like a gas thing? A pocket of gas buildup or something like that? I’ve heard of things like that. I don’t know how it works, though."
Piers was hurrying on his jacket, almost hurting to get to work. "It could be a lot of things. I'm gonna go do some research on fires and explosions. I might be able to pinpoint what causes it if I look hard enough. Who knows? I'll text you later."
"Okay," said Floyd. He was unhappy to see his friend leave, though. There were so few people left for him to talk to. He just stared up at the ceiling. He didn't know what to do. Two people he loved were in danger. Without getting up, he dug his phone out of his pocket. He stared at it for a minute or so, gathering up his courage. He typed out a message and sent it.
FLOYD: I have to tell you something
There was long wait. Lloyd was in his room, probably doing the same thing. Sprawled out on his bed and staring at his phone.
LLOYD: What Floyd?
FLOYD: I know for a fact that something bad is going to happen Friday night
LLOYD: Really? For a fact?
FLOYD: Yes
LLOYD: And what is this thing that's gonna happen?
FLOYD: There's going to be an accident during the play. Some kind of explosion. The stage is going to crash. You and Peyton are going to get hurt. I don't know how bad. I think real bad tho
There was another endless pause. Floyd imagined Lloyd's face curled up in thought, seriously mulling over this important news, wondering what he could do.
LLOYD: You suck lately Floyd. You gotta stop acting like a child.
FLOYD: I'm telling you the truth
LLOYD: So how do you know this is going to happen? Crystal ball?
Floyd didn't know what to say. There was so much to explain, he wasn't sure how. He thought Lloyd would just believe him. That's how it usually is. But that had changed. They weren't like that anymore.
FLOYD: Maybe I should tell you everything in person. Just wait
LLOYD: I'm tired Floyd. Don't come to my room. I'm still pissed at you. So is Peyton.
FLOYD: Look. I saw it all. You and Peyton are on stage in that scene you have together, and everything blows up and catches fire
LLOYD: You saw it all?
FLOYD: Yeah. That’s what I was doing under the bleachers. I was having a prophetic hallucination
There was another long silence. It seemed like Floyd could hear atoms bouncing off each other in the quiet. Maybe he didn’t word that very well?
LLOYD: I'm glad you're not in the play Floyd. You would have ruined the whole thing.
FLOYD: I'm not lying to you. I just don't know where to begin to tell you everything. There's just too much.
LLOYD: I see exactly what ur doing. Making up some stupid story isn't going to get Peyton to like you again.
FLOYD: ?
LLOYD: You think she's gonna think you're some kind of hero? This is sooooo dumb. It's sad Floyd. It's really sad.
FLOYD: I don't know how to make you understand. You've got to listen to me. I don't know what else to do
LLOYD: Don't do anything. Just leave me alone until you get over this crap. If you don't then leave me alone FOREVER.
Floyd texted him several more times, but his brother wasn't responding anymore. He might not even be reading the texts anymore. Floyd put his hands over his face. He was crying. Pretty soon he stopped. He didn't care how Lloyd or Peyton felt about him, right now. Right now, it didn't matter. It just didn't. Because he knew, no matter how much they hated him, even if they spit in his face, he would still die for both of them. That would never change. It didn't matter if they never talked to him ever again. Knowing this one thing for certain was all that kept his world in one piece.
Unfortunately, it was a very small, very lonely world.