is warm, the tattooed boy is white and shivering, trying to pull more of his shirt around himself. The glow around him grows marked, and the tattoos hiding underneath his clothes ripple. It is almost like a shadow is rising out from them, snaking past his chest and neck.
âHowâhowââ The young teacher stutters, then remembers the sea of inquiring faces before her. She checks the ruined bulb hastily and seems relieved that none of the glass has flown out of the tape. âThis is why you mustnât try this at home without any parental supervision,â the young woman finishes, but it is clear that she herself is distressed over what has happened, though she fights hard not to let it show.
The boyâs shivering has also passed. Color returns to his face, but he, too, is unnerved. The peculiar shadow seeking to fold itself around him has disappeared.
âExperimentâs over for now! Who can tell me what the difference is between a positively charged atom and a negatively charged one? Brian?â
The lessons continue until the bell rings again and the children file out of the classroom, eager to be off. âI want everyone to leave the room through the back door!â the young woman warns. âJust to be on the safe side, in case thereâs glass on the floor that needs sweeping up!â
âIâm sorry,â she tells the boy after most of the students have left. âI have no idea how that happened.â The boyâs backpack has fallen off the table, some of its contents spilling out: one binder, three books, and two sharpened pencils. The young woman bends to pick them up.
âOh, these are good, Tark!â She holds up the binder, now opened to pages of quick sketches and rough drawings: landscapes, animals, miscellaneous people.
The boy snatches it back. âThanks,â he says, more embarrassed than angry. He stuffs it back into his bag. âI really gotta go, Callie. Thereâs a shrink waiting to see if I meet her minimum requirements of crazy.â
âStop that,â the young woman says with a natural firmness that she often adopts with her charges. âYouâre not crazy, so stop saying you are.â
The boy grins at her. Something unnatural lurks at the corner of his eyes, something not even he seems aware of. âSometimes I wish I could believe that, Callie. But my own motherâs batshit crazy, and Iâve seen so much other strange crap in my life that thereâs no doubt Iâll be following in her footsteps soon enough.â He glances up at the ceiling again, but there is nobody there. âI donât think your attempts at immersing me in the sanity of the general populationâs hive-mind are going to work here, but thanks anyway.â
âTark!â But the boy has already walked out of the room, a hand raised in farewell.
The young woman sighs, sinking into her chair. She picks up the broken bulb and turns it sideways. There is no doubt that the glass inside has been smashed, like a hammer has been violently taken to it. A shield of tape still holds some of the shards in place.
âWhat happened to you?â she whispers, her tone wondering. She lifts it to get a better view and sees her own slightly distorted image on the surface, tiny and unfocused.
As she watches, another reflection within the bulb moves beside her own.
She gasps, whirling around.
âMiss Starr?â
It is the girl called Sandra. The young teacherâs heart is pounding. âSandra! You startled meâ¦â
âSheâs really sorry,â the child says sincerely.
âWho is?â
âThe girl who broke the lightbulb. I know sheâs sorry. Itâs âcause you brought nine aâ them. And she really, really doesnât like the number nine.â
The young woman stares at her.
âI still like her better than the other lady, though.â
âThe other lady?â
âThe lady with
Carole E. Barrowman, John Barrowman