Michael Vey: The Prisoner of Cell 25 (Book 1)

My radio alarm clock went off at the usual time: 7:11. I had my radio set to the Morning Zoo show. The hosts, Frankie and Danger Boy, were talking about people who suffered from bananaphobia—the intense fear of bananas.

I gently touched my eye. The swelling had gone down some, but it still ached. So did my heart. I felt like I had betrayed my mom and I worried that we’d have to move. Again. The thought of starting over filled me with dread. I couldn’t imagine how hard it would be for her. I went into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. You look pretty sorry, I thought. I showered and got dressed, then walked out to the kitchen.

My mother was standing next to the refrigerator dressed in her orange work smock. She was a checker at the local Smith’s Food Mart. She was making waffles with strawberry jam and whipped cream. I was glad, not just because I loved waffles, but because it meant she wasn’t mad at me.

“How’s your eye?” she asked.

“It’s okay.”

“Come here, let me see.” I walked over to her, and she leaned forward to examine it. “That’s quite a shiner.” She pulled a waffle from the iron. “I made you waffles.”

“Thanks.”

I sat down at the table, and she brought over a plate. “Would you like orange juice or milk to drink?”

“Can I have chocolate milk?”

“Sure.” She went back to the kitchen counter and poured me a glass of milk, then got a can of powdered chocolate from the cupboard and stirred some in. The sound of the spoon clinking against the glass filled the room. She brought the glass over to the table, then sat down next to me.

“So these boys who were picking on you…”

“Jack and his friends.”

“Do I need to call their parents?”

“I don’t think Jack has parents. I think he was spawned.”

She grinned. “What about the other boys?”

“They crawled out of the sewer.”

“So would it help if I called these sewer creatures’ parents?”

I cut a piece of waffle and took a bite. “No. It would just make things worse. Besides, I don’t think they’ll be messing with me anymore.”

“Do you think they’ll tell anyone what happened?”

“No one would believe them anyway.”

“I hope you’re right.” She looked across the table. “How are the waffles?”

“Good, thanks.” I took another bite.

“You’re welcome.” Her voice was pitched with concern. “Did anyone else see what happened?”

“A girl.”

“What girl?”

“She’s in one of my classes. She was telling them to leave me alone when it happened.”

The look of anxiety on her face made my stomach hurt. After a moment, she stood. “Well, I guess we’ll just cross that bridge when we get to it.” She kissed me on the forehead. “I better go. Want a ride to school?”

“No, I’m okay.”

Just then there was a knock. My mom answered the door. Ostin stood in the hallway. “Hello, Mrs. Vey.”

“Good morning, Ostin. You’re looking sharp today.”

Ostin pulled in his stomach. He thought my mother was a “babe,” which made me crazy. Ostin was fifteen years old and girl crazy, which was unfortunate because he was short, chubby, and a geek, which is pretty much all you need to scare girls our age away. I have no doubt that someday he’ll be the CEO of some Fortune 500 company and drive a Ferrari and have girls falling all over themselves to get to him. But he sure didn’t now.

“Thank you, Mrs. Vey,” he said. “Is Michael ready?”

“Just about. Come on in.”

He stepped inside, dwarfed by the size of his backpack.

“Hey, Ostin,” I said.

He looked at my black eye. “Dude, what happened?”

“Jack and his friends jumped me.”

His eyes widened. “Did they pants you?”

“They tried.”

“High school,” my mother said. “You couldn’t pay me a million dollars to go back.” She grabbed her keys and purse. “All right. You boys have a good day. Stay out of trouble.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Vey.”

“See ya, Mom.”

She stopped at the doorway. “Oh, Michael, we’re doing inventory at the store today, so I’ll be late tonight. I’ll probably be home around eight. Just make yourself some mac ’n’ cheese.”

“No problem.”

“You sure you don’t want a ride?”

Ostin almost said something, but I spoke first. “We’re fine,” I said.

“Okay, see you later.” She walked out.

“Your mom is so hot,” Ostin said as he sat down at the table.

“Dude, shut up. She’s my mom.”

He pointed to my face. “So what happened?”

“Jack thought I ratted him out to Dallstrom. So he and his posse jumped me behind the school.”

“Wade,” Ostin said bitterly. “You should have just zapped him.”

I put my hand over his mouth. “Shut up. You know you’re not supposed to know.”

“I know. Sorry.” He looked over at the door. “She’s gone anyway,” he said. His face brightened. “Hey, I got the multimeter from my uncle so we can test you.” Ostin had this idea about measuring how many volts of electricity I could generate, which frankly I was curious about too.

“Cool.”

“Seriously, dude, I don’t know why you hide your power. It’s like having a race car you have to leave parked in the garage all the time. Why even have it? You could be the most powerful kid at school. Instead you get beat up.”

“Well, Jack and his friends won’t be bothering us anymore.”

Ostin looked at me in surprise. “Did you do it?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool! Man, I wish I had been there to see you hand down the righteous judgment.”

I took another bite. “If you were there, you’d have a black eye too. If Wade didn’t pants you first.”

He frowned at the thought of it. “So does your mom know you used it?”

“Yeah.”

“Did she freak?”

“Yeah. But she was cool about it. She’s worried that someone might find out, but she doesn’t want me to get beat up either. They started it. I just finished it.”

“Speaking of, are you going to finish those waffles?”

“There’s extra in the kitchen.”

“Cool. My mom made gruel for breakfast.”

“What’s gruel?”

“It’s punishment. Really, dude, it tastes like wallpaper paste. I think they feed it to prisoners in Siberian gulags.”

“Why does she make it?”

“Because she ate it when she was a kid. But your mom’s waffles… oh, baby. The only thing better than how she looks is her cooking.”

“Dude, just stop it.”

Ostin shook his head. “I was born in the wrong house.” He threw two waffles on a plate and brought them over to the table, where he drowned them in a sea of syrup. “Did anyone else see you do it?”

“Taylor.”

“Taylor Ridley? The cheerleader?”

“Yeah.”

“What did she do?”

“She just stared.”

“Wow. I wish I had been there.” He took a massive bite of waffle, the syrup dribbling down his chin. “Did you study for our biology test?”

“A little. In detention. How about you?”

“Don’t need to. It’s all right here.” He pointed to his head. Ostin had a 4.0 grade point average only because the scale didn’t go higher. If his body matched his brain, he’d be Mr. Universe. “Do you have detention today?”

“I have detention for the next four weeks unless you can figure out a way to get me out of it.”

“Maybe you should just shock Dallstrom.”

“Only in my dreams.”

Just then the front door opened and my mom leaned in. “Michael, can you give me a hand?”

“Sure. What’s up?”

“Just come outside.”

“Need some help, Mrs. Vey?” Ostin asked.

“You stay put, Ostin. I need to talk to Michael alone.”

Ostin frowned. I got up and walked outside, shutting the door behind me. “What’s wrong?”

“I left the car’s dome light on all night and the battery’s dead. Can you give me a jump?”

“Sure.”

I followed her out of the building and across the parking lot to our car, a ten-year-old Toyota Corolla. She looked around to make sure no one was watching, then she climbed inside and popped the hood. I lifted it the rest of the way up, then grabbed the car battery’s terminals. “Go ahead,” I said.

The starter motor clicked until I pulsed (which is what I call what I do, pulse or surge) and the engine fired up. I let go of the battery. Mom raced the engine for a moment, then she stuck her head out the window. “Thanks, honey.”

I shut the hood. “Sure.”

“Have a good day.”

She pulled out of the parking lot as I went back inside. Ostin was still at the table finishing his waffles.

“What was that about?” he asked, his mouth full.

“Car battery was dead.”

“And you started it up?”

“Yeah.”

“That is so cool.”

“At least my electricity’s good for something.”

“It’s good as Jack-repellant,” Ostin said cheerfully.

I looked at him and frowned. “Stop eating. We’re going to be late.”

He quickly shoved in two more bites, then stood. I threw my pack over my shoulder, then Ostin and I walked the five blocks to school.

Meridian High School was the fourth school I had been to since we moved to Idaho five years earlier. On the first day of high school, my mother had said to me, “Don’t get in trouble—and don’t hurt anyone,” which I’m sure would have sounded ridiculous to anyone who didn’t know my secret. I mean, I’m shorter than almost everyone at school, including the girls, and I never started problems, except by being small and looking vulnerable.

When I was in the sixth grade at Churchill Junior High, a bunch of wrestlers put me in the lunchroom garbage can and rolled me across the cafeteria. It was chicken à la king day and I was covered with rice and yellow gravy with carrots and peas. It took five minutes before I couldn’t take it anymore and I “went off,” as my mother calls it.

I wasn’t as good at controlling it back then, and one of the boys was taken to the hospital. The faculty and administration went nuts. Teachers questioned me, and the principal and the school police officer searched me. They thought I had a stun gun or Taser or something. They went through my coat and pants pockets, and even the garbage can, but, of course, they found nothing. They ended their investigation by concluding that the boys had touched a power cord or something. None of the wrestlers got in trouble for what they had done and all was forgotten. A few months later my mom and I moved again.