Jeffrey Teller awoke and sat at the edge of his bed for a minute before reaching for his device and pods to place up in both ears.

He not-quite-half-listened to a continuous stream of videos as he set about fiddling with oatmeal, clothes, papers, and other necessities on his way out of the house to meet the bus.

Stepping through the mechanical door that whooshed shut behind him, and navigating the narrow length of the aisle, he caught the buoyant, rosy gaze of Penelope seated near the front. Still with pods delivering voices in his ears, he let her cheery smile find its way over to emerge and start to bud on his own face.

As the bus pulled away, with his head now perched against the window to soak up massaging vibrations, he peered out at a very normal world of sidewalks, mailboxes, stop signs, parents pushing strollers, dogs behind fences, storefront displays, and many other regular things no one would ever really pay that much attention to.

He smiled a little to himself, knowing at any moment he could bring his focus to anything specific . . . like a particular smudge of oil aligned to paper specks on the pavement, or an individual bark pattern marking where tree branches split from their trunk . . . and he’d see into an amazing world of deep meaning and beauty. Considering the uniqueness and intricacy he knew he’d experience (and yet surely be surprised by) wherever he chose to look, he wondered if there might not be a limit to what seeing how everything could be brought together at once might actually be like.

Taking out the pods in homeroom was no longer the exercise in torture it had been.

He glanced at the back of the room to where Peck and Wurtz huddled, bent over their desks, rifling lines back and forth in hoarse tones with silly, huge grins stuck on both their faces.

“Riddle-dee-diddle-dee-fiddle-dee-dee!!!” Wurtz failed to whisper, causing Peck to snort with laughter like a triangle-snouted pig.

“Ee, Bo!” retorted Peck, his pointier parts barely held in check. “Should-a seeeeeeeeen uhh!”

“Hhhhooooaaaa… ‘day!”

“Mmmmaaaa-bhhhoohhhh-chah?”

Jeffrey smiled with delight at the fact that the two had certainly wasted no time in developing their very own language.

Colin occupied his usual place, manning two chairs and desks in the second row.

But Jeffrey didn’t look at Colin. He didn’t need to, for lots of reasons.

Everything was as it should be.

An innocent crackle, fooling no one, was followed by the standard sickening crunch-and-scrape. It came from everywhere above, reverberating down off of all the walls.

Moments later, the beginnings of breathing took form, with labored inhales that shook and rasped their way up to almost squeaks at the end, followed by wheezy exhales which each expelled more air than it seemed there should have been.

Jeffrey wondered what an alien race might make of the sound (if given no context clues). 

Would it point to life, or . . . something else?

“...Bobby… hockey team… no good, no good… curfew… winter break… cotillion dance… ha-ha-ha, but… funny business…” Finnel’s breathing gave each broken phrase its texture and rightful place. No, none of what was said conveyed anything (it never did). Yet it still made sense to everyone listening in an entirely unuseful, impractical way . . . a way which neither Jeffrey nor Gel could have explained.

Jeffrey suddenly recalled having awoken sometime past midnight the night before to anxiously roll all of Gel’s words around in his head.

Nothing new.

Even now, just remembering, his mind wanted to rifle back to its familiar, frantic game of racing to rearrange and reexamine every conversation they’d ever had, as if there could be some right way for all their words to land or align.

He could almost feel the apprehension and anger she must be feeling, wherever she was, listening along with him to the doctor’s stomach-turning, breathy ramblings the way relatives separated by seas might share a night’s sky from worlds apart.

Could they stay friends?

Might there be any chance of uniting again to use their power?

Would she even speak to him now?

It was Wednesday. So he knew he’d soon see her in double PE. And even though the imagined conversations from the night before had left him with at least a thousand things to say, he knew more than he knew just about anything that if she’d ever meant anything to him . . . if he really was as indebted to her as he believed himself to be for the astounding difference she’d made in his life . . . he’d say none of it. He’d certainly never try to justify his choices. He wouldn’t press her to talk with him at all.

Sure, his heart burned a little at the prospect of staying forever cut off and misunderstood by someone he considered so important. But at the end of the day, he knew all he could do was move forward, keep learning, and try to use the ability she’d taught him to value and harness for whatever would seem most right.

Finnel finished up with another pop and dragged-out bang.

The bell that followed sounded like several axes being sharpened.

Jeffrey rose, and entered the moving population to be swept out into the endless hallway, then outside along the usual path toward the locker room.

Once changed, he stood shifting his weight from one foot to the other, waiting (unready) for the inevitable. He felt a strong compulsion to dash and sprint across the field, up the street, and all the way home. He pictured feigning sickness, having his brother sign whatever form, and just avoiding things for a day (or longer). But he stayed, squirming, bobbing restlessly up and down as if he felt cold, watching as others stepped out into the sunlight chattering and fidgeting in mostly groups and pairs.

He saw Peck emerge alone, trailed by the tiny Ricky Vase.

Gel never came.

PE brought more dodgeball.

This time, Jeffrey got taken out first, hit right away in the chest before he could move.

He made his way to the benches and bleachers, then sat alone, watching his classmates scamper, giggle, and cheer.

Before long, his awareness fell (or lifted) to Finnel, and to the doctor’s secret stash of mechanisms and other means of operation hidden behind that gem-activated doorway in the wall. He knew some of Finnel’s secret systems must harken all the way back to prehistoric times, where others might as well be from the future. All might resemble magic in their workings.

He wondered if he believed in magic.

What else could explain the way each component of every machine, system, and symbol tied so perfectly to the limitless color combinations he saw defining and identifying every student who would ever attend the school, including Colin . . . even Gel?

What Jeffrey marveled at most as he sat awaiting the next dodgeball game, casually calling to mind the doctor’s hidden dealings, was that it wasn’t just Gel, Sarah, Colin, and a few others whose unique spectrum of hues indicated some “special” power or another. It was everyone. Every color combination tied to an ability, something unique to the individual, to be tapped into, developed, and enjoyed.

So, maybe Gel’s and Jeffrey’s heightened insight wasn’t magic after all.

Or, maybe everything was magic.