The Search for Artemis - By P. D. Griffith Page 0,38

silence, and then blasted into the air without warning. Everyone in the class let out an audible gasped and looked up in unison. Above Landon’s table were three small holes in the roof tile and no marbles in sight.

“Landon, please come speak with me outside.” Dr. Brighton’s voice resonated above all of the gasps and gossiping.

When he heard his name, Landon looked fearfully at the stunned Riley, whose marbles now rolled off the edge of the table. Landon rose from his stool and proceeded toward the door. Whispers and glares followed him the entire way out of the room.

“So what exactly is going on, Landon?” Dr. Brighton said the instant the door shut behind them.

“What’s going on? I don’t know what I’m doing! That’s what’s going on!” Landon’s tone was short, and he started to pace manically beside the wall. He was still irritated from his less than ideal first exercise in Telekinetics.

“What do you mean, you don’t know what’s going on?” Dr. Brighton asked. Obviously not fazed by Landon’s current attitude, he stood with his hands clasped casually behind his back.

“How else do I put it? I—don’t—know—what—I’m—doing. Everyone in there is looking at me as the guy who lifted a bus. They expect me to be great, but I still don’t even know how I did what I did.” He appeared to be talking more to himself than Dr. Brighton. “You said I’ll be able to feel it, but I don’t even know what it is.”

“Landon, stop.” Dr. Brighton put his arm out and grabbed Landon gently by the shoulder, arresting his incessant pacing. “No one expects you to be great in the beginning. We’ve all been in the same situation. This entire thing is new and foreign to you. There’s a learning curve involved here.”

“Learning curve? . . . Yeah, you can say that again. How are you supposed to learn when you don’t even understand what it is you’re learning. I mean this isn’t like high school bio. There don’t seem to be textbooks or anything that says, ‘This is how you lift.’ Or, ‘Hey, you’re psychokinetic, and here’s how your body works.’ . . . Do you realize I’ve spent the last hour staring at marbles? I’ve even talked to them. . . . I’ve talked to marbles! It’s making me insane.”

“You have to be patient. These gifts, . . . they are ‘like the seed put in the soil—the more one sows, the greater the harvest.’”

“What are you talking about?” Landon asked, exasperated.

“Your gifts—they are as a seed, dormant within you until they’re ready to spring forth and grow. In your case, that seed has but germinated into a tiny sprout, searching for the light of the sun. Once it finds it, the sprout will grow into a magnificent tree. With water, proper care and patience, that sprout will take root and thrive. You just have to help it get there.”

Landon stood there without as much as a sound, his head downturned toward the floor. Dr. Brighton walked to him and rested his hand upon Landon’s shoulder again.

“Don’t worry. This is your first day. You’ll get it in time.”

• • • • •

“So, you’re the great Landon Wicker.”

Following his training, Landon returned to his room, hoping to be alone with his thoughts, only to find Brock had returned. He rested on his disheveled bed, leaning against the headboard with his hands cupped behind his head and his legs casually crossed on the mattress.

“Landon Wicker? . . . Yes. Great? . . . Far from it.”

Landon drifted over to his desk and flopped languidly into his chair. He then proceeded to stare at the wall and shift the copy of Treasure Island back and forth on the desk with his hand.

“Oh, so modest,” retorted Brock, who sat up and leaned off the edge of the bed. “I saw the photo. Looks like you could almost be as good as me.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not a threat to you in the least,” Landon moped. “If today was any indication, I’m sure they’ll be throwing my useless butt to the curb in no time.”

“Oh, trust me,”—Brock chuckled—“you aren’t a threat.”

The mattress squeaked as Brock stood up and walked with his chest up over to Landon’s desk. He leaned over it with one arm on the desk. The book Landon fiddled with shot up from the table and into Brock’s outstretched hand.

“Okay, Landon,” Brock said after examining the book and setting it back onto the desk. He intentionally made it