Jon stood frozen at the bottom of the stairs, heart thudding hard against his ribs as his parents’ words cut into him. He’d crept down for breakfast, still groggy from a restless night, but the sound of his mother’s raised voice had made him pause, hand still gripping the stair rail.
Now he almost wished he hadn’t stopped.
“Joan, we should do something about our boy,” his dad said, his voice sharp with frustration. “Look at him. Hanging with that girl all the time, never out with the guys. When I was his age I had girlfriends. The only boys who spent their free time with girls as friends were—” he stopped himself, but Jon heard the sneer in his throat—“queers.”
Jon’s mother huffed, clearly displeased. “Don’t talk like that, Jim. He’s fine. He’s just… a late bloomer.”
“A late bloomer?” his dad scoffed. “He’s sixteen. Still no interest in sports, no backbone. He never fights back when those punks at school push him around. He just takes it. He’s a wimp. A sissy.”
Jon clenched his fists so tight his nails bit into his palms. A sissy. The word stung worse than the bruises from the bullies. He’d tried fighting back, tried sports, tried pretending to fit in with the guys who made fun of him. Every attempt ended in humiliation. And now his father, the one person he most wanted approval from, was standing in the kitchen labeling him a failure.
“Jim,” his mom said softly, “don’t be mean. He’s a good kid. He just hasn’t found his thing yet. I’m sure things will work out.”
Jon felt his throat close. His mother was kinder, but even she sounded unconvinced. Hasn’t found his thing yet. She didn’t see that he had tried. He had spent years trying. Baseball. Soccer. Football. Even gymnastics, once, after hearing her sigh wistfully about how nice it would be if her son were more graceful, more confident. He’d fallen on his face so many times it was a wonder he hadn’t broken his neck.
No matter what he tried, nothing earned that look—that glowing, proud you did it, son expression he had dreamed of seeing on his parents’ faces.
Now, hidden just out of sight, he felt heat rising behind his eyes. He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. He wanted to run upstairs and never come down again.
Instead, he realized his hand had drifted into the pocket of his pajama pants. His fingers brushed something smooth and cool. The stone.
He hadn’t even realized he’d carried it down with him.
The stone pulsed faintly against his palm, as though it were aware of his turmoil. A reminder of power. A reminder of choice.
His parents’ voices kept stabbing at him.
“…never into sports…”
“…hangs around with girls…”
“…wimp and a sissy…”
He squeezed the stone so hard it hurt.
I’ve tried everything. I’ve tried to be what they want. And it’s never enough. Never.
The words built up in his throat, pressure like steam about to blow.
His father’s voice rang out again, final and damning: “He’ll never be the kind of son I can be proud of.”
Something in Jon snapped.
The tears that had been threatening spilled down his cheeks, but he didn’t care. He lifted the stone, clutching it in both hands as though he might crush it to dust. The words ripped out of him before he even realized he was saying them.
“I just wish—” his voice cracked, then rose, fierce and raw, “—I was the son my mom and dad wanted me to be!”
For a split second, silence. His parents went on arguing in the kitchen, oblivious.
And then it hit.
A flash—bright, searing, like lightning behind his eyes. The sensation was stronger than ever before, flooding his body like a wave. His vision blurred, his ears rang, his whole body locked up as though he’d been plunged into a storm of fire and ice at once.
The stone burned hot in his hands. He gasped, staggered back against the wall.
