I knew I’d never win the Memory Lash argument, so I didn’t even try. I’d have to learn to deal with the anguish of that thing regardless. Came with being a Psi Fighter. Mason, however, was another matter. I really didn’t want that assignment, so I told the Kilodan that being targeted by Mason didn’t bother me. He reminded me that I’m not the only one Mason picks on. Touché. He hit a soft spot, and he knew it. To tell the truth, I would have saved the rest of the kids from him and his goons long ago, but here’s the thing—I was completely comfortable kicking bad guy butt while wearing the mask and armor of a Psi Fighter. I could have polished the floors with Mason’s forehead and never broken a sweat if I was in uniform. But I wore jeans and frilly tops to school. If I fought crime dressed like that, everyone would know my secret, right? Happened once. Won’t happen again.
When I was six, the Walpurgis Knights kidnapped me. One of them saw me practicing…figured out that I was a Psi Fighter in training. Stupid move on my part, even for a six-year-old. I’ve grown considerably more careful since then. The Knights are like the bad guys plus, like the comic book super villains on a steady diet of prune juice and fiber. They are just miserable people. The Psi Fighters rescued me, but two died trying. My real parents. I miss them. I thought the Kilodan would back off the Mason assignment when I reminded him. No such luck.
The Psi Fighters are nothing like comic book superheroes. We’re more like awesome vigilantes. We practice the Mental Arts, which are like martial arts with extra caffeine and awesome sauce. We punch and kick and do that ninja art-of-invisibility stuff, but we also make weapons just by thinking. Andy invented this gizmo he calls “the Amplifier.” It channels our thoughts and emotions into weapons. Some weapons are harder to control than others—I especially have trouble with the Memory Lash. The problem is, when I use it, it shows me my opponent’s most horrifying memories. The stalker’s memories were just too real. Who knows what I’d see if I used it on Mason? That boy had issues. And Kathryn, my best friend in the entire universe, loved to point them out every time we saw him.
“Okay, Rin.” Kathryn stood next to me in the hallowed halls of Greensburg High School during our break before morning assembly. “Let’s say you’re the first person on earth. God gave you the job of naming all creatures that slink or slither. What do you call that slathering beast?” She pointed to the large figure lumbering our way, elbowing through the crowd like a coupon-toting shopaholic at a fifty-percent-off sale.
“Let’s see,” I said. “Long hairy arms, stubby hind legs, unibrow…Mason is a wombat.”
We burst out laughing. Kathryn Hollisburg has been my best friend since forever. We know everything about each other. I know her secret shopping hot spots. She knows my secret identity. She is beyond beautiful, built like a supermodel, and über popular, although she totally misses that fact. Kathryn is as genuinely unsnobbish as a person can be.
Then there’s me. Born Lynn Morgan, my last name became Noelle when I was adopted after my parents’ murder, and my first name became Rinnie when my adorable new little sister Susie couldn’t say Lynn. I am, in my professional opinion, a tad underdeveloped for sixteen, and on the line between popular and unpopular, I fall somewhere in the vicinity of despised. But only by the Excessively Cool, who are jealous of my friendship with Kathryn.
Mason Draudimon is another story. We have a deep, ongoing love-hate relationship—he loves to abuse me, and I hate his guts. Totally. Of course, I’m in the minority. The cool girls think he’s a hottie. They babble about his gorgeous sapphire eyes, the way his hair swoops away from his face like an eagle’s wings, how he’s built so strong and sleek and pantherish…all of which is true, but when you’ve been picked on by someone since the fifth grade, your view becomes slightly skewed. To me, he’ll always be a smelly, grub-eating marsupial of the genus Vomitus Wombaticus.
The thing is, he’s not just mean, he’s privileged. As the untouchable son of the mayor, Mason could find a cub scout helping a little old lady cross the street, mug the old lady, take the scout’s lunch money, and three quarters of the city officials would swear he was at the soup kitchen feeding the poor when the crime occurred. Everyone is afraid of his father. Even the teachers are helpless against him, which Mason totally takes advantage of. He has no respect for anyone in authority. With two exceptions—Mason worships Captious the math teacher and Miliron the science teacher. They have doctorates. Mason loves people with brilliant minds. He has made it clear to the world that he’ll earn a PhD and cure mental illness. Academic achievement is Mason’s top priority. He’s a man on a mission.
Unfortunately, part of that mission includes inventing new and exciting ways to abuse people. Rumor has it Mason was emotionally scarred by his cruel mother, who, rumor also has it, resides in Old Torrents, the mental hospital outside of town. So he takes his anger out on the kids at school. It’s his mean streak that makes him ugly. I should probably feel sorry for him, but I don’t. I wish a meteor would hit him.