The rest of breakfast was a silent, agonizing mental battle against floating silverware and vibrating plates. When he finally got up to leave for school, he was exhausted.
"Have a good day, sweetie," his mom said, giving him a kiss on the cheek.
"Yeah, you too," Alex said, already halfway out the door. He didn't trust himself to stand still for another second.
As he walked down the driveway, he clutched his backpack straps so tightly his knuckles were white. He was halfway down the block when he felt a tug on his bag. He glanced behind him. Nothing. He kept walking, but the tug got stronger, like an invisible hand was yanking him backward.
Oh no. Not now. I'm on the street!
He fought it, leaning forward, straining against the invisible force. He was dragging his feet, his backpack straps digging into his shoulders.
Then, he heard a familiar, slightly panicked voice: "Alex! Your lunch!"
He turned to see his mom standing on the porch, holding up a paper bag. The lunch bag was gently bobbing toward him, floating about four feet off the ground, having been mentally retrieved by his panicked subconscious. His mom was staring at it, her mouth agape.
Alex's eyes widened in horror. This was it. Game over.
"Oh my god," he whispered. "It's starting already."
What should Alex do next: try to hide the power from his mom by pretending it didn't happen, or run away? Alex didn't run. He froze. Running would confirm the impossible was happening.
He watched the brown paper bag—his lunch, probably containing a lukewarm turkey sandwich and an apple—slowly drift across the lawn. His mother, Mrs. Peterson, a woman who dealt with life-or-death situations in the ER but who was currently paralyzed by a floating paper bag, finally broke her silence.
"Alex... did you—" Her voice was barely a squeak.