Twenty minutes later, they were sitting in the living room, a strange tribunal of three. Alex sat on the edge of the sofa, looking like a criminal. His parents sat across from him, side-by-side in matching armchairs, looking like they were trying to process the concept of a fourth dimension.
"So," his dad started, pushing his spectacles up his nose. "Telekinesis. The ability to move objects with the mind." He sounded like he was reading from a textbook.
"It started this morning with the alarm clock," Alex admitted, the whole story tumbling out in a rush. "It just... woke up with me. I didn't ask for it. It just is."
Mrs. Peterson finally broke down, burying her face in her hands. "I just hope we can keep this quiet. You know how people are. If they find out a Black teenager has powers, the police—or worse—will be knocking on our door before dinner."
Alex felt a cold wave wash over him. His mom wasn't worried about him being a superhero; she was worried about him being a target. It was a distinctly practical, terrifying perspective he hadn't fully considered, distracted as he was by the floating spoons.
His father leaned forward, placing a hand on his wife's knee. "We need a plan. And Alex, you need practice. You can't control it when you're stressed. School is out of the question today. We're going to the basement."
"The basement?" Alex questioned.
"It's soundproof, mostly dark, and full of heavy boxes. A controlled environment," his dad explained. "If you're going to accidentally launch anything, I'd rather it be your old Lego bin than Ms. Evelyn's mail truck."
He stood up, looking at Alex with a serious intensity Alex rarely saw outside of grading season. "This power is yours, son. But right now, it's a liability. We're going to treat this like a highly advanced, secret, dangerous calculus problem. You are going to learn the formula for control."
Should the next scene focus on Alex's training in the basement, or should there be an outside complication interrupting their plans?