Chapter 12

  The next day, Solomon racked his brain for money-making plans, distracting himself from the classes he was supposed to be focusing on. During history, he considered a lemonade stand. During English, he contemplated selling arts and crafts. During Geography, he pondered using the black market, but instantly dismissed that idea. During Math, he calculated how long it would take to acquire a thousand dollars. The result disheartened him. It's going to take months to get enough money! It's impossible! By the time lunch came around, he felt more dejected than he'd ever felt before. It was one thing to fail when the chances of success were slim and disappointment was to be expected, and a whole other thing to be blocked from gaining superpowers by something as trivial as a lack of funds.

  Solomon plopped his lunch tray down on Grant's picnic table and sat next to his friend with a sigh. Luna gave the overly crowded table a sidelong look but joined the group anyway, eating her food quietly to avoid notice. Grant's friends gave each other uneasy looks and stood as if to leave.

  Grant glanced at them in surprise. "What on earth are you doing?"

  His friends seemed reluctant to answer. After an awkward pause, one said, "We're gettin' outta here, man. The rumor is these kids are bad luck. Billy saw them get picked up by coppers or somethin' yesterday, and we don't want none o' that trouble. We won't sit with them no longer."

  "That's absolutely ridiculous!" Grant frowned at his friends. "First of all, they weren't arrested - at least as far as I know - and even if they were, it wouldn't matter whether or not you sit with them at lunch. This isn't going to change anything."

  "Yeah, whatever, man." The teenagers all grabbed their trays and flocked to the furthest picnic table they could find.

  Solomon poked at his spongey meatloaf with his fork. "It's okay if you want to leave too," he told Grant. "Your other friends are probably cooler than us. I mean, I don't even play in our football games!" And I didn't think to save up even just a bit of money! Talk about lack of foresight...

  Thankfully for him, Grant scoffed at the idea. "Please, you think I want to hang out with a bunch of jerks? I can't believe you would even suggest something like that."

  There was a pause of silence. For lack of a better topic, Solomon decided to seek some counsel for his and Luna's current predicament. "So, Grant," he said, attempting to sound nonchalant. "Do you have any suggestions for someone who wants to make a bit - or a lot - of extra money?"

  Grant thought for a moment, chewing his food slowly. "Well, you could try selling something you make - something unique that you're offering. I sell my newspapers for a dollar each, and I can make some decent money on that, about fifty dollars a month."

  Solomon slumped. "I need a lot more money than fifty dollars."

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  "How much more?"

  "A thousand dollars more."

  Grant almost choked on his meatloaf. "A thousand dollars?! What are you buying, the moon? That's crazy!"

  "Yeah, I know. But it's necessary." Solomon scarfed down the last of his food and stood to leave, hooking his backpack over one shoulder. "I'll see you later."

  A few hours and three classes later, his mood still wasn't any better. Whenever he started to cheer up a little, he would remember the problem of money, or the people he passed in the halls would squish to either side to avoid walking near him, and the worries would all flood back. Wherever he went, he always had a bubble of space around him, like he was sick or something. Even in class, the other students scooted their desks a few inches further away from him. Most of his friendly acquaintances kept their distance from him. He had never felt more alone.

  Not even after-school football practice could lift Solomon's spirits. Ordinarily, as soon as he put on his gear and stepped onto the field, his energy levels would soar sky-high as if he just had three cups of sugar. But today, it just felt like wading through sludge. The drills lasted forever, but at last, it was time for his favorite part - but also the hardest part of all of practice.

  A sharp whistle cut across the field, interrupting the current drill and causing all the football players to snap to attention. "Alright, boys, let's get moving'!" Coach Brant shouted. "Scrimmage positions! No starting punt today!" Solomon jogged to his assigned spot in the defensive formation and settled into a ready stance. Magnus stepped up to face him as one of the offense. Solomon still wasn't sure why Coach Brant had matched up the best player and the worst player, but that's just how it was. "Ready to get pummeled, Peterson?" Magnus asked, grinning gleefully. "It's about time I got some payback for yesterday."

  Solomon really wasn't in the mood for trash talk, and so he kept his mouth shut. It was hard enough to stay concentrated as it was, without having to do verbal jousting at the same time. Every time he glanced at his enemy, he saw the similarities between Magnus and his father, Derek Miller. The comparison was unsettling. Solomon shook his head, trying to clear away the distractions. His eyes narrowed, and he was ready for the scrimmage. This was the only time he would get in a game environment, since he never actually played in his team's games, and he wanted to make the most of it. Maybe if he took down the star player, Coach Brant would let him participate in the next game.

  "Annnndd hut!" The offensive lineman hiked the ball, and the scrimmage began. Solomon surged forward to block Magnus, determined to do his best. Magnus pushed forward, meeting Solomon's challenge. "Out of my way, runt," Magnus grunted, trying to shove past Solomon. But the plucky seventh grader wasn't going to give up that quickly. Solomon anchored his feet, digging into the grassy field, and shoved right back.

  For the first time in a long time, Magnus Miller stumbled backward. it took a long moment of shock before he realized that Solomon Peterson, a puny twelve-year-old, had been the one to make him stumble. His face twisted in rage. He charged toward Solomon, his legs pushing him forward like steel pistons. Too late, Solomon saw the danger, and Magnus brutally shouldered him to the ground before he could brace himself.

  Solomon rolled over a few times from the force of Magnus' hit, but thanks to his padding, he wasn't hurt. When he finally came to a stop, he spat grass out of his mouth and lifted his head, only to see Magnus execute an excellent catch, completely unguarded, and score his team a touchdown. Solomon lowered his head in defeat and banged the ground in frustration. There was no one to help him up, no one to say, "Good job," no one at all. He was alone in his failure.

  Completely alone.