The Unchosen Ones

Chapter 2

2

St. Bernard was a thirty-minute bus ride away from Kire’s house but only a nine-minute sprint away—the latter is the method he chose to use most often. When coming up on St. Bernard, one could recognize it because of the huge signboard the graduating class of five years ago made, wherein they wrote all of their names to spell out ‘St. Bernard.’ The school was just like any other high school in the area: they had a soccer and baseball team, as well as a swim team, tennis, basketball, and the like. Aside from the sports teams, there were a number of clubs one could join at St. Bernard; for example, Kire used to write for the school editorial with a group of socially awkward kids until he quit because he didn’t feel like doing it anymore. There was also a science club, a French club, a volunteering club, and a club called Guardians of all that’s Green and Living, a group composed only of the founding member, Charlie Rose, the invisible.

Kire showed up to school late that day, as he had missed his bus as usual, and felt the weight of twenty or so pairs of eyes pressing down on him as he slumped into Mrs. Goody’s class with his head held low. Mrs. Goody was an older Army Veteran who taught literature. She always wore her black and white hair in a tight bun and kept her lips tightly pursed most of the time. She was scribbling furiously on the board when he walked in, so he managed to get in without her noticing him—at first.

“Mrs. Goody, I believe Kire Hunter was trying to tell you something,” a thick male voice called from the last row of seats. It was Trace, the bane of Kire’s existence.

Kire froze. He had almost made it to his seat when she stopped writing on the board and turned around slowly and rather dramatically.

“Mr. Hunter,” said Mrs. Goody, “halt right there while I address you, please.”

Kire gulped. “I’ve halted already, ma’am,” he said, “I cannot halt any further.”

“Feeling smart today, are you?” she said with her hands clasped in front of her. “I want you to face this class and tell us why you thought it was okay for you to arrive thirty minutes late.”

Kire shrugged. “There was—”

“And don’t you say traffic—”

“—traffic.”

“You will report to room 112 at 2:45 this afternoon. You won’t leave until an hour after school is over. Your parents will be informed, and you will wait outside the front of the school until they come to pick you up.”

“Fine,” Kire said, slumping into his seat at the back of the classroom.

“How did you like getting ratted out like that, huh?” Kire’s spine crawled as he heard Trace’s whisper.

Some facts about Trace Henderson: One, he’s always with his girlfriend Amberly McHenry and his best friend Kaos Miles. Two, nobody ever messes with Trace, but Trace can mess with you relentlessly. Three, he was handsome, with blond hair and blue eyes, popular, athletic, tall, muscular, and all the girls wanted to be around him—that is, if they could get past the incredibly frightening Amberly McHenry.

Trace Henderson wasn’t born the ruler of St. Bernard. A kid named Alfred Graham used to top that most dangerous chart. The rumor is that one day, Trace challenged Alfred to a battle off-campus. Whoever lost was never allowed to show their face at school again, ever.

Alfred couldn’t have shown his face in school again anyway; Trace reduced the lad’s detention from thirty-two to about twenty-eight. Alfred couldn’t report Trace to the police because it was a pre-arranged fight—Alfred would’ve found himself punished too. So instead, he lied to his parents and told them that some men nearly seven feet tall had attacked him. Then he convinced his parents that he was too traumatized after the attack to return to St. Bernard. He’s never been seen again.

Amberly McHenry, on the other hand, was the most popular girl in school, but she was loved mostly because people feared her. She was the head cheerleader and her looks fit the bill—she had long, thick and smooth blonde hair and piercing blue eyes. Her lips were plump, and her build was athletic. Amberly and Trace both have mysterious home lives that they rarely discuss, which is what makes them all the more interesting.

Back to Mrs. Goody’s classroom.

“It wasn’t exactly ratting out,” said Kire. “She was going to eventually see that I came in late anyway.”

Trace snorted. Oh, and one more thing—he was unpardonably proud.

“She wasn’t going to notice you, weirdo. It’s Trace that gives you a face in this school.” Trace turned around to Kaos, who was equally proud, albeit bored. “Did you hear that?”

“Yeah,” said Kaos dully. “You should consider a career in rapping.”

“Oh, please,” muttered Kire.

“What did you say?” hissed Trace menacingly.

“Nothing,” said Kire, pretending to try to pay attention to Mrs. Goody.

“That’s what I thought,” said Trace.

* * *

Kire’s last class of the day was botany—the only class he didn’t share with Trace.

“Now, ladies and gents,” Mr. Donnie began, “this here is a special plant which I like to call Edax Animae, which is Latin for soul eater.”

The Edax Animae stood about three feet tall. It had a flower the shape and size of a small jar, and it was bright green at the base and red at the top. Despite the height of the flower, it only had three large leaves and the single jar-shaped flower—nothing more.

“It’s a carnivorous or flesh-eating plant,” Mr. Donnie continued, looking proudly at the plant. “My colleague in Brazil sent me this two days ago. It hasn’t been formally named yet, nor is it in any textbooks.”

Murmurs of “cool,” “wow,” and “impressive” started among the students. However, Kire wasn’t impressed.

“Mr. Donnie,” Kire said, “if this plant has just been discovered, then why is it here? All carnivorous plants eject a form of neurotoxin to incapacitate their prey. Do you know what sort of toxin this plant here emits?”

Mr. Donnie grunted, clearly displeased by Kire’s attitude and cockiness. “You kids these days!” Never eager to learn or gain any new knowledge by trying new things,” he said. “Always waiting for someone else to figure it out first! I say we don’t wait for the scientific community to give us an evaluation of the plant; how about we give them an evaluation instead?”

The short speech given by Mr. Donnie triggered a round of cheering from the enthusiastic students.

Mr. Donnie walked up to Kire and said quietly, “Now, would you like to participate, or would you rather sit out and then regret not participating later on?”

Kire smiled sweetly. He wasn’t going to give Mr. Donnie the satisfaction of seeing him worked up. “Is this the only specimen we have to work with, sir?” Kire asked.

“Ho ho,” Mr. Donnie laughed heartily. “You must not know who you’re talking to. Everyone will have their own toy to play with. Put on your gloves, people!”

At first, the students were all having a lot of fun, until things started to go wrong. The plant’s jar-shaped flower was triggered by the slightest touch. The plant’s first victim was Angela, a blue-eyed girl who loved to remind everyone she was the cheerleader until Amberly came along. So, Angela listened to the devil standing on her shoulder, took off a glove, and touched the trap of the carnivorous plant with bare hands. The jar snapped closed on her hand and she giggled. However, a few seconds later, she let out a blood-curdling scream that had everyone covering their ears.

“Tell me, Angela,” Mr. Donnie began angrily. “Why didn’t you tell me you left your senses at home before class started?”

“Look!” one of the other students cried in horror, pointing at Angela’s trapped hand. When Angela’s skin began to take on a reddish hue, it was clear to see that the redness was spreading like heat through the blade of a burning knife.

“Help me, get me out of here!” Angela screamed, no longer caring about ruining her makeup as tears ran down her face.

“Mr. Donnie, do something!” Kire snapped, but the teacher looked equally as lost and befuddled as the fifteen other students in the greenhouse.

Kire groaned. He should’ve known the man would have no idea what they were dealing with. Mr. Donnie was hardly the pioneer of botany he paraded himself to be. He fumbled over to the plant and grabbed it by the stem—he was going to rip the jar from the plant.

“Wait!” a small, high voice called out. “You’re going to kill it!”

The room went quiet, and everyone turned to look toward where the voice was coming from.

“Oh, really?” Kire scoffed. “And somehow you think that’s more important than saving Angela’s life?”

The advocate for the plant came forward; it was Charlie Rose, the invisible. The other students parted to allow her space.

“It won’t kill her, but she’ll feel miserable for a few days. And don’t you try to argue with me,” she said. “If Angela had her gloves on, the plant would’ve never sensed her blood and trapped her hand.”

“You know the toxin released by the plant won’t kill her?” asked Kire.

“I’m certain. It doesn’t need a prey as large as she is.”

“Then do something!” yelled Kire.

Everyone watched Charlie Rose pat the flower on the top of the jar as though it were a puppy. The plant opened its jaws in response, allowing Angela to jerk out her hand, which was as red as ripe tomatoes in late summer and wet with a slick, slimy substance. Tiny drops of blood oozed out of her pores. Kire got closer to Angela to get a better look at her hand. Apparently, the plant ate by softening its prey’s skin enough to allow blood and nutrients from the widened pores.

“Someone, take her to the clinic so the nurse can have a look at her,” Mr. Donnie said. Now that everything had returned to the point where he could play by the books, his voice had come alive again. Five students led the injured Angela out, a task one person could’ve achieved successfully. Kire suspected it was simply a ploy to get out of class.

Mr. Donnie and the remaining students stared at Charlie Rose, who held the plant as though it didn’t just trap a girl’s hand right before their eyes.

“Mr. Donnie, that’s not normal, is it?” Nathan Bury said quietly to his teacher. “She just patted a f—my language, sorry—she just patted the human-eater on the whatever-that-is-called like it was a cute puppy.”

Mr. Donnie gulped, sweating profusely. “Well, full marks to Charlie—”

“Call me Rose, sir.”

The teacher frowned. “Fine. Full marks to Rose here,” he announced. “Now, let’s see if any of you can repeat the feat.”

“I’d rather fail,” Nathan declared, pulling his hands out of his gloves.

The other students began to murmur at this, and the next minute they were all taking their gloves off and putting them on the table. Shortly thereafter, only Kire, Rose, and Mr. Donnie remained in the greenhouse.

“Now, Rose, how did you manage to pat that Edax Animae to sleep? I’ve never heard of doing such a thing.”

Rose shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said. “It just… happened.”

Kire pulled off his gloves and approached Rose’s Edax Animae. He put a finger on the same spot she patted it when saving Angela, waking the plant up. Kire jumped back as the plant snapped its jaws and it wasn’t until Rose worked her magic again that it managed to calm down.

“That was so cool,” Kire said. “I knew the Edax Animae would have a bundle of nerves that could be stimulated for different reactions, but I didn’t imagine you’d be able to find it so quickly! You’re a genius!”

Rose blushed. “Thanks,” she said, looking down at her feet.

Mr. Donnie seemed befuddled. “The plant has nerve bundles?”

Kire shrugged. “It’s only my hypothesis. It snaps its jaws closed when it senses movement near its trap, which means there’s some sensory organ at work.”

Relief flooded Mr. Donnie’s features. “I just knew it wasn’t in any of the textbooks I read.” He patted Rose on the shoulder. “You did well there, Rose. I think we have had enough to do in class today; how about we all get on our way?”

“So long as they see everything as another topic to be conquered, they’ll never discover anything,” Rose said quietly to herself. Kire and Rose walked out of the greenhouse together silently.

Charlie Rose was an average-looking girl with a petite build. She had long, wavy, untamable brown hair and warm honey brown eyes. She had a small, sweet smile which she rarely showed people, didn’t wear makeup and often dressed oddly. She didn’t dress the way most of the other girls dressed—rather, she wore whatever she wanted, whether it be something she sewed together herself or a hand-me-down from her great-great-great-grandmother. She definitely wasn’t mean like Amberly, but she much preferred plants to people and wasn’t afraid to let people know. She was a bit shy, rarely ever spoke unless spoken to, and didn’t have any friends.

Kire suspected the reason she wanted to be addressed as Rose was because of her love for plants.

“Everything is another topic to be conquered,” said Kire.

“You’re one of them, aren’t you?” she hissed. “You see plants as nothing more than food to be eaten.”

“That’s not true! I also see them as medicine, decoration, and clothing,” Kire said enthusiastically.

Rose stopped walking. “I knew you were just like them. Have you ever seen plants beyond just what they can do for us?”

Kire frowned. “I don’t get what you’re trying to say. How else am I supposed to see plants? They’re plants and that’s it. They don’t talk or have heartbeats or anything.”

“Enough!” said Rose, stomping a foot. “Don’t talk to me ever again. Certainly, you don’t even see me as something other than someone who can do something for you.” She turned around and walked quickly in the other direction.

Kire stood there in disbelief. What does that even mean? He thought. I’ll never understand girls. He glanced at his watch and gasped in disbelief. “It’s 2:40 already!”

He ran to room 112, where Mrs. Goody was waiting for him behind a desk.

“Late again, Mr. Hunter?” she growled.

Kire glanced at his watch. “I think not,” he said. “You asked me to arrive here at 2:45 and here I am. It’s exactly 2:45—46 now.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Just sit down,” she commanded.

“Yes, ma’am.”