The Birth of Super Crip (16 page)

More serious media coverage focused on the cause of
the explosion. Mr. Harris was briefly the target of criticism for
the amount of chemicals that he had in his classroom and several
parents questioned why the class had been creating rocket
propellant. Yet, he was quickly cleared of any wrongdoing as
numerous expert chemists confirmed that the experiment, which
involved having students mix sugar and potassium nitrate, was a
typical lab for a high school chemistry class.

Investigators added that while the quantities of
propellant and other chemicals involved were sufficient to fuel a
fire, they couldn’t by themselves have produced such a large
explosion. The cause of the blast was ultimately attributed to the
natural gas that had accumulated in the room from taps that had
been left open at some of the student lab stations. These
conclusions were criticized by the same experts who defended Mr.
Harris. They claimed that it was impossible for enough gas to be
released—in the time period in question—to produce the observed
level of destruction. Their objections led some parents and
students to come up with some wild theories, including that, by
coincidence, there had also been a leak in the main gas line into
the classroom.

Explanations for how all four students in the
classroom had survived the massive explosion were even more
outrageous. Some people called it a miracle, while a few people
wondered if the whole thing was a hoax. One expert quoted in the
Philadelphia Times
called it “a one-in-a-million
occurrence.” For their part, investigators refused to speculate,
claiming they couldn’t comment and that their interviews with the
students would not be made public.

After spending several days in the hospital with
first-degree burns on his leg, a broken shoulder, and two broken
ribs, Chuck was arrested on multiple charges. Carrying a concealed
weapon, making terroristic threats, and assault headed the list. He
was expelled from school, and the school district was suing his
parents for the cost of repairs to the school building. He’d earned
a few extra sessions with a psychologist when he insisted that not
only had he been choked and flung across the room by someone he
never saw, but Red had flown them out of the building.

Alley had suffered a concussion, and spent a night in
the hospital. She surprised her classmates by returning to school
on Friday. When she was finally questioned by the police, she said
she couldn’t remember anything after Chuck started to point the gun
at Red as he held her by the neck.

Scott was careful not to stray from what he and Red
had hastily agreed to tell their parents as they waited to be
discharged from the hospital after a three-hour stay for
observation. They laughed about seeing too many cop shows when they
decided to “keep it simple.” They didn’t plan to lie. They just
wouldn’t offer many details, to avoid contradicting each other—and
they left out any hints about Red’s “new talent,” as Scott put
it.

Telling the truth was easy enough. They just decided
that when the gun went off “accidentally,” it hit the spilled
chemicals, triggering several small explosions. And they left out
the part about Chuck being thrown across the room. They also
couldn’t quite remember the final big explosion that must have
blown them out of the building.

When asked how he and Alley landed in the bushes
almost unscathed from the fall, Scott shrugged and said he guessed
it was just luck. He also said he didn’t know how she got the lump
on the side of her head and her concussion. Eventually, a flying
desk took the blame, which was one of the few accurate facts
reported.

Keeping their stories straight was easier than the
brothers expected. Red was barely questioned at all by the police
after they spoke to his brother. It was the first time in his life
that Red was happy someone didn’t want to deal with him because of
his speech disability.

Scott heaved the ball back to his brother. It reached
Red on a couple hops. “Alley say anything to you?” Scott asked. “I
heard she came back yesterday.”

Red shrugged. “Not really. Why?”

“Just wondering if she said anything about the
wheelchair to the police.”

Shaking his head, Red said, “I don’t think so. We
both get to computers class early because it’s just homeroom right
before. I go early so they can help me walk up before the halls
fill and she helps me get set up on the computer.”

“She didn’t say anything?”

Reluctantly, Red said, “She just gave me a hug and
whispered, ‘Thanks, Super Crip.’”

“So, she knows?”

“She just said it ’cause of the article in the paper,
I think.”

“Dude, she thanked you. She knows something.”

Red shrugged. “Maybe. But she talked to the police at
least a couple days ago. She mentioned she didn’t remember anything
after Chuck started to raise the gun. And I don’t know if she
noticed the wheelchair. I saw her as I walked into the hall and she
seemed surprised to see anyone.”

“What’s she gonna say anyway, right?” Scott said,
satisfied. “Look at what happened to Chuck. They think he’s
nuts.”

“Yeah.”

“Hey, why’d you insist on saying the gun went off
accidentally? He’d be in a lot more trouble, and I think he was
really going to shoot.”

“Why do you think I did it at that point?” Red said.
“No choice. I don’t know. I guess I figure he screwed himself
enough. Plus, it probably did go off by accident when he hit the
wall.”

“I guess. He’s probably never coming back to school
anyway,” Scott said. Then a grin slid across his face that told Red
what was coming before his brother said it. “So, Alley can call you
Super Crip?”

“No.”

“But she did,” Scott pushed.

“One and done,” Red said sternly.

Scott laughed. “Why do you hate it so much?”

“What?”

“You know, the name? Super Crip?”

“I hate the word
cripple,
” Red said, throwing
the ball back.

“I thought you hated the nicey-nice names they try to
use for you guys, like
handicapable
and whatever.”

“I do. That one’s just stupid. Sounds like we should
all be wearing capes on our backs.”

“That’s what we should get you,” Scott teased,
tossing the ball to his brother.

“Funny,” Red said. “If I had to change into tights
and a cape first, you’d still be trying to talk Chuck out of
shooting.”

“But you’d look so cute. C’mon, throw hard.”

“I’m throwing harder than I ever have,” Red said,
throwing the ball back. “I’ve been using Dad’s hand grip thing. The
thing you squeeze for your forearm. And I was going to ask you to
help me set up the weight bench this weekend.”

“Why?”

“Uh, to lift weights.”

“Uh, you can blow walls off buildings,” Scott said.
“Why do you want to lift weights?”

“I think lifting could actually help me learn how to
use it,” Red said, not mentioning that the doctor all but suggested
the idea.

“‘Learn how to use it?’” Scott repeated. “What the
hell are you talking about? I think you got it down pretty well.
Just ask Chuck.”

“Yeah, I’ll pass,” he said. “I’m talking about using
it for myself. You know, doing everyday things. Controlling my
movements.” He paused. “That’s gotta be the real point of it, ya
know? The push. The wave. Whatever you want to call it.”

“Call it, ‘The wave,’” Scott said. “It sounds
better.”

“Okay, not helping.”

“Not really trying.”

Red laughed. “Anyway . . . I
want
to start
lifting. I think I can use it to get better. I mean, improve. If I
use it to control the weights as I lift, you know? Maybe I could
focus on my form more. Get better results.”

Scott didn’t know what to say.

“Guess that sounds dumb,” Red said, “but it’s like
there’s still me, apart from the wave.”

“No, it doesn’t sound dumb,” Scott said. “It’s the
whole point of the treatments, isn’t it? The real point? To reduce
the effects of the cerebral palsy?”

Red nodded. “I still want to do things the same way
I’ve always wanted to,” he said. Then he smiled. “You know, like be
able to tackle you, or run faster than

you . . .”

“Ne-e-ever gonna happen,” Scott teased.

“. . . or smack you around.”

“You wish.”

“Or,” Red said, gripping the ball with both hands as
he crouched and cocked his arm toward the sky, “throw harder than
you.” He gave the ball a hard push with the wave, sending it
catapulting skyward.

They both laughed as the ball soared so high it
looked like a dot.

“Oh!”

Red and Scott both yelled simultaneously, putting
their hands up in front of them as if not wanting to see the
result. A bird appeared to crash into the ball as it returned to
sight in its just-beginning-to-be-alarming rate of descent. Stunned
silence followed as the ball and the bird vanished. Finally, they
heard some leaves rustling and saw a young man appear from behind
the trees at the edge of the main part of Mr. Taylor’s yard.

“Nice throw,” the guy said, cradling the ball with
both hands against his stomach, which was noticeably sizeable for
his height.

The brothers were speechless for a moment.
Hesitantly, Scott asked, “Did you just . . . ?” The question seemed
too absurd to complete.

“Catch it?” the stranger said, completing the
question for him. “Yeah. Well, sort of let it get into my gut.” He
looked at Red. “Sort of like you’ve been doing.”

He seemed to flip the ball to Red, though his hands
hardly moved. Catching the ball in his gut, Red never took his eyes
off the stranger. As he moved closer to them, almost gliding as his
feet merely dangled through the blades of grass, Red knew for the
first time that he wasn’t alone.

“Didn’t think you were Scheinberg’s only sufferer,
did you?” he said, continuing to move toward Red. His chubby face,
hands by his side, even his dangling feet, were strangely familiar.
Red had several friends with muscular dystrophy. Finally, the guy
laughed as if the funniest joke ever had just been told. “I’m just
screwing with ya, man. I heard ya talking about
handicapable.
Hate that stuff, too.
Sufferer
is my
pet peeve. Hear it on the news all the time.”

Red finally started to get over the shock of his
arrival. “Something about
cripple
just grinds me,” he said.
“There’s a tone to it I just don’t like.”

“I hear ya,” the guy said.

Feeling more comfortable speaking to the stranger,
Red added, “But the biggest thing is it lets people say stuff like,
‘He’s
a
cripple.’” He shook his head. “The hell with that.
I’m not my disability. Other words don’t really work that way. No
one would say, ‘He’s
a
disability’ or ‘You’re
a
handicap.’”

“I’m with ya,” the guy said. “But I just say, screw
it. Own it. That’s why we call ourselves The Legion of Sufferers.”
Again, a feverish laugh burst out of him.

“We?” Red asked. Now that he had a minute to look at
him, Red guessed the guy was really only a couple years older than
Scott.

“Hell, yeah, man,” the guy said. “There’s about seven
of us. Eight, now, I guess.” He opened his hand as his arm slowly
extended. “Brad, by the way. Brad Stone.”

“Red O’Ryan.” He took Brad’s hand, which offered no
pressure in return.

“Oh, we know who you are,” Brad said. “I saw you up
on Scheinberg’s bulletin board. That night I heard all the news
about the thing at your school. Seems you’re the star of the
group.”

Red raised his eyebrows and looked up to the sky. “It
doesn’t look like it to me,” he said. “I certainly can’t do that.
You fly here from . . . ?”

“Home?” Brad said. “Not straight through, no. I live
in Allentown.”

“Red can’t find his way around the block,” Scott
joked, walking over to them.

“Ignore him,” Red said.

Brad smiled. “You seem to be using the power just
fine,” he said. “And from what I hear it sounds like you got
Scheinberg’s ‘use it in good ways’ thing down. He’ll love that.”
Brad paused and shook his head. “Can’t say I’m into all that
stuff.”

“I really just reacted a couple times,” Red said,
trying to brush off any notion that he’d done anything noble. “Some
crazy things happened, I guess. Trust me, my life is never this
exciting.” After a second he half nodded, half twisted toward his
brother. “And if he wasn’t in that room with some guy who was
really looking to get at me, I don’t know that I would’ve tried to
help.”

Looking at Scott, Brad smiled. “So humble,” he said.
“He probably could have killed the guy at least a couple times,
right? Left him in the burning room?”

Scott nodded.

Turning back to Red, Brad said, “And we heard about
the little girl. One of the guys caught it in a local paper near
York.” Before Red could respond, Brad continued. “It’s okay.
Nothing wrong with being a good guy. Hell, we need one.”