About Blaise

Fifteen can be a tender age. Or not.

“So tell me. Why do you think your classmates are afraid of you?”

The balding school psychologist peered down a rather prominent nose through wire-rimmed spectacles. The young man of fifteen seated before him slowly raised his eyes until his stare met the older man's, straight-on.

“I dunno.”

“Well, Blaise, that's why you're here. Some of your teachers are very concerned. They say you're a loner, that you don't participate in class unless you're pressed, that you don't have any involvement with school activities, and you don't seem to have many friends. With all of the problems of late with school violence, these are things we're concerned about. I'm hearing that people avoid you because they're afraid. You don't exactly look like a bully, so tell me, what are they afraid of?”

The young man lowered his gaze again and looked at his shoes. “I can't imagine. I've never hurt anyone. I wouldn't even think of it.”

A minute of silence reigned. The psychologist frowned and tried to imagine what it could be that he wasn't being told. This kid was a bit on the skinny side, wore glasses, dressed conservatively and came to school with his straight black hair neatly combed. If anything, he appeared to be almost the opposite of tough. Yet the psychologist himself had seen older, physically larger students getting out of this young man's way as he walked through the hallway. When questioned, none of them seemed to know why they had done so. All except for one, an oversized, obnoxious lad known to all as just “Tramp.” Tramp was a known bully, and his response to the question was only that Blaise was “weird.”

He decided to press this kid until he got something out of him. Maybe he'd have to make him angry. Whatever it took. The only thing he knew for sure, was there was nothing new under the sun. These kids all believed they were different from their parents; they were not. Today's problems were all because no one had any restraint. People today were without values, and that just wouldn't work. End of story.

“So Blaise, do you know Tramp?”

Without looking up, Blaise smiled slightly. “Sure, everyone knows Tramp.”

“Is he a friend of yours?”

“Nope. Tramp doesn't have any friends at all. That's the only thing he and I have in common. No friends here.”

“How can that be good, Blaise? Don't you want any friends? Don't you mind being alone?”

Blaise raised his eyes again. “When someone wants to be my friend, he'll be decent to me. That will be good. Hasn't happened here yet.”

“Spill it, Blaise, what do you do when someone isn't decent to you? Do you threaten him? Or her?”

The look on Blaise's face seemed to belong to someone much older than he was. It was a combination of chagrin and mild annoyance. “You won't believe a thing I say, that's obvious.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I know you heard me say I've never hurt anyone, and that I wouldn't even think of it. If you threaten someone, you've definitely thought of hurting them, now, haven't you? Therefore, you didn't believe me. So screw it. Think whatever you want. Say whatever you want. Sooner or later, you're gonna threaten me.”

“Oh, no I'm not. But now maybe we're getting somewhere. You think people are out to get you?”

“Ah, hell, I don't know. I don't even care. I'm not gonna let anyone hurt me.”

“And how, pray tell, will you stop someone like Tramp if he decides to hurt you?”

Blaise finally smiled. “He already tried to.”

“And what did you do?”

“I just looked at him.”

“That's it? Just looked at him?”

“That's it.”

“And it stopped him?”

“Cold.”

The psychologist paused, his brow wrinkled a bit more than usual, and he leaned forward.

“Let me see the look you gave him.”

Blaise laughed softly. “Nah.”

“No, I mean it! If you've got a secret weapon in your 'look', I want to know about it. Go ahead! Show me!”

Blaise was already looking at the psychologist, and as he did, his smile slowly diminished, until it had become no more than a slightly amused look with the corners of his mouth turned up. To the older man, it looked a bit like insolence. After a moment, the boy spoke. “That was it. Can I go?”

The psychologist sat back hard in his swivel chair. “No. Not until you tell me why your classmates are afraid of you.”

“Okay. They're afraid of me because they don't understand.”

“Don't understand what?”

“Much of anything, really. But what scares them is they don't know why they can't take a poke at me. Just about everybody's tried it. If you try it, you'll see.”

“Now you know I can't do that! You're a student, it'd mean my job! And you're a minor, I'd go to jail! But you're starting to piss me off!” The psychologist slowly rose from his chair. “Keep it up, and maybe I will, anyway!”

“See? Told you. It took a while, but you threatened me.”

The psychologist sat down quickly. “Now you know I didn't mean it. I wanted to see a reaction from you. Go on, get back to class. When you're ready to talk, though, I'll be here. Anything goes wrong, anything at all, my door is open and I want to see you. Come to me! I'll be here.”

Blaise got up immediately and headed for the door. Then he stopped in the doorway and looked back at the psychologist. “Oh, Doc? You want to know the truth?”

The psychologist leaned back in his chair and meshed his fingers together across his stomach. “You know I do.”

The boy smiled. “Telekinesis.” Then he exited quickly, into the hallway.

“Smart-ass.” The psychologist opened a folder and began adding to his notes.

Later that afternoon, Blaise made his way through the city, entering the high-rise district. Here he actually did appear to have some friends, although all of them were older than he was. It was an observation made by a nosy psychologist, who had noted that Blaise, whose home address was far from the high school, had not boarded a bus. Without even going back to lock his office, he had set out on foot behind the young man, keeping his distance.

And his friends were seedy people, it seemed. Blaise ambled easily along the sidewalk, holding two fingers up to acknowledge an old woman who was pushing a shopping cart, her small, shaggy terrier standing in the child seat, the cart full of plastic bags and collected cans. Bent over and gray as an old black-and white photograph, she smiled up at him as he walked past. A disheveled black man, possibly in his late twenties, leaned against the front window of a pawn shop. His clothes didn't match. He raised a hand and smiled in recognition as Blaise passed, and nodded. Then finally, a cop, walking a beat, nodded to Blaise as he walked by, obviously pleased to see him. Now, this was an anomaly! The kid wasn't even close to his home address, yet. How was it this young man couldn't make friends at school? Blaise turned the corner and kept walking. The psychologist nearly gave it up, but decided to follow just a bit further.

Blaise had covered about two-thirds of the next block when it became apparent that there was some excitement up ahead. People were gathered in chattering groups, some of them pointing skyward. The psychologist looked up, and gasped. A jumper! Just two buildings away, and the boy was nearly beneath the man, who was wearing a suit and was standing on a ledge, perhaps twelve stories above the street.

With the true sense of responsibility of a teacher, the aging psychologist hurried to catch his student, to get him out of harm's way. But wait. Blaise had seen, and was now backing up, his hands on top of his head. Noting that some people were already using their cellphones to report this, the psychologist stopped and observed. Blaise was still stepping backward, moving closer to him. No matter. He found himself wondering if he should have been working somewhere else in the public sector, if he might have have helped to prevent things like this from happening.

But the jumper wasn't waiting for any negotiator, or help of any kind. He leaped, his suit jacket fluttered out in the breeze, his legs did a death-walk in mid-air, his arms flailed. The small crowd gasped as one, and several women screamed. People cleared away from the area where the jumper would hit. What a terrible, traumatic thing for a fifteen-year-old to witness! Blaise had stopped moving, and seemed to be watching intently. The psychologist decided not to. He turned his back and looked at the concrete, waiting for the sickening sound of a body smacking against the hard surface.

It was a sound that never came. In fact, the stricken silence from the crowd forced him to turn and look, and he did so just in time to see Blaise moving toward the probable point of impact. The psychologist hurried toward him., and poked his head through a circle of people who now surrounded a prone figure, a man in a suit on hands and knees, gasping for breath. Blaise had knelt beside him and had placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Please don't try that again, or you'll succeed! Next time, I won't be here!” He stood, turned and began to walk away, nearly colliding with the school psychologist, who was trying to wrap his mind around...whatever had happened. Blaise glared at him, and scowled.

“You!” He paused. “Not a damned word, do you hear me? Or at long last, I will kick somebody's ass! And it will be yours!” The word “yours” seemed to hit him like a shockwave. He was beyond startled, and simply stood there as the boy stalked past. Approaching sirens could be heard.

A woman grabbed his shoulder. “Do you know that kid? Did he do that?”

“Do what?” he replied. “I wasn't watching!”

Her eyes wide, she said, “The jumper came down...like he was on an elevator!”

The disheveled black man was coming their way, walking beside the beat cop. As he approached, he flashed a grin and cried loudly, “Ahright Blaise!”

The two exchanged high-fives.

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