The Boy With the Spider Face

CHAPTER 1

Morning sun filtered through shear curtains and across carpet to reflect off the mirror. The boy squinted his human eyes, while the six surrounding arachnid lenses gave little reaction. Detecting light wasn’t their strong suit. But the jointed appendages by his mouth (or pedipalps, as Mr. Drake, the science teacher, taught him) were sensitive enough to detect dust motes riding the September breeze through the cracked window.

It sucks, having feelers, Jeff thought, and used his hands to fan away minute particles traveling through the air. Why can’t I be normal like Mom and Dad?

He pulled blue jeans from a faux wooden dresser and stuck his finger through a hole in the knee he hadn’t noticed before. “Great.” He yanked a loose thread. “Haven’t even had these a month.” That asshole could have at least waited until I was off the gravel before pushing me down.

Jeff combed through what little hair he had on his legs, checking for bruising and scratches in case they needed concealing. There were no marks on his knees where they’d hit the ground. The scuffs on his elbows had been easy to cover with a long-sleeve shirt. His palms had taken most of the abuse, not his knuckles; a blessing, as it was less noticeable. Splitting his tongue had been the most unpleasant part, and for the first time, he’d hated that the inside of his mouth was the same as other humans. A true arachnid wouldn’t have had a tongue to bite.

“Honey! Breakfast!” His mom’s voice carried up the stairway. “Hurry, before it gets cold.” The smokiness of cured pork floated through his room on cue.

His stomach gurgled. “Down in a second.”

After pulling on jeans, he stepped into the closet, smiling as he sorted through the clothing. The textiles, the patterns—they made him feel more human, which he was, except above the neck. As he caressed the different fabrics on hangers, he paused on a purple silk button-up at the end of the rod. The material glided between his fingers.

The last time I wore it, I came home with a shiner. A plain, folded gray t-shirt on one of the shelves caught his eye. I’d blend in more wearing that. He brushed against the silk. To hell with ‘em. He stripped the hanger and slid his arms through the elegant top, relishing the way the material wrapped his skin. After buttoning down, he pulled dress socks over his feet, stepped into a pair of suede loafers and dashed downstairs.

Kevin Pritchet moved to the side, dodging his son’s boisterous entrance but splashing coffee across his blue polo shirt.

“Ouch!” He set his mug on the dining table and shook droplets of the steaming liquid from his hand before pulling out a chair. “Slow down, Jeff. Now I have to change.” His salt-and-pepper hair fell out of place as he gave a disapproving head shake. He ran his fingers through it to comb it back. “What’s the rush?”

“Sorry, Dad.” Jeff took the seat opposite his father and scooted to the edge of the table. “I don’t want to miss the bus again. I hate walking into class late.”

“Did you brush yet?” Kevin scraped one of Jeff’s fangs with a chewed, but clean, fingernail.

“Don’t touch!” He swatted him and turned away. “I haven’t eaten yet. And I only get food stuck in the teeth in my mouth, not my chelicerae.”

“Sounds like you’ve been paying attention in science class.” Kevin unrolled a napkin and dabbed coffee from his shirt. “You usually just call them your fangs. And there’s no rule against brushing before you eat.”

“It makes the food taste gross.” Jeff spread his napkin across his lap.

“Kevin.” His mom shooed her husband. “He’s fifteen, not an infant. He can manage personal hygiene. She slid a plate of eggs and bacon to Jeff. The sunny, peppered yolks jiggled like two jellyfish without tentacles.

“Thanks, Mom.”

She went to grab juice. The napkin slipped off Jeff’s knees and fluttered to the ground. He maneuvered sideways and reached down for it.

“What happened to your new jeans?” His mother’s voice rose an octave.

“Oh,” he said, re-situating himself. “I guess they tore in the wash.” He tried to avoid her scrutinizing stare, which was no simple task considering the number of eyes he had.

“Is that boy picking on you again?” The pitcher of orange juice sloshed when it hit the table. She folded her arms across her chest. “I’ve got half a mind to go down to that school this morning and—”

“Lori.” Kevin unfolded the sports section of the daily paper and crossed his legs. “If the boy says they tore in the wash, then that’s what happened. Let him be.”

She ignored him and bit the tip of her lip. “Honey,” she said to Jeff, “you know you can talk to us if you’re having problems, right?”

“Mom! I know, okay?” Jeff popped his eggs with his fork and watched them ooze across the plate. “Like Dad said, they got torn in the washing machine.”

“You said it first.” Kevin glanced over the edge of the paper, and Jeff shot him a look. “But you might need to go change. Don’t want the neighbors seeing you in torn clothes, do you?”

The hole was hardly noticeable to Jeff. “Who cares what they think?”

A dish breaking in the sink made Jeff jump and bang his knee. He looked at Lori, who stared in the basin, and his feelers shifted.

Kevin caught his attention. “Jeff, go change your jeans, please.” He nodded toward the stairway.

“But dad—”

“Now.” Kevin’s hand twitched like he was about to raise it. Instead, he flashed his stark white teeth and winked. “Please.”

Jeff blinked at his mother, who gave him a nod. A flawless smile graced her face.

“Yeah, okay.” He excused himself, thankful to have a reason to leave.

What was that about? he wondered upstairs as he slipped into a fresh pair of jeans. They seem a little on edge this morning. After another check in the mirror, he returned to the kitchen.

Lori removed a vase of fresh flowers from the dining area and set them on the counter to clear more space. The petals soaked in morning sun through the window, making their yellow more brilliant.

Jeff stuck out his leg to show there was no hole.

“Much better!” Lori brought her hands together. “I’ll sew your other pair while you’re at school.” She pointed for Jeff to sit, then she spread a new napkin over his lap. “I can’t stand that bully!” She squeezed her eyes and shook her head. “What kind of mother raises a son like that? Imagine what people must think!”

“Lori . . . that’s enough. You’re getting worked up.” The rustling of the newspaper muted Kevin’s words.

“Mom, I’m fine, okay? Everything’s fine.” Jeff pushed back his chair.

“Where are you going? You haven’t finished your breakfast!” Lori stepped aside, and Jeff grabbed his backpack from the base of the stairs.

“The bus will be here any minute.” He slung a strap across his shoulder. “And I’m not hungry anymore.”

“Well, see, now you’re going to prove me wrong about maintaining your own hygiene.” His mom followed him to the door. “You didn’t brush!”

The fall air hit Jeff when he stepped outside, and his feelers responded to the sudden change in temperature. “Ugh, I hate these things!” He touched one, then stomped toward the curb. “I wish I could cut them off!”

“Don’t say that.” Lori crossed her arms and shook her head. “They make you special.”

“Well, maybe I hate being special!”

A beat-up soccer ball belonging to the twin boys across the street rested on the Pritchets’ lawn. Jeff kicked it, and a white Persian cat he’d seen in the neighborhood as of late, jumped from the hedges and ran around the side of the house.

Damn it! His face fell. The cat had let him pet it a few times, and he regretted scaring off an ally. Now I’ve frightened the one animal that hasn’t freaked out when I’m near it. “Sorry, buddy.” The cat hopped the back fence and disappeared.

His dad stood at the door. “Remember son, you won’t get in trouble for fighting if it’s self-defense. Better than people thinking you’re a coward.”

“Oh my god!” Jeff called over his shoulder. “Please leave me alone.”

The bus stopped next to the curb, and the door opened.

“Have a good day, sweetheart!” Lori waved from the doorstep.

Kevin frowned. “Lori, don’t call him sweetheart around the other kids. He catches enough harassment as it is with his . . . special qualities.”

The bus door closed, and Jeff watched his parents go inside, praying no one heard his mother.

“Good morning, Ms. Sholes.” Jeff nodded at the bus driver, who jerked her head toward the back.

“Can’t take off till you’re in a seat,” said the woman. The look on her face showed she’d been chauffeuring students back and forth longer than she cared to.

“Sit down, sweetheart!” The voice came from somewhere in the middle, but whoever spoke kept a low profile to avoid getting caught.

Thanks, Mom. Like I don’t have enough problems to deal with already. Jeff hung his head and moved down the aisle, taking an empty seat in the rear.

“Freak!” another student yelled, setting off a chain of laughter.

“That’s enough. Settle down.” Ms. Sholes’ words carried about as much weight as the empty Styrofoam coffee cup next to her seat.

Up front, another girl spoke. “Don’t spiders usually ride on the windshield?”

As more laughter rang throughout the bus, Ms. Sholes threw the gear into drive. Jeff caught her eye in the rearview mirror and waited for her to yell at the student. Instead, the corners of her eyes lifted with a grin as they pulled away.

Just another day. He leaned his head against the window.