The Superpower

“I can do this, I know I can.”

Those were the magical words, the words that unleashed Rory’s superpower. Once he uttered those, he truly could do anything he set his mind to.

Rory doesn’t remember when he got his marvelous gift, this wondrous superpower. He’s had it for as long as he can remember. It was there for him the first time he tried to climb the tallest tree in the yard, on a dare from his cousin. Rory was six, his cousin, Josh, ten. Rory had watched with awe as Josh scrambled into the tree and began ascending through the branches. Soon he was calling down from aloft, daring his little cousin to come up after him. Whereas Josh could already reach up to grab the lowest branch to haul himself up, Rory’s fingertips did not even graze the branch, even with his biggest jump.

But Rory would not be defeated, just because he couldn’t get up the same way Josh did.

Rory planted his feet, clenched his small fists, and took a deep breath. He closed his eyes, gathering strength, and whispered to himself, “I can do this, I know I can.” Rory opened his eyes, crouched low like a tiger ready to pounce, and launched himself forward and upwards. With an audible “oomph” he leapt into the air, his arms stretched out high above his head, his short blond hair plastered to his forehead, his eyes focused on the branch just beyond his reach. The rough bark scraped his palms as his fingertips clasped onto the branch. His small feet found the trunk of the tree and his sneakers scrabbled against the bark, then planted themselves in a small cleft. Rory bent his knees slightly, and then pushed off with his toes, propelling himself with enough force to wrap his scrawny arm up and over the branch. In a matter of minutes, Rory’s slight frame was making its way through the branches, while his cousin looked on in surprise and admiration.

“Hey, that was pretty cool, little cuz,” Josh said, once Rory was nestled comfortably in the crook of a branch at the top of the tree. Rory grinned with pride, the gap where his front teeth were missing on display while his hazel eyes danced with pleasure.

The superpower was there when Rory was eight, learning to ride his bike without training wheels. His limbs had lengthened, his hair grown out, his teeth grown in. He felt unsteady as he straddled the new bike, a birthday present from his grandpa. The red and yellow flames painted on the frame made him feel like a speed racer, and Rory wanted to be able to take off full throttle. He sat nimbly on the black seat, surveying the driveway, taking in the gentle slope downward to the empty street.

“Well, you going to give it a try?” his grandfather asked.

Rory gripped the handle bars tightly, feeling the mottled cylinders of rubber etching their pattern into his palms. He was nervous; he knew what might happen if he got going fast and then fell. He was remembering how Josh had wiped out on his bike at the stunt park last year and needed stitches in his chin. Rory didn’t like the idea of getting stitches. Or bleeding. Or breaking bones. He started to imagine himself careening down the driveway and wobbling into the street, only to crash into the stone mailbox on the other side. His shoulders slumped as his resolve faltered.

“Nah, he’s chicken,” his five-year-old sister, Trudy, called from the porch steps. Rory glanced her way and saw her pigtails sticking straight out to the sides of her head and her tongue sticking straight out at him.

He shot his tongue back out at her and straightened his shoulders.

Rory turned his attention back to the driveway. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and tapped his right shoe on the pedal as he leaned on his left leg, foot still planted firmly on the ground. He lifted his fingers off the grip, flexed them slightly, and then tightened his grasp on the handles again with resolve.

As he exhaled slowly, he breathed to himself, “I can do this, I know I can.” He opened his eyes and pressed his right foot down on the pedal. As the bike began to lurch forward, his left foot at first swung wildly out behind him, but then found it’s place firmly on the waiting pedal. Rory’s attention focused on a spot at the end of the driveway, and he gathered speed as his feet rotated up and down, up and down. As he neared the end of the driveway, he shifted his focus to the left, scanning for cars or obstacles, and smoothly swung his new bike in a wide arc onto the street. Within minutes, he was returning from his first bike foray around the block, exhilarated by his new-found freedom.

“Look at that, you’re a pro already!” his grandfather beamed.

His superpower was also there the first time he participated in the school spelling bee. He was eleven, still navigating the ins and outs of middle school as one of the youngest and smallest kids in his class. His English teacher had encouraged all students in the class to participate. Rory had always been a good speller, but this competition brought things to a new level.

The day of the bee, Rory was nervous. He had been studying the word list, of course, but the idea of messing up in front of an auditorium full of people made him feel slightly sick. With trepidation, he made his way to school and eventually found himself seated on stage with the other twenty-seven participants.

Some of the kids looked scared, even more so than he felt. Other kids looked downright smug, as if they already assumed they would take the prize. Rory’s palms were slick, and beads of sweat tickled the ends of his dark blonde hair at the nape of his neck. He looked out and saw his parents and Trudy in the audience, along with his grandfather. Rory gave them a wan smile and a timid wave.

The principal took the stage and introduced each of the participants by name. Rory could hear a brief surge of cheering from the direction of his family as he was introduced.

Then his English teacher took the pronouncers’ seat and the bee began.

The first rounds were easy. They were words that Rory had learned in elementary school. Nevertheless, several students went out with misspellings, either through genuine error or by nervous blanking. After round four, there were twenty-one students left, including Rory.

The words began to get more difficult but Rory, though nervous, did not falter. Round after round after round, he continued to spell each of his words correctly in a clear, though slightly wavering, voice.

At the end of round sixteen, there were three students left - Rory and two eighth-graders. The teacher had gone deep into the word list, and many of the words were not even familiar to the adults in the audience.

The student on the far left, a slender, slightly awkward eighth-grader named Jeff who had not yet grown comfortable in his tall frame, stood for his word. “The word is parietal. Adjective. Relating to or forming the wall of a body part, organ, or cavity.” The teacher announced in a steady voice, followed by the sentence using the word in context.

Jeff breathed a small sigh of relief and began spelling. “P-A-R-I-T-A-E-L, parietal,” he said confidently.

“Incorrect,” came the response from the judge. Jeff looked surprised and then embarrassment swept over his face. His chin quivered momentarily as he went back to his chair, shoulders hunched over his gawky frame and head hung low.

Then it was Isaiah’s turn. He had been seated between Jeff and Rory, and a quick glimmer of hope had passed over his face when Jeff had misspelled his word. Isaiah stood and stepped forward.

“The word is extemporaneous. Adjective. Carried out or performed with little or no preparation; impromptu. The piano student gave an extemporaneous recital during the party.” There was a pause, and then Isaiah let out a breath that blew his dark hair away from his face.

“Extemporaneous. E-X-T-E-M-P-O-R-A-N-I-O-U-S. Extemporaneous.”

Rory sucked in his breath. He knew right away the word was wrong. As Isaiah was dismissed, Rory’s insides began to churn. It was his turn. His shot to win this. If he spelled his word correctly, there would be no need for another round. He would be the champion outright. His confidence began to falter as he stood. His knees nearly buckled as he stepped forward. He licked his dry lips and waited.

The pronouncer gave him his word, but Rory’s mind was whirling and the words reached him only as a faint murmur from afar. Rory forced his mind to snap back to attention. “I’m sorry, can you repeat that, please?” he forced himself to ask, his voice nearly cracking with nerves.

“Yes, I can. The word is unconscionable. Adjective. Not restrained by conscience; unscrupulous. The juvenile’s unconscionable behavior alienated all of his friends. Unconscionable,” repeated the pronouncer.

Rory felt his insides churn. He knew the word, but he could not gather his thoughts enough to visualize it in his head the way he normally could. Sweat dripped down his collar and along his forehead. He wiped it from his eyes. As his palm passed over his face, he glanced out at the crowd in the audience. He saw his family sitting forward in their seats, expectantly. His dad’s fist was clenched loosely and poised mid-air, almost as if he was ready to punch the air in victory. Grandpa was grinning keenly.

“Unconscionable. U-N-C-O-N-,“ Rory paused. “Oh god,” he thought silently, “is the next letter ‘c’ or ‘s’? Did I already say ‘s’?” He squeezed his eyes shut as he tried to gather his wits.

He opened his eyes again and looked directly at his mom. She was sporting a strained smile and a fierceness in her eyes, as if willing him from afar to spell the word correctly. His sister was slouched back in her seat, snapping a pink bubble with her bubble gum, already convinced that Rory had messed it up and bored with the whole competition.

Rory closed his eyes again and exhaled. He knew it was time to use his superpower. “I can do this, I know I can,” he thought to himself. Then, a bit more forcefully, he muttered it to himself again, “I can do this, I know I can!”

“Please speak up when spelling,” the pronouncer requested. Rory opened his eyes and focused on the pronouncer with a smile. His insides settled in a calm warmth as he began to utter the letters again from the beginning.

“Unconscionable. U-N-C-O-N-S-C-I-O-N-A-B-L-E-. Unconscionable.”

There was a brief squeak of delight from the direction of his mom before the announcer even declared, “Correct. Congratulations, Rory! You are the Spelling Bee Champion!”

“I really can do anything I put my mind to,” thought Rory. “I love this superpower!” He smiled to himself with satisfaction as his family rushed up to the stage to congratulate him.

Which is why, three years later, it hurt him so much to lose it.

 “Dammit, I can do this. Why can’t I do this?” Rory muttered to himself. He gripped the bat tighter in his gloved hands and steadied his stance straddling the plate, eyeing the pitcher. He squinted as the pitcher’s arm wound overhead and the ball was released, hurtling through the air towards the plate. Rory waited a moment, three, and then swung wildly as the ball nestled itself in the catcher’s mitt with a resounding pop.

Rory dejectedly dragged himself back to the dugout and flung the bat into the corner. He removed his helmet and dashed it against the wall. He dropped himself onto the bench with a defeated sigh.

Fielding tryouts went as poorly. Rory just couldn’t seem to track the little white orb as it sailed in the air towards him. Ball after ball landed on the turf around him, rather than in his glove.

Rory tried harnessing his superpower. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and said to himself, “I can do this. I know I can. What the hell is wrong with me that I can’t do this? I want to make the team!” He opened them instantly at the crack of ball on bat, only to have this one whiz by mere meters from his head. “It’s no use.” He threw his glove on the ground and gave it a half-hearted kick for good measure.

“How’d tryouts go, Rory-hon?” his mom asked at dinner that evening, once the family was seated around the table.

“Well, it should be fun for Ben and Chris.” They were the two best friends that had talked him into trying out in the first place. “They both made the team.” Rory looked at his mom and shrugged, then down at his plate. Tears of disappointment threatened to gather behind his eyes, and he listlessly prodded at the piece of chicken on his plate.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me! I can’t seem to do anything anymore! Everything is so hard now – school is hard, sports are hard, talking to girls is hard. I don’t get it,” he lamented dejectedly, his voice cracking slightly as it had often done lately.

Trudy gave a short huff of a laugh before Mom cut her off sharply with a look.

“Aw, sweetie, it’s OK. You can find some other sport to try out for,” his mom said a bit too cheerily.

“Mom, I’ve tried out for soccer, lacrosse, and basketball already. I didn’t make any of the teams. I suck at sports. I just can’t do them.” Rory excused himself and went to his room without eating his dinner.

A while later, there was a knock on his bedroom door. It opened slowly and Rory’s grandfather peered cautiously around. “OK if I come in?” he asked.

“Yeah, fine.” Rory was laying on his bed, arms akimbo with hands clasped behind his head, staring up at the ceiling.

“So, you’re not cut out to be the next Babe Ruth,” his grandfather said kindly as he pulled a chair from the desk and lowered himself onto it.

“I’m not going to be anything, at this rate. I just can’t do anything anymore,” he told his grandfather. More to himself, he muttered, “I just suck at everything. Even the superpower doesn’t help anymore. It’s so lame.”

Grandpa didn’t respond immediately, and Rory turned to glance at him. Grandpa was smiling sadly. “Ah,” he said after a moment, “you’ve hit the winnowing phase. It’s a tough one.”

“The what?” Rory asked.

“The winnowing phase. You’re old enough now. Yeah, it’s about that time.”

Rory turned on his side to face his grandfather. “What are you talking about?”

“Well, there comes a point in each person’s life where they have to find out what they are about. Not just what they can do, but what they are meant to do. The superpower is special, but it is selective, you know. It can’t do everything, all the time for you. But as you get older, it can help you choose what is worth pursuing.”

“I don’t get it. What’s super about it if it doesn’t work when I need it?”

“That’s just the thing,” Grandpa replied. “When you need it, it’ll be there to call on and get you through. But there will be a lot of things you merely wish to be able to do. There’s not enough super power in the world to be good at everything all the time. It’s time to start deciding what’s important to you and what’s going to make you happy, bring you joy. Does playing baseball bring you joy?”

“No, not really. I only tried out because Chris and Ben were trying out.”

“Ah, as I thought.” Grandpa looked at Rory and smiled. “You find something that brings you joy, and you’ll be amazed at how strong that superpower can be.” Grandpa patted Rory’s arm gently and then pushed himself creakily off the chair.

Rory looked up at his grandfather shuffling to the door. “Thanks, Grandpa. I’ll think about what you said.”

And Rory was true to his word. Grandpa beamed with pride later that fall, as he sat in the auditorium with Rory’s parents and Trudy. They were at the school orchestra concert, watching Rory give a spectacular solo performance on violin.