Luminosity - The Beginning - 2. Chapter 2

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"That was excellent. It will become more comfortable in time."

Henry was stunned. After several seconds, He exclaimed," What do you mean? What just happened!"

Tomas explained," Henry, you are changing, and I am here to guide you during the transition."

**

Henry stood rooted to the trail, his chest heaving, his mind reeling from Tomas’s words: ‘You’re changing, Henry. I’m here to help you with the transition.’ Those words hit like a punch. Who was this boy, radiating a calm intensity that felt almost unnatural? What kind of change was he talking about? Henry’s thoughts spiraled. ‘Am I a freak? No one asked if I wanted this.’

“Leave me alone,” Henry shouted, his voice cracking with panic. “I didn’t ask for your help, and I don’t want to change.”

Tomas’s face softened, a shadow of sadness crossing it. After a long pause, he said, “You’re going to change whether I’m here or not. It never goes well for off-plainers who face it alone. You’ll need help.”

The words were gibberish. ‘Solo off-plainers?’ Henry’s heart raced, panic surging. “I don’t want anyone’s help!” he yelled, his voice echoing through the quiet hills.

Tomas hesitated, his gaze steady but heavy with regret. “I’ll leave you alone if that’s what you really want.”

“It is what I want. Just leave me alone.”

Tomas nodded slowly, his shoulders slumping. He turned and walked down the trail, his footsteps soft against the earth. Henry watched him go, a knot tightening in his chest, a mix of relief and guilt twisting inside him. He’d pushed away the one person who seemed to understand what was happening, and now he felt the weight of that choice.

After a moment, Henry turned, legs unsteady, and began to follow Tomas at a distance, keeping him just in sight. He didn’t know why—fear, curiosity, or something else—but he couldn’t let Tomas vanish entirely. The trail stretched ahead, the faint rustle of leaves underfoot the only sound. Then, something shifted. Tomas’s form began to glow, a faint shimmer at first, growing brighter until Henry shielded his face from the searing light. A burst of illumination, sharp and tangible, hit him like a gust of wind, knocking him backward. He stumbled, regaining his balance as his vision cleared. The trail was empty. Tomas was gone.

Henry stared, breath shallow, the air heavy with the scent of salt from the nearby coast. Tomas’s disappearance was proof—something incomprehensible was happening, and Henry was part of it. A hollow ache settled in his chest, laced with regret and foreboding. He didn’t understand what was happening to his body, but he knew he was different. This boy, for reasons Henry couldn’t grasp, had offered to guide him, and Henry had rejected him. Now, the one person who could help was gone.

He had to find Tomas. He had to regain his trust, whatever it took.

The trailhead near Woodside Preparatory Academy’s campus was a mile and a half away. Henry walked back, legs wobbly, the weight of the moment pressing down. Back at his dorm, he showered quickly, the hot water doing little to calm his racing thoughts. He rushed to the dining hall, hoping to spot Tomas among the crowd. Settling at his usual table with the ignored kids, he fixed his gaze on the entrance, scanning every face. The two-hour dinner period passed, the clatter of trays and chatter fading into noise, but Tomas didn’t appear. Henry’s stomach twisted. Was Tomas a boarding student or a day student? The uncertainty gnawed at him.

The “cool kids” seemed to know Tomas best, their easy camaraderie with him a stark contrast to Henry’s isolation. Approaching them felt like walking into a trap, but he had no choice. Jake Packard, a “cool kid” in Henry’s history class, was his best shot. Steeling himself for a dismissive rebuff, Henry caught Jake at the dining hall door.

“I’m trying to find Tomas,” Henry said, voice tight. “Do you know where he is?”

Jake shrugged, relaxed. “Haven’t seen him since fourth period algebra. Maybe he’s at the dorm. I’m heading there if you want to come.”

Henry nodded, surprised by Jake’s easy tone. As they walked across campus, the cool evening air carrying a hint of pine, Jake glanced at him. “You and Tomas are on the cross-country team, right?”

“Yeah,” Henry said, caught off guard. “How’d you know?”

“Tomas mentioned you a few times. Says you’re a solid runner. I know we have history together, but I’m surprised I haven’t seen you around more.”

Henry blinked. Tomas had talked about him? To a “cool kid”? “We’ve only run together a couple times,” he said. “They were good workouts.”

They reached the dorm, climbing to the second floor. Passing Jamie Thiele, another “cool kid,” Jamie called out, “Hey, Jake. Hey, Henry.” Henry froze, returning the greeting awkwardly. Jamie knew his name? Maybe the “cool kids” weren’t all as untouchable as he’d thought.

“This is my room,” Jake said, stopping at a door. “Tomas is two doors down. After you’re done, why don’t you and Tomas swing by? I’ve got a question about tomorrow’s history assignment. My notes are a mess, and Dearborn’s lectures are brutal.”

“Okay,” Henry said, mind racing. “I’ll check on Tomas.”

Standing before Tomas’s door, Henry’s nerves tightened. What could he say? Ignore the argument, or beg for forgiveness? He settled on something in between. He knocked. No answer. He knocked again, louder. Silence. Heart pounding, he turned the knob. The door was unlocked. It swung open, revealing an empty room—no sheets, no clothes, no towels. Henry’s chest tightened. No one lived here. Tomas was gone.

He returned to Jake’s room, voice hollow. “His room’s empty. He’s left the school.”

Jake frowned, sensing Henry’s distress. “That’s weird. Maybe he went home.”

Henry’s hope flickered. “Do you know where he lives?”

“I think he’s from SoCal, but I’m not sure why I think that. He doesn’t talk about himself.”

“I need to find him,” Henry said, desperation creeping in. “What should I do?”

Jake shrugged. “Maybe the admin office has his contact info.”

The next morning, Henry skipped breakfast and stationed himself outside the administration building, waiting for Ms. Crawford, the dean of admissions. The campus was quiet, early light casting long shadows across the lawns. When Ms. Crawford arrived, she invited him into her office, her fingers tapping the keyboard as she accessed the database.

“I’m sorry, Henry,” she said gently. “Tomas’s contact information is confidential. I can’t share it.”

Henry’s shoulders slumped. Seeing his disappointment, she added, “I can tell you this. He was recommended by a wealthy alumnus. We don’t know much about him—no academic records, no previous schools. We tested him, and his results were extraordinary. The aptitude tests couldn’t measure his potential. That’s all I can say.”

Dejected, Henry left and trudged to his dorm. He sank onto his bed, staring at the ceiling. Tomas was a mystery—a boy who appeared, reshaped the school’s social fabric, and vanished. Henry’s mother’s letters lay on his desk, her words of encouragement a painful reminder of his failure to connect. He felt more alone than ever, the weight of his family’s legacy pressing down. His mother’s warmth, her stories of chasing dreams in a small California town, felt like a distant memory. His father’s expectations—leadership, success—were a constant pressure, a legacy Henry couldn’t escape.

He stopped going to cross-country practice, attending only mandatory classes. Woodside’s campus, with its stained-glass dining hall and oak-paneled lecture rooms, felt like a gilded cage, its traditions of privilege suffocating. A weekly physical education class, required but lax, involved half-hearted games or laps. After a week of absence, Coach O’Brien caught Henry after gym class, clipboard in hand.

“Adams, you’ve been skipping cross-country,” Coach said, his gruff voice softer. “What’s going on?”

“I should’ve told you, Coach,” Henry mumbled. “I’m quitting the team.”

Coach frowned. “I was hard on you about that watch glitch. My bad. I’ve been watching you, and you’ve got potential. Your running log shows solid progress, even with those crazy times. I want you on the ‘A’ squad if you’ll give it another shot.”

“I’ll think about it,” Henry said, voice flat. He missed the trails, the rhythm of his feet, the fleeting freedom. But he was afraid. What if he lost control again, without Tomas to pull him back?

Over the weekend, Henry wrestled with his decision. The trails called, a pull he couldn’t ignore. If he ran with the “A” squad, their pace might anchor him. But what was he controlling? Speed? It was more than that, something tied to that flash in the hills.

On Monday, after classes, Henry returned to the oval track, lacing up his shoes. Coach O’Brien nodded, a rare smile breaking through. “Good to see you, Adams. ‘A’ squad, you’re running the ‘Scrub Trail’ today. Adams is with you.”

The “A” squad, mostly juniors and seniors, towered over Henry, their banter sharp. “Need help tying your shoes, kid?” one jeered. “Tighten your jock strap—you’re with the big boys,” another added. Henry, tried to shrug it off, but the words stung.

The squad set off, Henry trailing at the back. Their warm-up pace was faster than the “C” group’s, but slow to him. The air was fresh, the sun warm on his skin. He expected them to speed up, but miles in, this was their workout pace. The older boys were breathing hard, some gasping, faces flushed. Henry felt nothing—no strain, no fatigue. He could’ve been napping. As some runners fell back, forming a slower pack, they shot him dirty looks. They were pushing to keep up with him, and he wasn’t trying.

Only two boys remained in the main pack, their strides faltering. Henry knew this wasn’t working. He could surge ahead, leave them behind, but explaining that would be impossible. He slowed, stopping by the trail’s edge, bending over as if exhausted. The “A” squad caught up, tossing jibes. “Nice try, kid,” one muttered. Henry didn’t blame them. He’d ruined their workout—and his own.

Five miles from school, walking back would take over an hour. Running would be faster, but “letting himself go” was risky. He started a slow jog, aiming for control. His watch showed a 5:39 pace—too fast. He’d catch the squad soon. Slowing down was harder than expected; his body craved speed. Nearing the trailhead, he saw the squad ahead. He stopped, stepping into the trees. After a few minutes, he crept to the trailhead, peering at the track.

The “B” and “C” squads, having run the “Forest Loop,” were with the “A” squad and Coach by the bleachers. Henry slipped in quietly, avoiding notice. A few teammates glared, but most ignored him.

Showering back at the dorm, Henry reflected. Pacing with the “A” squad wasn’t working. His body wouldn’t run that slowly, but the alternative—embracing his speed—terrified him. He needed Tomas. Without him, Henry felt unmoored.

The next afternoon, Henry returned to practice, nerves tight. A few teammates nodded, assuming he’d learned his lesson. He’d revert to his “C” squad strategy—drop back and run his own route, praying he could keep his pace in check. Coach O’Brien pulled him aside. “Adams, I checked your log from yesterday. You ran hot, burned out the team, but it shook them up. Good job. Funny thing—your heart rate slowed as you sped up. Never seen a watch glitch like that. Control your effort. The first meet’s in two weeks—save the fireworks for then.”

The “A” squad was assigned the “Double Forest Loop,” an eight-mile run. Groans rose—yesterday’s workout had left them sore. Coach, a “no pain, no gain” advocate, ignored them. Off they went, Henry trailing by ten yards. At the “Ridge Trail” turnoff, he broke away, alone.

He changed his mantra to *control the run*. *Control the run, control the run.* But his pace surged, as if it had a will of its own. The “Ridge Trail’s” switchbacks felt too dangerous at this speed. He veered onto the state park trail toward the coast, the one he and Tomas had run. The air was damp with salt, the ocean’s murmur faint. He listened for Tomas’s footsteps, but he was alone.

*Control the run, control the run.* Speed felt good—too good. His body needed it. Faster and faster, the trail blurring. It was like jerking off, that same build-up to a release, but stronger, deeper. As an early teen, he had little else to compare it to, but the sensation was overwhelming, a climax rising within him. Faster, faster, faster—something was happening, something was coming.