The day of the ball.
December 8th.
Locke, currently at an amusement park, couldn't help but sneeze.
Gwen, walking beside him, looked over. "Catching a cold again?"
Locke rubbed his nose. "Just an itch."
Gwen nodded, continuing their earlier conversation. "I thought Sue was joking, but she really didn't go to the ball. She actually let her boyfriend invite that girl, Carrie."
Locke shrugged. He had sneezed exactly because Gwen brought up the topic. The reason? Unknown, but it probably had nothing to do with "someone thinking about him" in a romantic sense.
His interest in Carrie was purely because he saw the hope for a class change in her. Although that process had been expensive and left him with a rather "hollow" victory, he had gathered some crucial intel. First, he needed to be in a supernatural state to use the infinite energy. Second, he could bestow powers upon others, creating a Witch.
Gwen sighed. "Anyway, I hope the ball goes smoothly over there."
Locke looked at her. "What makes you say that?"
Gwen glanced ahead at Cindy and Kahn, who were eyeing a shooting gallery to win toys. "Remember Chris at the stadium? The girl who was banned from the ball?"
Locke nodded. The one with Sharp-featured, mean-spirited, and the type to blame everyone else for her own mistakes. She'd even dragged her father to the Principal's office to threaten a discrimination lawsuit. Even Locke had heard that the school stood its ground.
Gwen shook her head. "I know exactly how girls like that think. Even if it's their fault, they'll blame the victim. Once punished, they don't reflect—they just escalate. That's why I hope the dance is actually peaceful."
This was exactly why Gwen had opposed Chris being on the list of potential transfer candidates. Midtown High was a place for learning; they had "strong" personalities, sure, but no one was as malicious as Chris. If Chris were allowed in, her grades might be good, but her character was rotten.
Gwen's opinion carried a lot of weight. After Mrs. Cord looked into the incident, she promptly crossed Chris's name off the list. To the school, a donor was great, but a "Study-God" who could sweep every academic award for the next three years—and her boyfriend, who was equally brilliant—was far more valuable.
You can find many donors, but you don't offend the crown jewels of your academic team for a local landlord's daughter. It just wasn't cost-effective.
Locke smiled at Gwen's reasoning as they reached the shooting gallery.
Cindy was clutching a small plushie. Kahn turned to Locke. "Locke, want to give it a go?"
Locke looked at Gwen. She pointed to a human-sized plushie hanging on the wall and blinked. "I want that one."
Locke grinned. "You got it."
He handed ten dollars to the owner and picked up an air rifle. This wasn't a dinky plastic toy; this was a high-powered air gun. It was the America, after all. Who plays with toy guns?
The targets were twenty meters away—tiny and rotating. But for Locke, it was child's play.
Ten shots. Ten bullseyes.
Kahn and Cindy's mouths fell open. Gwen was less surprised; her father, George, had mentioned many times that Locke had a natural talent for shooting, even calling him a "born sniper."
Locke put the gun down and adjusted his gum, prepared to be humble.
"Beginner's luck," he said.
"Beginner's luck!" a voice beside him said at the same time.
Locke turned to look at the man next to him.
"Heh, sharp kid," the man said.
Locke's eyes narrowed slightly behind his expression. An Atlanta Engineer?
John Smith.
In the hitman world, he was known as a legend. John didn't recognize Locke, but Locke had undergone systematic training; he knew the faces and names of the top players in the game, even if they hadn't met. If Locke were here as "Peerless (The lender)," John might have recognized him too.
Then Locke looked at the woman beside John. 'Fox? No, not Fox. Jane, the Wall Street computer service provider?'
Not all hitmen had grand, over-the-top codenames. Most followed the principle of staying low-profile. Two hitmen from different organizations on a date?
Locke realized: 'Mr. & Mrs. Smith.'
John, feeling a strange sense of kinship with the kid, held out his hand. "John."
Locke shook it. "Locke."
"Good shooting."
"You too."
Just then, the owner handed Locke the giant plushie. "Here. Your aim is too good. I just opened, and you've already taken my top prize."
Locke smiled and handed the doll to Gwen. At 185cm (6'1"), the doll was nearly his height. Gwen, a bit shorter, looked tiny clutching it, but her smile was radiant.
Cindy looked at her mini-plushie. She was officially salty.
Five minutes later, Gwen and Cindy each had a human-sized doll. They left the shooting gallery happy, leaving behind an owner who was wondering if today was cursed. He'd lost three top prizes in ten minutes. If this kept up, he'd be bankrupt by sunset.
The four of them happily headed to their next stop. Meanwhile, the Smiths—not yet "Mr. & Mrs. Smith" to each other—watched them walk away and smiled, reflecting on the beauty of youth.
...
Late afternoon.
Augusta. Carrie's house.
Ever since she'd gotten pregnant with Carrie, Margaret White had descended into paranoia, convinced she had been "wronged" by a demon. She viewed her daughter as the devil's spawn. She entered the attic, seeing Carrie in a pink dress she had sewn herself.
"Carrie, tell him you're sick. You can't go," her mother pleaded.
Carrie felt a wave of exhaustion. She wasn't the same girl from a few days ago. 'I control my destiny.'
"Take that dress off," Margaret said. "We'll burn it together. We'll pray for forgiveness. You've been possessed. Now we go to God—"
"He isn't the devil!" Carrie interrupted. "He gave me the strength to look up, Mother. He isn't the devil!"
The real demon had tried to make her sacrifice her mother for power. Locke hadn't asked for anything.
Just then, Tommy's car arrived. Carrie grabbed her small, outdated purse—bought years ago with saved change—and prepared to leave for her new life.
"I'm going to tell that boy the truth," Margaret shrieked, looking manic. "I'll tell him your father forced himself on me. You're a sin!"
Carrie didn't look back. "Don't you say a word."
"You child of sin!" Her mother followed her down the stairs. "One sin brings another. The greatest of sins! A witch shall not be suffered to live! Stoned, crucified—"
Carrie spun around, her right hand snapping out.
*Boom!*
Margaret was frozen in place, pinned by an invisible force. Carrie's expression was pained and conflicted. "I'm warning you, Mother. Don't do this."
"Devil's hand! Witch! Sin!"
"Don't."
"Devil... witch..."
A knock came at the door. Carrie looked at her mother, who was about to scream. With a thought, she silenced her mother, then pushed with her hand, telekinetically shoving Margaret into the small prayer closet where Carrie had so often been locked.
The door slammed shut. Carrie turned on the radio to drown out any noise and used her mind to lock the door. "Mother, until I get back, you aren't saying anything."
She opened the front door. Tommy, in a white suit, was stunned. Because Carrie had just used her magic, her dull, straw-like blonde hair seemed to shimmer with an ethereal glow. She looked breathtaking.
...
The Prom.
A long white Lincoln pulled up to the curb. Inside, Carrie stared at the entrance, her chest heaving. Anxiety and fear clawed at her. She had never been to a dance. She looked at Tommy, memories of years of pranks flooding back. "Tommy, can we wait a minute?"
"Of course," Tommy said gently. "As long as you need."
Carrie watched the students outside.
"They aren't that bad, really," Tommy said. "Besides, I need you. Dancing by myself would look pretty stupid."
Carrie couldn't help but laugh. 'Maybe I'm just overthinking it.' She took a deep breath and nodded to herself.
For high school dances, there is one major event: crowning the King and Queen.
When Carrie and Tommy were announced as the winners...
When Carrie felt her life had finally changed for the better...
A bucket of pig's blood fell from the ceiling.
***
Bonus chapter in advance. Currently 290/300
Next goal 400 stones and I'll post another bonus.
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