[Michael listens to the whole explanation with a level of attentiveness not commonly found in eleven-year-olds. Magic. Like, real magic. He doesn't really believe in that, because it's kid stuff, but... well. He wants to. It's like that Harry Potter book everybody's reading; everything in it is so cool, and he kind of wishes it were real, except maybe the dark lord stuff.
And he doesn't really have an explanation for how the screen-thing got fixed. He watched the cracks disappear, and he was holding it. That wasn't just smoke and mirrors. It reminds him of the time he read in a book about the guy who bent spoons, and then he spent a whole day trying to move a pencil with his mind. It didn't work, but then his brother came up behind him and scared the crap out of him and the pencil went rolling across the table by itself. Which was probably nothing. Probably.
Okay, fine. He'll bite.
Michael sets the thing down and picks up the paper towel instead, one hand on each side of the tear. There's no magic words to memorize, and he doesn't need a wand, so all he's gotta do is concentrate, he guesses. Harlan says it'll be easier than he thinks. He says he can do it. And even if he can't, and it is just another trick, then that probably means the paper will get fixed anyway, because Harlan will do it for him.
Michael closes his eyes, even though he wasn't told to.
Like frost spreading on a window. He imagines the ragged edges of the paper towel reaching out for each other and sticking back together again. He imagines the tear sealing up like a zipper. You'll get it. You can do it. He wants to, and he thinks that might be because Harlan wants him to, because he expects it. Or, no, it's more like... because Harlan thinks he can. That's not something Michael hears very often, at least not for good things, and he doesn't want to waste it by disappointing him. He tries to push that desire forward, willing the object in his hands to be whole when he opens his eyes.
And so it is.
It isn't perfect; he can still faintly see where the tear used to be. But it's definitely one piece again. For now, all he can do is stare.]
no subject
And he doesn't really have an explanation for how the screen-thing got fixed. He watched the cracks disappear, and he was holding it. That wasn't just smoke and mirrors. It reminds him of the time he read in a book about the guy who bent spoons, and then he spent a whole day trying to move a pencil with his mind. It didn't work, but then his brother came up behind him and scared the crap out of him and the pencil went rolling across the table by itself. Which was probably nothing. Probably.
Okay, fine. He'll bite.
Michael sets the thing down and picks up the paper towel instead, one hand on each side of the tear. There's no magic words to memorize, and he doesn't need a wand, so all he's gotta do is concentrate, he guesses. Harlan says it'll be easier than he thinks. He says he can do it. And even if he can't, and it is just another trick, then that probably means the paper will get fixed anyway, because Harlan will do it for him.
Michael closes his eyes, even though he wasn't told to.
Like frost spreading on a window. He imagines the ragged edges of the paper towel reaching out for each other and sticking back together again. He imagines the tear sealing up like a zipper. You'll get it. You can do it. He wants to, and he thinks that might be because Harlan wants him to, because he expects it. Or, no, it's more like... because Harlan thinks he can. That's not something Michael hears very often, at least not for good things, and he doesn't want to waste it by disappointing him. He tries to push that desire forward, willing the object in his hands to be whole when he opens his eyes.
And so it is.
It isn't perfect; he can still faintly see where the tear used to be. But it's definitely one piece again. For now, all he can do is stare.]