Gene lifted a hand, turned it palm up, and raised it. He stared at the sheets on his bed, but they did not obey.
Gene frowned, and stamped his foot once. He lifted his hand again, trying it palm-down this time. Still nothing. No movement, not even a rustle.
“Gene!” his mother called. “Make your bed and get down here please!”
“I’m trying,” Gene muttered. But the sheets weren’t moving, weren’t obeying his will. After twenty more seconds of effort, he heard the clomping of parental feet on the stairs, and he hurriedly moved the sheets so that the bed would be passable.
The door opened, and the imposing figure of his mother stood there. “Come on, honey, get a move on.”
“Coming,” Gene said, rushing out of his room. He added insults in his thoughts, and warned of the days she would rue when his powers manifested, while she hustled him out the door to the car.