Life is full of regular teens going about their pretty dull, normal lives. Except Imogen is not one of them.
Recently diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia, her hallucinations are so vivid that she's armed herself with a take-no-shit attitude and h...
Timmy is one of my closest tadpoles. Neurotypically awesome, he makes up for his poor eye contact with an intense, focused interest in any topic of conversation that might arise. Also, don't mess with the alignment of some assorted toys that were left behind in the classroom and now are 'his domain'.
"Welcome, Leia. We were warming up for today's session."
I worship Mr. White and how he never chastises her for arriving late. He knows better, he cares and understands how she needs it.
"H-Hi." Leia's mousy mop bounces with a will of its own as she makes her way to her usual spot, avoiding the cracks of the wooden floorboards. She leaps like a bird. Her feathery, rose gold wings peep from underneath her floral vest.
Isn't she gracious? One of nature's finest creations. So tiny and fragile, I'd like to keep her in my pocket for good luck.
I think it's time for you to meet Violet, the sweet, eco-friendly voice that counterparts Anamathea's angsty mood swings. They coexist in harmony—most of the time, at least.
I find those feathers annoying. She should dye them charcoal. Much like a fallen angel, she'd be the bomb.
Okay, forget what I said, their constant bickering knows no boundaries. I try concentrating on our Professor's voice to lower their volume. I don't know what silence feels like. They are always in my head. It'd be perfect, I imagine...
Mr. White settles into his favorite olive green armchair, crosses his long legs, and clears his throat. "Well, now that we are all here, what better way to start off today's session than by posing a couple of questions which will lead to an intellectually stimulating discussion. Any volunteers?"
Leia's hand flies up, she fixes her pixie eyes on me for a second and then blurts out, "I—I'd like to suggest some."
After Mr. White gives her a nod, she rights herself, blinks five times, taps both her index fingers on her knees and smiles. "What does it mean to live a good life? How do we find happiness?"
We receive her questions with lots of murmurs and a few claps from Thomas, who I suspect is head over heels for Leia.
"If I were to ask what makes each and everyone of you happy, you'd have no problem providing me with at least a few answers, am I right?" Mr. White leans forward in his seat, a mischievous grin creeping its way up his lips.
"I have an entire list, Mr. White," Timmy declares, frowning in deep concentration, his gaze fixed on his lap. "A car, less body fat, a lottery win, a better 3K time—"
"A new collection of Shiitake mushrooms, a growing block, a new drill for the log holes at six-inch intervals along its length—"
"Let me stop you there, guys. Here's the real deal. The root of the root. Our answers have a similar theme."
"What's that?" Leia's words echo in the silence; expectation laced in her voice.
"According to Tim's list, and Thomas spore's wishes, our happiness depends on external circumstances." Our ears prick up, starving for more of our Professor's point of view. He meets our gaze one by one and continues, "it may surprise you to learn that materialistic things rarely determine long-term happiness."
"Big lottery winners all seem to be super happy on TV," Tim mocks in high falsetto. He is relentless and wants his point to be made. We all laugh at his determination, and he scoffs in return.
"Might be so, Timothy. However, that which you have always assumed would make your life joyful, might not actually improve it in the long-term." Mr. White turns to me and continues, "There are things such as innate factors, perceptions, and experiences to be considered."
His last words make me flinch. Thoughts of my walks down the park with minty bubbles and childish anticipation to more delightful wonders strut forward, but I beat them back. I lock them away in a box inside my head, label it 'crazy shit'. I roll my eyes at myself. Hunching over my raised knees, I knead my fingers together, and bury my face in the loop of my arms.
Everyone here and out in the streets has thought they heard or saw something strange at one point or another in their lives... So did I. Now, knowing what I am, I have to pretend or hide the fact I really do.
"You are quiet today, Imogen. A penny for your thoughts."
You couldn't afford them even if you tried, old man. I hush Anamathea's nagging and croak, "So, what you are saying is happiness depends on our interpretations of events. Right, Mr. White?" The denim of my jeans muffles my voice but hides my face, which is ideal given the warmth creeping its way up my cheeks.
"That is a brilliant interpretation. Albert Ellis would be proud of you."
"Who is that dude, professor?" Leia's curiosity is rewarded by giggles from the rest, me included.
"He was an outstanding American psychologist and psychotherapist. You know what? This conversation is hungry for action. I think we have a project on our hands." Once again, Mr. White has earned our full attention.
He stands up and rubs his chin. After the longest two minutes of pacing around us he adds, "How about you go out on a little adventure and look for the essence of happiness?"
"What do you mean, sir?" Thomas straightens up and marches across the room. He reaches the window and stares at the garden view. "Are we supposed to wander in search of experiences to interpret and relate to our happiness?"
I follow him, and my gaze travels through the thick window pane onto the earthy path. I can see 'Earnie', my old 1970s VW Beetle. It was my dad's. He insisted on having its sunroof rebuilt and passed away before the car came out of the mechanic's. Mom wanted to sell it, but I stood my ground and kept it.
It's such a gorgeous color, the same as the sky today... Perfect for an evening drive back home under a starry blanket of clouds. I sigh at Violet's eternal optimism and then my heart stops.
A silhouette is leaning against the left side of my car, an elegant hand poised on the hood. Choking on a gasp, I recognize him.
His backpack hangs over his shoulder, his head is tilted to the left, and the wind is messing with his hair. It must tickle because his pointy nose wriggles. I get a glimpse of his toned forearms thanks to the rolled-up sleeves of a black linen shirt. He seems unaware of how mouthwatering he looks. Chase runs the tip of his tongue against his plump bottom lip, and my stomach backflips.
In the background, Mr. White answers Thomas, "Precisely! Get out, youngsters. Seek life's best moments and meet me next week for their interpretations. Wander free my rascals, the world is your oyster."
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