Plain Jane (H.S.)

Where Am I?

I was finally going to get some answers.

"Alright, let's go!" She starts up a troubled engine.

Funny thing is, while we were very much middle class, car troubles were not amongst our multitude of issues. My parents both owned hybrid vehicles, so this 90's piece of shit car made no-

----

"Jasmine"

Mm ya. The aromatic flower that hath herbal properties. Jasmine is Laci's favorite princess. I could never contest because Aladdin is an absolute da-

"Jasmine!" The ragged timbre of a man's voice departs me from blissful unconsciousness.

As if touched by Zeus, I shock my spine into pristine posture. Apart from the classroom setting, and all eyes on me, I notice the stench of cigarettes.

I can't with this teleporting bullshit. My mind is scrambled eggs, being whipped around without my consent. And what about Zeus? I'm integrating similes in now? What's next, personification? Foreshadowing? If it's the latter, let's do that sooner than later so I can figure out how to get home.

My fear of attention is highlighted with these high school aged students speculating me. There's a reason I never dozed off in class. This is not the kind of attention I prefer.

"Well rested?" The teacher teases.

The judgey students snicker. I don't miss high school.

And no, contrarily, I am not well rested, thanks for asking. My body is feeling like it just cranked out a pre-finals week all nighter.

I'm slouched in the backmost row of a classroom, in the corner. I am eye level with the shoulder blades of a blonde boy, whose black t-shirt expands across the triangular bones. I don't normally choose the back row; then again, I don't normally wake up with a doll's complexion. The man who earlier referred to me as Jasmine, has his hands clasped together, awaiting a response. His light blue button up and age gap deems him the teacher.

Why the hell am I in highschool?

"I'm not Jasmine." I softly correct. If there's one thing to ground me to normalcy, it's using my real name.

The teacher's expression crumples like a crushed soda can. "I'm confused. You answered to Jasmine when I called you on roll."

I'm going to mull over how uncomfortable it makes me that my meat suit is doddling around when I'm unaware. I hypothesize that I'm falling into narcoleptic episodes--you know, where you randomly pass out?  Wait...then how do I function without my knowledge? Or maybe I do have amnesia. Like...what did I even do I even do yesterday? Nothing is clear past my bio presentation. Did I go home after class? To Brenda's?

Sticking to my guns, I inform the teacher, "Sorry, I forgot to mention I prefer to be called Jane." I was a little shaky.

With the class's reaction, I wish I could rescind the request. A few girls in tights and floral dresses laugh amongst themselves. I know their type; emaciated wolves. The first chance a bunny is in sight, they mangle it. "Jane,"  they howl, "I would prefer anything else if I were her."

I may be prettier than before, but it's clear that wherever I am, I'm not popular.

The coarse plastic rubs the back of my arms as I melt into my seat. The teacher agrees to call me by my name, though now I wish I hadn't corrected him at all.

After reprimanding me for sleeping, he babbles about some upcoming project. My mind wanders, disabling me from absorbing any instructive information. How am I supposed to care about a grade when I'm not even in the proper body?