Have you ever wondered what it would be like to have a superpower? You can stop now, cause I'll tell you for free:
It sucks.
Telepathy does, anyway.
'Oh, but, Dóri, how can you say that? Reading people's minds means no one can lie to you, they can't hide things from you, that you'll always know a person's true self.'
Uh-huh. Well, wait till you walk past your crush mentally congratulating himself on that dump he took that almost clogged the toilet and then tell me how much you really want to know someone's tRuE sElF.
There's nothing cool about being privy to people's fears and worries and insecurities. Not to mention how damn unpleasant the experience is; like being stuck at a family function with the TV and the radio on while everyone talks over each other, not listening to a word the others say, with me stuck in the middle and forced to absorb everything.
'But you've learned to control your gift by now, surely?'
Tell me, when you walk by a dumpster, can you make the stink go away through sheer willpower? How about that jackhammer from the construction site down the road, does it go quiet if you focus real hard?
Well, it's the same for me. Sure, I could do the equivalent of holding my breath or sticking my fingers in my ears to tune out their thoughts but that would last, what, five minutes? Tops? And I'd be rewarded with a headache for my efforts.
So, yeah, superpowers suck.
"Good morning, sunshine," Char greets as she settles in front of my desk. Why so gloomy? "You've brought your dark clouds again, I see?"
Charline is one of my best friends. We met when we were twelve and I liked her the minute I realized her words always aligned with her thoughts.
"Don't tease her so early in the morning," my other bestie, Natalie, says as she sits beside Char.
Natalie is more careful with how she voices her thoughts but even in her mind, she's unfailingly polite. If you show up looking like shit, the worse she'll think is "you look tired". Or, in my case, that I look unhappy again.
"But how else is she supposed to know I love her?" Char asks in mock distress, clutching her neon pink top, before changing the subject. "Anyway, my lil ears heard that we're getting a transfer student today."
Natalie pivots in her seat to face her. Despite the mild weather, she's wearing a turtleneck, which means the stress rashes are back.
"A transfer student? Now?" she asks, surprised.
"Yep. Gloria told me yesterday," Char answers, excited.
Our English teacher, Ms. Gloria Ngome, shares the same umber skin tone, close-set eyes, and button nose as Char, who happens to be her niece. Though she's closer in age to Char than her brother (Char's dad), so the two look and act more like sisters.
"May he rest in pieces," I say and Natalie nods solemnly. October of one's senior year is not an easy time to be transferring.
"Oh, if he's hot, then definitely," Char says with a grin and I laugh as she pictures some random hottie being pulled in different directions by the girls in our class.
The bell rings and the door opens to reveal our homeroom-slash-math teacher. It's the second year in a row he's responsible for our class – though he's been teaching us for twice as long – and in all that time, he's never been late. The guy is more punctual than a watch. The new kid trails behind him, backpack slung over one shoulder and eyes downcast.
I can't see Char's expression but I can feel her excitement fizzle as she takes him in. He's...
Boring, Char thinks just as Nat mentally supplies, unremarkable.
In a way, they're both right. Average height, average build, brown hair and brown eyes, both a common shade. He's like an extra in a movie: necessary to fill up the background but not so much that viewers would care about his backstory.
Ok, stop being mean, Dóri, you're not all that spectacular yourself.
Mr. Maes introduces him as Martin Dupont – my goodness, even his name is super common – then looks around for a seat to assign. There are twenty-three students in our class and twenty-four seating spaces. The horrible realization dawns on me the moment my eyes meet my teacher's: the only available spot is beside me.
Six years I've managed to sit by myself, he can't do this to me only months away from freedom. I begin to shake my head but Maes is already speaking:
"You can sit beside Dorottya."
Someone call the police, I want to report my math teacher for assault and battery of my name (again!!!).
Aside for Hungarian speakers, I have yet to meet anyone able to pronounce the "ty" sound correctly. So after dozens of corrections and a stern refusal on my part to be called Dorothée (or Dorothea or Dorothy), my classmates, most of my teachers, and I have agreed on Dotty. We've attempted Dóri, which is what my family calls me, but without that beautifully rolled r it just sounds dumb so that idea was dropped, too. Maes is the only person left at school who still insists on abusing my poor name.
Martin walks to what was once my unencumbered domain at the back of the classroom and I remove my bag from the chair so he can sit. Annoyed as I am with Maes, it's not Martin's fault so I put on what I hope is a friendly smile to greet him.
"Hi, I'm Dorottya," I say, emphasizing that the "tty" is one sound, not several. "But everyone calls me Dotty," I'm begging you, don't try to be special and call me that, too. "Welcome to Saint-Louis."
"Thanks," he says, dropping his bag on the floor as he sits. Doesn't dotty mean crazy, though? Oh, wait, it's short for Dorothy, no? Like that girl with the mirror.
As if listening to him mix two stories isn't bad enough, an image of myself in a blue dress with a white apron and black hair ribbon superimposes itself over the real world. Damn, hell, and crap, the guy is a daydreamer!
There are two types of thoughts, I've learned: words and images. Most of our thoughts are worded. Not in the sense that we talk to ourselves but that words pop into our minds whenever we look at something or interact with someone. Images are mainly tied to memories. Unless you're a creative type.
Artists, painters, writers, and – to an extent – readers, are the worst because they visualize what they create, see, or read. And those stupid images are projected straight into my brain, changing my perception of the world like sunglasses would. I can still see the classroom and the people in the background but my main focus is pulled to Martin's daydreaming.
Blue-dress me is sitting in a seat, fixing her hair in a mirror lined with light bulbs like I'm a musical theater actor or something. One of the lights goes out and as I reach out to poke it, my fingers graze the mirror's surface. It ripples like water. Other-me gasps, mouth open in a perfect O-shape and I almost groan – I do not look that stupid.
I dive in.
What follows next is the most unbearable amalgamation of Alice in Wonderland (not even Through the Looking Glass!) and the Wizard of Oz I have ever had the misfortune of witnessing. Propping my chin in my palm, I pretend to be absorbed in Maes's lecture, my foot inching back until it's in prime position to kick his chair. I almost knock it out from under him. I apologize with a sugary smile.
"No problem," he says, turning his attention to his blank notebook. Her smile's a little catlike.
The Cheshire cat slithers into his mind, wearing my face and towering over him as a mouse. I bury my face in my hands.
This guy's not going to let me live, is he?
💭 💭
"Are you okay?"
"Huh?" I ask, out of breath.
"You don't look so good, do you need a break?"
I shake my head. "If we stop now, I'm afraid we won't get back up. We have to keep going, it's our only chance."
"If you're sure," he says.
We continue our trek upwards, the snow growing deeper with each step. The sun reflected by the white blanket is blinding, making our advance even more difficult. Martin trips and I'm by his side in the blink of an eye, helping him up.
"We should've gone through the mines."
The what now?
I glance at him sideways, eyebrows furrowed. It's third-period geography and though the lesson's about something completely different, Martin has gotten lost in another daydream. Up until a minute ago, we were in the middle of a grueling ascent of Mount Everest but now he seems to have gone on another tangent.
"No, I told you. The mines are too dangerous," he protests.
What mines?
I squint, trying to bring the images in his head into focus. Our snow gear, which looked more suited for an afternoon of sledding than an ascension of the world's highest peak, is gone in favor of... armor?
"Nonsense," other-me says with a scoff. "My family would welcome us with open arms and a feast."
"Maybe it's not such a bad idea. The weather is taking a turn for the worse," our geography teacher – where did you come from? – says, her signature bun gone, leaving her luscious locks to spill over her shoulders.
Martin looks at us with a pained expression before acquiescing. We start back down what has now become an eerily familiar cliffside. Wait, is this Lord of the Rings? Is Mrs. Collignon supposed to be Legolas? Martin's clearly Gandalf but who am...
Gimli? I'm Gimli? Of everyone in the Fellowship you could choose from you went for Gimli?!
"Oh, sorry again. I don't know what's wrong with me today," I say through gritted teeth after kicking his chair again.
Martin looks at me weird but doesn't say anything as he pulls his chair further away. Less cat more Warg, now.
The image of those hyena-wolves from the movies flashes briefly before my eyes and I'm sorely tempted to shove him off his seat. I raise my hand instead and ask to be allowed to the bathroom. Mrs. Collignon motions for me to go on and as I stand, I hear Maybe she's constipated? That'd put me in a bad mood, too.
I'm going to stab him. With a pencil. And I won't be able to explain why and I'll get suspended. It'll be worth it, though.
❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀
Hello and welcome to my ONC 2023 project. I hope you've enjoyed it so far. :)
If you're interested, Dorottya is more or less pronounced DOW-raat-jhah. I'll leave a link to the wiki page that provides an audio in the comments.