The dining hall is a hive of activity, buzzing conversations and the rich scent of food fills the space, creating a backdrop to my current mission: navigating with a tray piled high with an edible mountain range. Two plates of pasta stand like peaks, surrounded by a forest of sweet rolls, a pair of burgers lay in wait beside a fortress of fries and mashed potatoes, and a solitary steak sits proudly, a parsley flag planted on top. The twin cans of coke stand by like loyal soldiers. As I wade through the sea of gawking diners, I'm aware of the curious glances tossed my way. I can't resist tossing them a look sharp enough to slice through their stares. Really? You're a walking coral reef, and you're thrown off by my appetite?
I'm weaving through the tables, my tray a balancing act of culinary ambition, mentally blacklisting any spot that's contaminated by company. Then, like a beacon of anti-social hope, I spot it: an empty table tucked in the room's far corner, shielded from the mutant mosh pit.
The path there is short but treacherous, inevitably having to stumble upon the central hub of Mutant High's very own freak parade. Storm catches my eye first, her gaze a soft blue sea as she gives me a gentle nod and smile. She then motions to an empty seat at the table, a silent question raised in her patient smile. Across that seat sit the living embodiment of a fur coat on steroids and his sidekick, Edward Scissorhands. They're already turned to me, bored and careful expressions on their faces as if they too are waiting for my reaction. Memories of our less-than-cordial chat by the laundry machines flash in my mind. Thankfully, they didn't follow after I left. The last thing I needed was their commentary on my laundry techniques or another accidental home renovation project.
I aim a glare at them that could give Scott and his eye beams a run for his money, silently declaring a 'no entry' zone around my personal space. Food is sacred, the untouchable pinnacle of the day, and I won't let Tweedledee and Tweedledum's side show sabotage that. They're the reason why I'm skirting the edges of involuntary mingling in the first place, holding me up near the laundry room before I could make my interaction-free escape for food.
As I maneuver to bypass the freak ensemble, my path intersects with a gaze unlike any other. A woman with a cascade of red hair that seems to hold its own fiery life looks straight at me— or more so, through me. Her eyes, piercing and unsettlingly focused, seem to scrutinize every move I make. It's as if she's trying to peel back the layers of my very soul. For a second, her expression morphs, flickering with a sadness that almost mirrors my own tangled mess of feelings, a reaction that's both baffling and disconcerting.
Her eyes hold a question as she turns to Scott—Mr. Ray-Ban model himself—in a silent exchange that screams 'is this the newbie?' to which he gives a subtle nod. Suddenly, it feels as though I've become the center of their universe. The entire table's attention anchors on me, their curiosity unwelcome and piercing. It's a full-on gawker's gala, their gazes sticking to me like gum on a shoe. Their curiosity spreads like a bad rash across the table and I feel like the main attraction at a circus – except there's no tent, no applause, just a bunch of nosy onlookers with superpowers. The irony is thick enough to cut with a knife—here in a school that preaches belonging, I've become the main exhibit in their personal hall of oddities. Honestly, if this place wasn't so heavy-handed with the whole 'you're one of us' spiel, I might find the gawking less hypocritical.
Their stares feel like needles, and I'm the unwilling pincushion at the center of their little sewing circle. Suddenly, I'm the evening's feature presentation, a freak amongst freaks.
"Maybe try blinking; it's less creepy," I snap at them, sarcasm heavy as a lead blanket while casting a particularly withering look at the redhead who had practically x-rayed my soul with her stare. She seems almost apologetic for her intrusive gaze, the flicker of something akin to regret—or is it empathy?—crosses her features, but she recovers quickly, burying herself in the renewed buzz of conversation. The rest of them break away like I've got the plague. Good. Let's keep it that way.
Secured at my chosen outpost, the dining hall's symphony of chatter dims to a background hum, finally allowing me to dive into my feast. I start with the pasta, trying to go slow and savor every delicious bite, but it's been a decade since I've had an actually cooked meal that wasn't burnt toast or Mcdonald's bought with pickpocketed money. The pasta vanishes within minutes, a testament to my refined dining etiquette, and I'm gulping down the first can of coke before crushing it in my fist in seconds. Digging in on the steak—Gosh, the steak—is a revelation. I seriously don't think I've ever had one that wasn't better than the rubbery and processed microwave shit I've been eating for years. The juicy tenderness of the meat is quite literally making my mouth explode with flavors, almost letting out a moan as I open the second can of Coke to wash the steak and potatoes down.
I've just about finished my meal when I take another swig of my coke, the acidic drink almost burning the back of my throat as I let out a startled noise, my bubble of bliss bursting when a gold crucifix invades my line of sight, the herald of yet another interruption. My gaze drifts upward, tracing the symbol to its owner. Towering over me is Mr. Sunshine incarnate, radiating an annoyingly infectious cheerfulness highlighted with a smile that could probably sell ice to Eskimos. Those dimples etched into his cheeks scream 'boy next door,' while his hazel brown eyes, too soft and inviting, brim with an innocence that looks like they belong on a lost puppy rather than a human. His hair seems to exist in defiance of gravity, each strand a testament to carefree buoyancy.
He's been observing me for who knows how long, and I'm half tempted to ask if he's lost, but the amusement dancing in his eyes suggests he finds my antisocial mealtime entertainingly fascinating. I continue to gulp my drink, my eyes now locked on the thousandth weirdo of the day as he just looks back at me, that grin still plastered across his face with the permanence of a dimpled stamp.
"Hi, I'm Leo," he announces, that stupidly hopeful smile never falling from his face. He's the embodiment of unrequested friendliness, hand stretched out with the patience of a saint, waiting for me to acknowledge him. The gold ring on his finger catches the light as I stare at his hand with as much interest as watching paint dry, finding his persistent optimism as grating as nails on a chalkboard.
After I've downed my drink, I put it, and both empty plates back on the tray. This kid is still there, hand extended like a golden retriever waiting for a pat. With his unfaltering smile and easy demeanor, he's practically a poster child for some utopian neighborhood watch program. With all the ceremony of dumping hazardous waste, I deposit my tray onto his still-waiting palm, feeling a spark of small satisfaction as his facade of cheer wavers, confusion taking its place.
I don't dignify the moment with words, half-expecting him to launch the tray in a fit of rejection. But no, he just stands there, embodying the tranquility of a monk as he processes the abrupt handoff. I get up, immediately leaving him to puzzle over the tray's significance without a second glance. Fucking weirdo, I think to myself As I exit, steering clear of Spongebob's happier, more dimpled twin.
The sun has completely set by the time I step into my room, the darkness enveloping me like a suffocating blanket. The absence of light prickles my skin with an ancient, instinctual fear as my hand fumbles for the light switch on the wall, the click of the switch relieving as the light spills out, a golden wave pushing back the oppressive shadows.
After brushing my teeth with the fancy electric toothbrush left in the bathroom and a floss to match, I lay in bed, sleep and exhaustion settling in my bones. The day's interactions flood my brain, the past 24 hours already feeling like a lifetime ago as I begin an entirely different life. I feel the sweet lull of sleep clouding my brain as one thing remains in my mind before drifting off; My first day at Hogwarts for mutants is tomorrow and I'm already wishing for that day to end before it even begins.
****
"Loriana Aurelia Saint-Doe?" calls out the health teacher, who apparently insists on calling everyone by their full name when taking attendance.
My eyes narrow at her, the heat of annoyance instantly flaring up and threatening to incinerate any sliver of patience left in me. Not even a minute into the first class, and I'm mentally crafting a colorful "fuck off" banner for everyone here.
"It's. Loren." I grind out, the words slipping through my teeth like shards of ice. I'd just told this bitch when I walked in that I only went by Loren. Just Loren. No one has ever called me anything but that. My full name sounds like a reject Disney princess on a bad acid trip, destined to fall in love with a tree or something.
"Ah, right," she says, barely looking up from her clipboard as she continues her repetition of the next kid's full government name.
The rubbernecking starts immediately, curiosity-piqued glances thrown my way. Each pair of eyes that lands on me just fans the flames of my ire. And I have to deal with this shit for the next 6 hours. I give each of them a look that can only be described as a death glare, slightly satisfied when they swiftly turn their heads away.
Rummaging through my bag—the same one meant to be my companion in a grand escape—I fish out a waffle swiped from breakfast, when I catch the weight of a gaze that feels like it's trying to peel layers off me.
I turn to the left of me, and to my utter annoyance, I'm met with the stare of another circus act. You'd think a bunch of outcasts would be a tad more self-aware about the whole staring debacle. Yet, here we are. Even as I scowl at him, his gaze on me behind his glasses remains intense, like I'm a book that he's just trying to read. A familiar amusement is scrawled on his face, and I have half the mind to throw my waffle at this discount Clark Kent. The edges of his mouth twitch upwards, those damned dimples making an appearance as if to say, 'Remember me? I'm Mr. Awkwardly Persistent from dinner'. Oh. This is the same nut job that was intent on interrupting my food time for a feeble attempt at friendly socialization. Except now, he's wearing glasses.
I greet his smile with a glare so icy it could sink the Titanic—again. If being the black sheep in this circus keeps them from attempting any sort of buddy-buddy bullshit, then so be it. I'd rather be subjected to their speculative glances than exchange pleasantries with these escapees from a superhero boot camp reject bin. As I slump further into my seat, my eyes flick to the clock, its hands moving with the speed of continental drift. Counting down the seconds until I can escape this madhouse feels like watching paint dry, if the paint were somehow less interesting and more tedious.
****
Surviving what can only be described as 'Calculus: Mutant Mayhem Edition,' I find myself at lunch, clinging to my sanity like it's the last lifeboat on the Titanic. Loading up my tray with enough calories to fuel a small army, I retreat to my now-customary spot in the geographic location most devoid of life forms.
I've only made it to two pizza slices before the unmistakable sound of someone invading my space echoes across the table.
"Loren, right? I swear, Ms. Friedlander must think she's conducting roll call for the Secret Service, given her obsession with calling everyone by their full name," the familiar deep voice intrudes, unwelcome as a pop quiz on a Monday morning.
Lifting my eyes, I'm met with the mascot for relentless optimism. He's attacking his burger with a zeal that borders on evangelical, all the while giving me a look that suggests we're about to exchange friendship bracelets. My hand involuntarily tightens around my pizza slice, now seeming less like lunch and more like potential ammunition. The visualization of using his smug head as a frisbee momentarily satisfies my growing irritation.
"Planning on finishing that?" he jests, his grin so infuriatingly radiant I half expect birds to start singing around us. With a grip on my tray that suggests I might use it as a weapon, I lean in, hoping my glare translates into 'back the hell off.' But no, his smile doesn't just hold—it practically expands. Labeling him a weirdo doesn't quite cut it; he's walking, talking proof that sanity is overrated. Our eyes lock, mine blazing with the desire to launch him into the next dimension, and his shimmering with an innocence so pure it's practically mocking. Behind those gold-rimmed glasses, his hazel eyes twinkle with a maddening amusement, clearly undiminished by my evident hostility.
"Go fuck yourself," I snap, my tone sharp enough to cut through steel. His smile vanishes, but any potential satisfaction is fleeting; I'm already storming out, tray in hand, my fury a palpable shadow trailing behind me. The march up the stairs and along the corridor is a blur of seething anger.
"You look like you're having the time of your life," Comes that unmistakably gruff, irritatingly sardonic voice. Annoyed and caught off guard, I whirl around to see Logan, casually lighting a cigar with an air of defiance, as if daring the world to challenge him on it. He leans against a door almost across from mine, puffing on his cigar, the smoke twisting into the air between us—a visible marker of my dwindling patience. Is he even allowed to smoke in here?
Seeing another freak show attraction intruding on my already limited peace sends my irritation skyrocketing. "I'd be in paradise if you crawled back into your litter box and fucked off," I snarl at him, about ready to abandon this Razorclaw Rumpelstiltskin in the hallway.
His amber eyes lock on to my tray, a bushy eyebrow raised in question, probably due to the obscene amount of food. After taking a leisurely drag from the cigar that I really wish would explode in his face, a smirk spreads across his face.
"Looks like someone's reenacting their 'eat alone in the school bathroom' days," he quips, his taunting voice tinged with a humor that suggests he finds my displeasure amusing rather than offensive. "With that charm of yours, darlin', I'm genuinely shocked you're not the life of the party."
The rage boiling within me reaches volcanic levels, a tangible pressure throbbing at my temple as I contemplate rushing over there and stabbing him with one of his flashy little finger knives. "Fuck off, you demented Bob Cat," I spit out with as much venom to kill an elephant. I turn the knob to my room, slamming the door behind me with so much force that the walls rattle.
I slam my tray down on the desk by the window, overseeing the mansion's vast lawn—a spectacle of green that's now tainted by my bubbling rage.
The force of slamming my tray down sends some of my mac and cheese into a tragic spill, adding to my fury. It doesn't help that now most people are out there, playing, eating, and what not, the distant echoes of laughter and joy from outside serving only to fuel my irritation. I angrily shove mac and cheese in my mouth, the warm liquid gold of the cheese bringing only a slight cool down from my anger.
That smiling clown from lunch is an annoying little pesk that can't tell when someone clearly wants them to piss off. As if my clear signs of 'leave me the fuck alone' from last night and this morning weren't enough, now he's festered and decided to ruin my lunch time too. It's like he's taken a personal vow to be the human equivalent of a persistent itch, one that no amount of scratching can relieve. A roach with a death wish, radiating joy as he scuttles closer to his doom.
Chewing through my sixth slice of pepperoni pizza, I glance at the digital clock on my nightstand. Great. Just five minutes of freedom before I'm shackled to my next class—U.S. History, or as I half-expected it to be labeled, 'A Brief Overview of Mutant Manifest Destiny.' Still seething at the fact that my lunch was hijacked by a parade of genetic anomalies, I make my way down the steps to the class that the schedule says is two doors down. I find the room and enter it, finding a seat in the farthest corner of the room.
Bored, I begin to doodle on my schedule as more kids begin to fill the room. After a few minutes, the door shuts as I start to get more focused on the intricate designs of the spider webs I'm drawing on the paper, a morbidly fitting metaphor for my current predicament. The chatter of nearby students is background noise to me as I shade in the webs, my mind almost running on autopilot before a voice breaks through the rising chatter as if summoned by my deepest reserves of irritation.
"Alright, everyone zip it or I'll summon Kurt to Dutch Oven this room with his demonic fart fog," comes that gruff voice, dry as the Sahara and twice as pleasant. My pencil halts mid-sketch, a sure sign my irritation's about to spike into new realms of fury.
Of course, there front and center is the Quill-shooting grump himself, Logan. The sophisticated world globe behind him only adds to the irony, contrasting sharply with his ensemble that screams 'outdoor survival guide on a flannel fetish.' Clad in his signature white tank and red flannel ensemble with silver dog tags that almost gleam in the light, He looks like the flesh-and-blood equivalent of a Bass Pro Shop fever dream. All he's missing now is a piece of hay in his mouth and a cowboy hat to match. Honestly, how is a man who looks like he considers beef jerky a food group going to enlighten me on the intricacies of the Boston Tea Party?
I hadn't even noticed that my pencil had rolled onto the edge of my desk, being too slow to catch it before it lands to the right of me on the floor with a small clank. I lean down, wincing and pulling back a little from my still fresh scratches on my back stretching with me. I'm still sore from the events of a day ago, and waking up this morning was pure hell trying to drag my aching limbs to the shower without falling and causing even more damage. I'm leaning down again, this time slower, when a large hand already beats me to it, wrapping itself around the pencil and picking it up.
Looking up, prepared to offer a half-hearted acknowledgment, my blood pressure mounts for what must be the 5th time today as I notice just who was the one to pick up my pencil. My simmering irritation boils over upon recognizing the good Samaritan, Mr. Sunshine-and-Rainbows, beaming at me like he just solved world hunger.
"You dropped this," he chirps, as if I hadn't made it abundantly clear at lunch that his brand of sunshine was about as welcome as a rash. There he is, flashing another one of his patented, cavity-inducing grins, holding the pencil like it's a peace treaty.
Scowling at him, I begrudgingly reach for my pencil, but this time, he's learned his lesson and abandons it at the frontier of my desk. Snatching it up, I contemplate a tactical seat change, but fate, with its twisted sense of humor, ensures every seat is occupied. Marvelous. It's as though the cosmos itself has conspired to maroon me in a classroom alongside two archetypes of my personal purgatory for the next 45 minutes: A Tinsel-Tipped Badger and a smiling doofus whose superpower is being so unbearably friendly that it drives his opponents to a madness induced death.
Locking eyes with Logan, whose smirk is laced with the kind of devilish acknowledgment that screams, 'I know exactly what kind of hell this is for you,' I seriously consider making a break for it— sprinting back to my room, packing up, and bidding adieu to this carnival of the damned. The Herculean restraint I exercise to not flip him the bird is almost commendable. Instead, I clench my jaw to the brink of shattering and flip open my textbook to the day's lesson, every fiber of my being cursing my decision to endure another moment in this madhouse.