I went into Middle School brimming with confidence. I had solved life, after all. It was my little secret, my superpower, my special talent, even if I wasn’t a special person. I felt elevated. Half-special, maybe. I walked around looking down my nose at the other regular people. I wasn’t a member of that spark-less caste anymore. I had snuck my way into the ranks of special people. Important people. Everyone else was like a non-player character - I wondered sincerely if they were even sentient.

“Find the most successful person in the room, and do what he does.” I was shocked when I heard one of my teachers say these words, giving this advice away like it was nothing. I almost fell out of my chair. I looked quickly around the room. Was anyone else reacting? No. Not even a little.

I eventually decided that the teacher - Ms. Hayes, homeroom - was special - a rarity among teachers - and this was a little bit of mocking fun. She was giving away a secret to success, casting pearls before swine, knowing full well none of us pigs would act on her words. I’d probably been told the same advice in the past, before I had awoken, and hadn’t paid it any mind. Many special people liked to play this game, I discovered. I didn’t know why.

It became increasingly easy to tell the difference between the two types of person. Since you are, statistically, likely to be a member of that lower class, you may not know what I mean. Everyone looks normal to your eyes. But to a discerning eye, it isn’t so. The people with stories, with sparks, they shimmer. They almost glow, if you know what to look for.

Now that I think about it, reading my story may allow you to infiltrate the higher ranks, as I did. I may be inadvertently causing some sort of mass chaos by chronicling my life. But I don’t think so. Pearls before swine.

But anyway. Don’t assume that all of the higher people do well in school. Doing too well in school is actually a very good marker of an NPC. It isn’t so obvious as that. The best way to describe it is that people with sparks are unpredictable. So naturally, there isn’t a convenient list of shared traits. That would make them predictable, like the rest of us.

I had it all figured out, but it was still strange. I was superior, and I was inferior. I was inside, and yet alone, an outsider. I had one friend. Tom. Did he know I wasn’t like him? Maybe special people don’t worry about that kind of thing. Maybe they don’t even notice.

I had Tom, but I wanted more. I remember watching. I was at lunch, in the cafeteria. Sitting alone in the crowd. I watched as Tom migrated from table to table. He’d spend a few minutes in one spot, talking, laughing, smiling, getting the people around him to talk and laugh and smile, too. He’d nibble at his food a little, then pick up his tray and move to the next table. There he would smile and laugh again, integrating himself into the table’s culture perfectly, before eventually picking up and setting sail once more. Finally he would come to my table, where the anonymous people drifted in and out - never sitting too close to one another - and settled.

One day, when Tom was home sick from school - always confusing, rudderless days - I decided I would give it a try. I took my tray straight to a table of unknown faces. I was still perfecting my radar, but I could tell at least one of them was special.

“S’up?” I said as I sat down, giving my best smile, while also trying not to look too eager. I had practiced that smile in the mirror, comparing it to a picture of Tom I had taken from a social media account of his. A few of them looked up at me, giving the briefest of acknowledgments. A couple nodded at me. “Yo,” one of them said.

Easy as that. I was in.

They were in the middle of a heated discussion. The table was all boys.

“Elizabeth is a skank,” one boy said. “And she cheats. Girls who wear make-up aren’t hot. If they were, they wouldn’t need it.”

“I can’t stand makeup,” another one said - the one who looked the most special. Stocky, sharp chin, brownish-red hair, vaguely Irish, vaguely familiar. “Why do they wear that shit? Does anyone here actually think women look better with makeup?”

“Fuck no!” one shouted. Half of the boys nodded and grunted in approval. “Maybe a little lipstick,” one interjected, “but not the whole clown routine.” The other half agreed.

“What about you?” The boy with the spark was looking at me. “What’s your name again?”

He had said again, which made me realize I’d seen him before. We were in the same homeroom class. “Miles,” I said.

“Ryan,” he responded, offering his hand for a shake. I took it. “And that’s Roger, Franklin, Colby, Dean, Kyle, Eddie, and Steve.” They all nodded at me, in turn.

I didn’t even attempt to memorize their names, though I can somehow recall them all now. I just focused on remembering the name Ryan. I could remember that.

“What do you say, Miles? Makeup, yea or nay?”

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

For some reason I thought of my mom. She always wore a lot of makeup whenever she went out. Part of me wanted to say makeup was alright. Another part of me thought better of it.

“Fuck makeup,” I said, the swear tasting strange in my mouth. Ryan smiled, and half of the boys cheered.

“Right on,” Ryan said. “Now, back to the topic at hand. Who’s the hottest girl in school? Dean, I believe you were just telling us the many fine qualities of Elizabeth.”

The conversation went on as you might expect, discussing which girls had the biggest assets, prettiest faces, and other things none of them would have admitted to saying in mixed company. I absorbed it all. Eventually, a question was thrown at me again.

“What’s up, Miles?” One of them asked. Steve, I think. Maybe Eddie. “You’ve been real quiet. Don’t tell me we just been ragging on your crush or something?” Everyone laughed at this.

I shook my head. “No, none of them. I don’t like any of the girls you’ve mentioned.”

“None?” he asked. “You’re pretty picky, aren’t you? Well, who is it, then? What’s your type? Unless you’re gay.”

“I’m not gay,” I said quickly. Couldn’t let that rumor start. That would be bad news.

“Then who?” he asked in a whisper. The boys all leaned in closer.

I didn’t want to answer. It didn’t feel right. Saying ‘fuck makeup’ was one thing, but it felt kind of mean to go on about how Jessica had a huge rack or how Heather was a “butter face.” I shifted uncomfortably.

“Hey,” Ryan spoke up. “Leave him alone, guys. He just met us. Why the hell would he tell us who he likes? It’s one thing for us all to sit around talking about who’s hot or not. It’s a completely different thing to say who we like. I haven’t heard any of you tell us who you like. And for all he knows, one of you fuckers will go behind his back and tell her.” A few of the boys made faces of mock-offense. “He’s got every right to be scared of answering.”

Scared. A thought hit me. Would Tom be scared to answer? I’d never really talked to him about girls, but… no. I don’t think he would. I think Tom would say exactly what he was thinking, no matter how embarrassing it was, and everyone would laugh - with him, not at him.

“I like Ms. Hayes,” I blurted out.

The table erupted. “What?!” “No way, dude, no way.” “Isn’t that illegal?” “Not for him, idiot.”

“What do you like about her?” Roger (or Kyle?) asked.

“She’s really nice,” I said, smiling. I felt brave. Proud. “She always asks how I’m doing and it feels like she actually cares. And she doesn’t judge people like other teachers. She just takes you as you are, if that makes sense. She’s a really sweet person.”

By the time I finished talking, the table was silent. They were all staring at me. They looked… confused, maybe? I squirmed.

“And also,” I added quickly, “More importantly!” I leaned in close “have you seen what she wears?” I made a cupping gesture with my hands.

A roar of approval.

They were all smiling and nodding. “Why does she dress like that?” one of them asked. “Because she’s coming onto Miles, that’s why!” More laughter. Ryan smiled, but there was a strange look in his eyes. I’d seen it before, even if I didn’t understand why it was there now.

Pity.

I went home feeling accomplished. And…understood? Kind of? I was able to share my honest feelings with someone. Sure, I had to sprinkle them with what they wanted to hear - but it wasn’t just what they wanted to hear. Part of it was me. It felt good. I felt unloaded. Fulfilled. Like I was a part of a group.

I went the school the next day with a huge smile on my face. I even showed up early. I had friends. Plural. I’d figured out another one of life’s secret tricks. Lesson 1: Copy the special people. Lesson 2: Give people what they want. Lesson 3: Mix in your own thoughts with that they want to hear. That way, you’re understood, heard, and they still like you. I was a genius.

Walking onto campus, I was suddenly self-conscious, and my smile faded. I felt eyes on me. I thought I was being paranoid, at first, but soon there was no mistaking it. Stealing glances around me - trying not to let anyone know I was looking - I saw kids on their phones, giving me strange looks. Not pity. Something else. They all would do the same little ritual. Eyes wide upon spotting me. Pulling out their phones. Glancing at the screen. Then at me. Then at the screen again. Furrowing their brows, scrunching up their nose. Eyes widening again. Then the whispering. The pointing.

I hurried to homeroom, anxious. What had happened? I tried to think of what it could be. Did someone start some rumor about me? I’d have to get to the bottom of this, and quick. I decided I’d ask Ryan. He’d give me a straight answer.

The classroom door was open, even though it was pretty early. That’s weird, I thought. As I walked in the door, I saw something was playing on the overhead projector, beamed to the front of the classroom. The door was near the front, so you had to pass by it to take your seat. I froze.

That was my face. I couldn’t make out the rest of it for a while, but there was no doubt in my mind that it was my face, wearing a strained expression. It was just a couple frames of a video, on a loop. My face, surrounded by…skin? And there was Ms. Hayes’ face too…

Recognition. Disgust. Embarrassment. Shame. It was a gif, a deepfake. Me and Ms. Hayes’ faces, on the bodies of adult actors. To put it politely.

I scanned the classroom quickly, to see who had seen this, this thing. Only a few students this early, none of them looking directly at the video, although they had all seen it, had to have seen it. Was it getting sent around? Is that what was on those kids’ phones? My stomach turned. But Ms. Hayes hadn’t arrived yet, thank God. A miracle. I rushed to the teacher’s desk, searching for the remote to the projector. My only thought now was to shut the damned thing off.

I ransacked the desk, scattering papers. I ripped open drawers, frantic. Nothing. I looked back over the classroom, as if I expected to see a clue. I noticed Ryan was already there, looking at me, arms crossed.

He made a little nod with his head, in the direction of the whiteboard the video was being projected onto. I looked. The remote was there, on the little marker shelf under the whiteboard. I hadn’t seen it, as I had tried my best to avoid looking directly at the video, after I realized what it was. I grabbed at it, pointed it at the projector, and pressed the power button.

Nothing happened. I pressed it again. Nothing. Were the batteries dead?

Just then, a scream. I looked to the door. Ms. Hayes. She was looking at the video, then at me, then back at the video. The same as the students from earlier. I looked at the remote in my hands, realizing how this looked. I dropped it, but it was too late. “Miles!” Ms. Hayes screamed. “What- I - what is - why-” she didn’t get the chance to finish her thought. She looked at the video one more time, and fainted.

I looked back at the classroom. They were all staring at me now. I looked to Ryan. He had to have known, I realized. The thought came to me complete, all at once. He had to have known. He was already here. He knew where the remote was. He could have turned it off, but he didn’t. He just fucking sat there.

Ryan flashed a little smile.

I exploded. I don’t think I’ve ever crossed a room so fast in my life, before or since. One second I was standing there, looking dumb. The next second, I was repeatedly driving my fist into Ryan’s face with enough force to hurt my hand. Not like being hit by Mom or Dad on a school night. I wasn’t concerned about leaving bruises.

I was yelling. I didn’t know when it had started, but I was yelling. “Why” was the only articulate word that came out.

He was trying to talk in between blows, so finally I let him. I don’t know why. I stopped, and waited. He stared up at me defiantly, one eye already starting to swell shut.

“I did you a favor, you fucking idiot,” he spit out at me.

“What?” I said, angry, confused.

Suddenly there were hands on me, pulling me. Another teacher must have heard Ms. Hayes scream. Or someone ran and got them. Either way, two male teachers I didn’t recognize were pulling me off of Ryan, saying something that I ignored. I yelled at Ryan again. “What are you talking about?”

“I did you a favor,” he said again, as I was being dragged away. “You let your guard down.”

You let your guard down.