My head felt full, ready to burst, as I exited the bathroom and made my way down the hall back to class. Was I really bad with people? I had never thought I was. Quite the opposite, actually. Sure, I didn't enjoy being around anyone my age, and sure, I hadn't met anyone in the high school that I enjoyed being around, but I liked being around adults. That was fine. Not-me couldn't be correct, could he?

As I stumbled into class, barely aware of my surroundings, Mr. Hinkley looked up.

"Thomason, are you okay?" he asked.

"Huh?" I said, putting the hall pass on his desk.

"Well, first you ran out of here," Mr. Hinkley said, "and then you're gone for a long time. Afterwards, you come back looking pale."

“Yeah, I'm okay, I just... had an unpleasant experience,” I said before I thought about how that might sound.

"If you're sure, Thomason," Mr. Hinkley said, "I could send you to the nurse’s office." I became self-conscious of the quiet classroom behind me. I glanced back. Of course, everybody in the room was looking my way.

What I hadn't taken into account what eye contact from everybody in the room might do to my budding psychic senses.

Right in the middle of assuring Mr. Hinkley that, yes, I was fine, I became overwhelmed by combined auras of the room. Every single emotion and every carry-on and rider in their auras hit me all at once.

***

I was lying down, which was weird because I don't remember lying down. I had been standing up. I blinked, trying to focus and see what was going on. The light overhead was too bright, and my head hurt almost as bad as when I had my occult hangover.

A figure loomed into my blurry vision. They reached out and placed a hand on my arm.

"Hey, asshole!" they shouted. "Wake up!"

I came alert, like I had been splashed with cold water. Nurse Jolene Streep was leaning over me, but that had not been her voice. I blinked, confused, looking around the room to see if anyone else was there.

"Easy now, darling," Mrs. Streep said. "You took quite the tumble. You got a little bonk on your noggin. Don't you worry though, we'll get you all fixed up."

I reached up and touched my head. Sure enough, I had a lump on my forehead. I caught sight of a reflection in Mrs. Streep's stethoscope, and Not-me yelled once more,

"We need to establish some ground rules!"

“Why are you shouting?” I said, putting a hand to my head.

Mrs. Streep put on a very concerned expression. "Timmy, dear, I wasn't shouting," she said.

"I'm shouting because you left me in the fucking bathroom for two hours, you asswipe!”

I winced. Why was he able to hurt my ears when he seemed to be a figment of my imagination? I closed my eyes so I didn't have to hear him, and then what he said rolled over me.

I tried to sit up, but Mrs. Streep was looming, and she put a hand on my chest. It was embarrassing how little pressure it took to keep me down. The swinging stethoscope moved back and forth in my vision, and every time it swung in front of me,

"You left me," it swung back, "in the bathroom," it swung forward, "of a high school," it swung back, "for two hours," he shouted.

"How are you feeling, Timmy, dear?" Mrs. Streep asked me.

"My head hurts," I said, being honest.

The stethoscope swung back into my vision, "IT WAS THE GIRL'S BATHROOM."

I squinted at the stethoscope. "I was in the girl's bathroom?”

Mrs. Streep looked very perplexed at this. "No dear, you were in class, don't you remember?"

"Couldn't you just leave, or turn yourself off?" I said.

Mrs. Streep put a hand on my forehead. "You're rambling, dear, excuse me a sec, I'm just going to get the thermometer." She stepped away, and I didn't have to hear Not-me anymore.

I closed my eyes and put a hand to my head. I did not feel good. And I didn't think it was the bump on my head that was making me feel this way.

It reminded me of summer camp when we had been doing an arts-and-crafts project, constructing little PVC figures. We had gotten out primer and pipe glue. It smelled something awful. After about thirty minutes of working on my figurine, I felt dizzy. When I tried to get up, I fell over. The headache that followed was like what I was experiencing now.

That had been back when Dad was still around. When he learned what happened, he laughed and said, "Yeah, you got high, little dude." He was the only one that ever called me little dude.

The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

I rubbed my head. I'd gotten high? But the only thing that I had been exposed to was... The combined auras of an entire room of students. There must have been twenty-five students in the room. Everything they were carrying focused on me.

I sat up.

This turned out to be a mistake as the wave of dizziness and nausea caused me to nearly fall off the table and I had to lean over and throw up.

It was not fun.

Mrs. Streep came running in, "Oh dear, oh dear. Don't worry about that. We'll get you sorted out. Hang on, love."

I'll give her this: Mrs. Streep did not appear grossed out about my vomit at all. I was rather impressed. And I was also too weak and dizzy to do anything about it. So I let her wipe my chin and help me lay back down and heard her bustle about as she set to cleaning up the mess. I wasn't going to be able to get up and find anything reflective. I could barely move. So struck by a moment of inspiration, I licked my thumbnail and then turned it back and forth until it caught the light just right and I caught a distorted reflection.

"Oh, clever. Now you think of something clever. I have to hear how many likes Susie got on Instagram and how ‘Instagram is so last year’ and ‘Why aren't you on TikTok yet?’ God, kill me now."

I moved my thumbnail back out of my line of sight. I realized I had no desire at all to talk to Not-me while I felt like this.

***

Mrs. Streep bustled back into the room and leaned over me, putting a little digital thermometer to my head. The stethoscope swing into view.

"Thanks to you, I now know who ‘made it’ with whom last weekend, and and gory details about what they did. I'm never going to un-hear that shit. You know what it's like to listen to teenage girls prattle on?”

The stethoscope swung out of my view. I closed my eyes.

"Timmy dear," Mrs. Streep said.

I cracked an eye.

"You had one job to do, kid," Not-me shouted. "One job. I told you, go back to the classroom and meditate, because you sampling other people's auras is something you can't handle, and what do you do?”

“I'm going to need to look in your eyes dear,” said Mrs Streep. She got out a penlight and shone it first in one eye, and then in the other.

"You go in and try and sample a whole goddamn room. You're lucky you didn't start to loop over then and there, but on the other hand, you are allowing us to test the theory of how far we can stretch the bounds of living the loop and staying on the track.”

“Timmy, dear, I'm going to call your mother. I think you might need to go home. I want you to stay lying down."

I raised my hand. "Wait," I said. "My mom will be at work. I've got a number for you to call instead."

Mrs. Streep came back over so she could take the number.

"Hey, quit ignoring me,” said Not-me. “Listen, this is important. You need to feed right now unless you want to start this loop over soon.”

“Feed?" I said.

Mrs. Streep looked at me. "Excuse me, dear?"

"Yeah, genius. Take some of her luck. We're out."

"Oh," I said.

I asked to borrow the pen from Mrs. Streep and wrote Cece’s number down, mumbling an apology that I could only remember it if I started to write it.

It was the best lie I could come up with.

My head hurt.

Then I drew the symbol on my palm. This was becoming easier. I had the pattern of strokes down now, so I didn't have to start at the top and draw it to the bottom. I pretended to fall off the bed, catching hold of her arm with my luck symbol. Of course, it latched on like a leech. Now, that was a pleasant thought. I was a human leech. Leeching luck.

Mrs Streep helped me back onto the bed. "My, but you have a firm grip," she said.

Unable to move her arm or my arm for a moment, she seemed very perplexed. I wondered what would happen if I attempted this in a moving vehicle. I made a mental note to never try it. My hand freed itself and she lifted me onto the bed. Then the rush hit me.

Liquid good mood ran through my veins. My headache evaporated. My vision cleared; I hadn't realized it was still blurry. A dull ringing in my ears disappeared. Something roiling in my stomach seemed to decide it was time to be quiet and relax, and I started feeling really good. So good that I forgot I was supposed to be sick.

I sat up. Mrs. Streep tried to push me back, looking alarmed, but I hopped off the bed. I smiled at her. I couldn't help it. I felt so good.

"You know what? I'm feeling a lot better now. I think it must have been something I ate," I said.

She gave me a worried glance. Then she took a closer look at my head. "Oh, my. The lump on your head is already looking much better."

I had forgotten about the lump on my head. I reached up and touched the spot. Sure enough, just like she said, it was almost gone. Had I just been healed by luck?

I handed her the phone number. "Here. This is Cece. She's my sitter. She watches me after school. Give her a call, and she'll come get me. Maybe it's still a good idea that I go home."

Mrs. Streep seemed pleased by this news, took the number, and bustled into the other room. I stepped over to the drawer where I knew the spoon was and pulled it out. I was not licking my fingernail unless I had to. That was gross. Making sure I had positioned myself so I could not be overheard, I held the spoon up.

"All right, what gives? Luck heals us? That doesn't make any sense."

"I told you it's not luck. It's just an easy way to think about it. Jeez."

"Why is everything so complicated? Why can't you just explain to me what it is?"

"You don't have the foundation to understand what it is. Don't tell me that I need to explain it to you. You need to start building a lifetime of knowledge. Ugh. You're so frustrating to talk to."

"Me? Me? What about you?"

"Excuse me, dear?" Mrs. Streep said, leaning in.

I realized that I had been shouting. I was beginning to feel frustrated with Not-Me and our relationship.

I shook my head. "Sorry, Mrs. Streep," I said. "I wasn't talking to you."

She gave me a funny look but leaned back around the corner. That made me wonder who she thought I was talking to, but it wasn't really important. I was busy being angry at Not-me, which was frustrating by itself because I didn't normally get angry at people. I was calm; I was rational; I was collected.

I got angry at video games. I got angry at animals. I got angry at plants. And I got angry at inanimate objects. But I didn't get angry at people. I just didn't. I thought that was pretty cool about myself. Someone could spit in my face and I wouldn't get angry at them. In fact, someone could punch me in the nose and I wouldn't really get angry.

I remember the first time Billy had punched me in the face. My reaction hadn't been anger. Mostly, it had been feeling the hurt of having been punched in the nose for the first time. That hurt. Then my brain spat out what it was that I needed to do: stand up and give him a line so that he won't feel any satisfaction from picking on you. And people will think you're cool. That's it, really. But it was all processed so fast that instead of thinking it, I did it.

Instead of feeling angry or upset or hurt or sad—I suppose maybe somebody would feel sad if they got punched in the nose. What did I feel? I felt... cold and calculating. I remembered what Not-me had said about my ability to feel emotions and about how I was seen by other people.

Did other people see me as cold? What could I do about that? I was as personable as anyone. I just didn't like small talk, that was all. I preferred puns, banter and quips to chatting about inconsequential things, and I preferred to talk about deeper subjects. And that wasn't at all like anyone my age or close to my age, was it? But that didn't make me cold, did it?

Did it?

I was a cold-hearted luck vampire who needed a ride home from his babysitter because he had overdosed on the emotions of a room full of teenagers, gotten high, fallen over, and knocked himself cold.

“You’re wrong,” I said.

Zombie Billy stared back at me from the spoon I held. “No I’m not. But what are you talking about? Wrong about what?”

"I'm great with people, and I have a perfect handle on my emotions," I said. Looking at Not-me in the spoon, I could see that he started to laugh so hard he was literally falling to pieces. Through his choking, snorting guffaws, he shook his head.

"How do you figure, kid? You are not good with people, you are not good with your emotions, you are not going to master telekinesis this year. Forget about it. And aura control is going to be out of reach until you do some goddamn practice."

I narrowed my eyes. "You said that if I wanted a challenge, I should sample someone's aura and give it a try. Come back to myself, like you said."

"Yeah, I know what I said, kid. And what did you do? You went and sampled the whole damn room. That was incredibly stupid."

I hopped down off the table and lowered the spoon. A mouse gremlin came zipping in. I watched it for a moment, but that wasn't what I needed to focus on. I ignored it as it scuttled over to go find something of Mrs. Streep's.

I slipped out into the hallway. It was empty. Walking a little ways down the hall, I held the spoon up and glared at Not-me.

"I'm going to prove you wrong," I said, and I put the spoon in my pocket. I remembered I was going to need to look in a reflective surface before I proved him wrong so that he could watch. I felt a smile creep on my face, knowing that he was now stuck in the hallway instead of in Mrs. Streep's office, where he enjoyed reading over her shoulder.

I marched to the assembly hall. This high school had a nice-sized hall set up. It seated eight-hundred at maximum. I knew my way through to the back, where they had the entrance for people who were working on stage. They rotated assemblies based on grade, and today was the senior assembly. I had the perfect plan.

Nobody said anything as I made my way backstage. There were teachers and students working on things, but I found that keeping my head down and walking with intent kept people from stopping and questioning me. There was a thick curtain separating all the activity backstage. I could hear a buzz coming from the other side, indicating that the seats were currently filled.

If an overdose of luck could solve one problem, what would an overdose of aura do? I held the spoon up, “Watch this,” I said.

Dropping the spoon, I walked through the curtain.

***

*edit: typo