My mom didn’t understand me. I think everyone feels that way, but my mom really didn’t understand me. For example, if she knew the beautiful vines she was watching me water—the ones with blue flowers cascading down my house’s wall—were recreationally hallucinogenic, she might have called the police. So, yeah, she really didn’t understand me, and that was a good thing—until she started walking around my garden.

“Those look familiar,” my mom said, examining a plant with purple flowers from across the yard.

Please don’t recognize that.

It was Wolfsbane. She probably remembered seeing it because it grew near us and was famously toxic to touch. So, seeing her walking towards them stressed me out.

“It’s called Aconitum,” I said truthfully. “They grow around the mountains here. They smell terrible, though.”

My mom stopped walking toward it. “I see.”

I exhaled, gaining minor relief. It wasn’t just the toxic plants stressing me out. It was a Sunday, so my mom was wearing the pristine white dress her friends raved about. It looked nice, but it made her flinch every time her dirty daughter moved too fast, and that was sending the wrong signals to the wrong people.

I sent a glance to my right and found my neighbor smoking a Marlboro Smooth outside her window, watching us as she gossiped on the phone. Her name was Sally More, and she didn’t know how to mind her damn business. She was a gossip hound—the queen of drama. Just last week, she reported one of my neighbors to community watch, accusing him of teaching his dog to shit on her lawn. The only thing it landed him was a few high-fives. That said, a community notice on flinching mothers was a bit more serious. At the very least, I wanted to avoid drama.

“Where’d your poppies go?” my mom asked.

The hairs on my arms raised, and I stopped watering my Heavenly Blues. “I… um. Needed space… for more flowers,” I said nervously.

That was a worse question. Just a few days before, a pack of roaming addicts split my poppies to make opium, and I would’ve gotten a Schedule 1 felony if the cops thought I did it. But I wasn’t about to tell my mom that.

So yeah, if you’re wondering why she didn’t understand me—it’s 100% my fault.

“Uh huh…” My mom looked around the garden with puckered lips. “But why’d you get rid of them? Some of these plants look… hideous.”

“Did you need something?” I asked tersely.

“Do I have to need something to see my daughter?”

“You’d never come here wearing that dress if you didn’t.” I created tiger claws with my muddy hands, and she flinched, almost stumbling backward. Context established. Sally whispered something into her phone with a disappointed expression and stubbed her cigarette in an ashtray. Score one for me.

“Don’t joke about that!” my mom yelled, capturing Sally’s attention again.

“I’m not…” I said. “So…? Is it quick, or should I make some tea? I found some reishi while hiking the other—“

“I’ll refrain.”

“Are you sure? It combats seven forms of cancer, and it’s pretty tast—“

“It tastes disgusting, honey.”

I should probably tell you a few things about me. My name is Mira Hill, and I was 23 years old on the day of the Integration. Contrary to what my garden would have you believe, I didn’t do drugs or poison people. I was a researcher at Colorado University, studying plant gene editing for my master’s degree. After school, I worked at the on-campus Village Center Greenhouse before returning to my deadly garden of “legal in Colorado” plants. It was paradise—but it wouldn’t last long.

This was the last year of my master’s degree. After I graduated, I would either have to become a low-paid zombie in a graduate program—teaching remedial students in exchange for avoiding life for another seven years—or I’d have to face how useless my degree is for growing plants as a job. Judging by my remarkable ability to avoid my problems, I’d probably choose the former.

My parents wanted the latter.

“Alright,” I sighed, sitting down on my porch. “Let’s hear it.”

“Listen, honey,” my mom began tactfully. “I know plants are your passion, but if you’re not getting into gene editing, you’ll need a real job.”

My research was lucrative—but I wanted to grow things, not work in a lab.

“This is a real job,” I said. “It doesn’t pay much but… I’m happy, Mom. I love my life and… not many people can say that. A good paying job will bring a lot of people satisfaction… but… if I have to give this up to get a better house… what’s the point?”

Kline, my tomcat, walked up to me, rubbing his orange, black, and white fur against my arms. I smiled and petted his ears.

Needy cat.

My mom smiled wryly as she watched me pet him. “Mira… you’re young. The world is bright, and you’re enjoying yourself. But eventually… you’re going to get tired. Life’s gonna beat you down at times, and when your… cat needs surgery or floods destroy your house… you’re going to be twice as miserable if you’re broke.”

“Wow, that was surprisingly honest,” I said, glancing at Kline worriedly.

“It’s true,” my mom said. “So… just hear me out. Roger Neil… you remember Roger right? The man from church. The larger man. Has two daughters.”

Oh, yes. Banana Mustache.

“Yeah, I remember him,” I said dryly.

“Well, he runs a very successful finance firm, and he’s offering you an internship. It’s paid, and it pays very well. Most importantly, it’s not permanent. In six months you can leave, but that experience will be a plus on every resume you have from now on… even if… it’s for a horticulture business.”

Damn, she’s getting good at this.

Here's the thing: my mom supported my passions through high school. She brought me to dozens of botanical gardens and bought me books. She even gave up her prized deck to allow my dad to build me a greenhouse. Then, once I graduated, she huffed and puffed and tried to convince me to get a career-oriented degree, but she still helped get me set up in college, made sure I was comfortable and visited every week to bring baked goods to the Village Greenhouse staff.

My mom had supported me every step of the way—but she wanted me to live the best life I could and never gave up trying to provide me with that. Now, she was offering me a silver spoon, and it would be offensive not to take it. Still, I knew that after my first paycheck, I’d be locked in the golden handcuffs forever.

I groaned and ran my dirty fingers through my hair. The action made my mom cringe—and that kinda ticked me off. I pointed my fingers at my hair and then showed her my dirty palms. “See? This is the problem. I’m different, Mom. And I’m not gonna change. I can’t change. I just need… to find a way to make money doing what I love.”

“Everyone wants that, Mira… but few pull it off.” My mom’s shoulders slouched when she lost traction but perked up when she saw the ripped-up poppy patch. “And you don’t have to change, honey. You can still pursue your love of plants. You just have to compromise between your passions and work, and compromise just means… keeping the popular flowers instead of… whatever this is.”

I huffed. “Popular plants don’t—” My muscles suddenly tensed when I saw her reaching for a plant with grape-sized bulbs that looked like cactuses. “Don’t touch that!”

I jumped up and slapped her hand away. It wasn’t hard, but it startled her. Combined with trying to prevent her dirty daughter from touching her dress, she stumbled backward—and fell into the grass.

“W-What are you doing?” My mom screamed. Sally pulled out her phone and turned it horizontally. She was recording—but I didn’t care.

“What do you mean ‘What am I doing?’” I asked sarcastically, locking my fingers around the back of my neck. “What the hell were you doing? Even inhaling the pollen on that plant can damage your lung…”

I froze when I saw my mother’s expression and turned away sheepishly.

“Mira,” she said sternly. “What is that?”

I didn’t respond.

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“Mira Isabella Hill,” she said chillingly. “I’m asking you a question.”

I cracked after having my full name called and looked at her like a dog who got caught shitting in the house. “That’s, uh… Conium maculatum. Also known as Hemlock. Super painful death. Socrates ate it to—”

“That is most certainly not hemlock.” My mom glowered at me. “I’ve been buying you plants since you were old enough to walk. Do you think you can fool me?”

Considering you’re in a garden full of poisonous and carnivorous plants, yes.

I obviously couldn’t say that. So, instead, I just had to lament the fact that I was terrible at lying and answer her. “That’s Angel’s Trumpet.”

“Mira…” she seethed.

“Seriously,” I said. “It’s just out of bloom. It’s even called ‘moonflower.’ They’re quite beautiful.”

Her face turned stern. “And?”

“And… it’s extremely poisonous. Including the pollen.”

“And?” My mom pulled her dress’s fabric to look at the grass stains, clicking her tongue.

“And… it’s very, very poisonous?”

“Mira Hill, you always use scientific names for plants and list out facts. What aren’t you telling me?”

I grimaced, feeling like a poker player who just had their tell pointed out to them. I looked at my mom, who was stern and unyielding, and then glanced at Sally, who was still recording.

“Can we talk inside?”

“Mira.”

“Inside?”

“Why can’t you tell me out here?”

I smile viciously. “Mom. Do not misunderstand what I’m about to tell you. The seeds are very hallucinogenic.”

“Mira!” my mom screamed.

“You still can’t eat them!” I threw up my hand in a full STOP gesture. “It’s not like getting high and there's a good chance it’ll scramble your brain and put you in a coma. And as you can see, I’m sane enough to regret telling you this. And therefore, you can be rest assured that I’m not—”

“You’re growing drugs!”

I turned to Sally, whose eyes dilated as if she had just tapped the needle twice on a syringe full of drama and then plunged it into her veins. I needed to get my response on video. “Datura is not a drug, Mom!” I said loudly. “You can buy it at a store, just like everything else in my garden.”

My mom panicked and then lowered her voice, hissing, “But it kills people.”

“So does hemlock and poison ivy and—”

“Mira.”

I stopped.

“You’re getting rid of that plant.”

“I will not! Datura is a sacred plant, I’ll have you know! It’s been used for spiritual purposes by the Navajo, Apache, Aztecs, hell, it’s even associated with the God Shiva in the Hindu reli—”

“You’re getting rid of it.”

I looked away and sighed. “Yes, Mom.”

“Good.” My mom walked out of the garden, making sure not to touch anything as she returned to the porch. Then she danced around Kline, who was trying to prevent her from sitting down. This was his house, and she didn’t ask permission to chastise me, let alone sit.

The two stared off for a moment before the sassy cat huffed and wandered off, likely to sneak back later with full stealth, maximizing his chance at a kill shot, should the need arise.

“Let me get some tea,” I said. She opened her mouth to protest. “The boring kind.” She calmed down.

Ten minutes later, we were sharing a profoundly awkward silence over a cup of tea, with me hating my life and my mom staring at her dress. That persisted for about five minutes before my mom broke the silence.

“Listen, honey,” she said. “I know you’re happy, and I honestly believe you can make things work. I just… worry, okay? Because sooner or later you’re gonna need some security, and you need something to fall back on.”

I put down my teacup and stared at the table.

My mom placed her hand over mine. “All I’m asking for is six months after graduation. After that, you’ll have gone through college and gotten experience. Then you’re free. Will you… at least consider it?”

I swallowed and nodded. “I’ll consider it.” I looked up. “Seriously.”

My mom smiled as she looked at her miserable daughter. “Oh, honey.” We stood, and she embraced me in a hug—unconcerned now that her dress was ruined. “It’s okay. This is just the start of your life. One day you’ll have a big house full of all the hideous plants you want.”

I cracked a slight smile. My mom didn’t understand me—but she was great to me. “Yeah,” I chuckled. “I’ll make sure to plant some parenta repellenta.”

“That pun was god awful,” she huffed.

We looked at each other for a moment and then burst into giggles. Then she looked at the new brown stains on her dress and clicked her tongue again. “Okay, okay. I gotta get home. Someone left stains all over my good dress. I’m not even sure Shout and a prayer will save this fabric, but you best know I’m gonna try.”

I chuckled. “Bye, Mom.”

My mother carefully lifted her dress and tip-toed out of the garden as if everything would kill her, making me giggle.

“Don’t laugh at me, you little killer.”

I smiled as my mother walked off. “Love you!”

“Love you, too!”

I turned back to Sally’s window. The woman raised her eyebrows as if to say, Abusers are charming, but you can’t fool me. I hated that woman.

I turned back to the datura plant. “She didn’t think about how dangerous it’ll be to move this, did she?” I asked Kline.

He mewed.

“Yeah… let’s get you some fish.”

I was a cat lady, and I admitted it. I bought Kline Fancy Feast and actual fish on Fridays. And whenever Kline got trapped in a drawer or scratched up a wall, I would just sigh and hug him as punishment, hug him until the poor cat squirmed and mewed and clawed—secretly loving all the attention. I was a cat lady and a plant lady, and I was okay with that.

I was happy—genuinely happy.

That’s why I took a shower and hummed as I worked on my master’s thesis on harnessing CRISPR to enhance plant resilience. Then, I returned to my “lab,” where I fed bacteria to oyster mushrooms, trying and failing to replicate Tradd Cotter’s groundbreaking research on single-serve antibiotics. Kline purred through it all, tracing eights around my ankles until I rubbed his head. Then we snuggled up in bed.

My last thought was about how I needed to see Professor Adesina for help to finish out my degree strong. Then, I let myself drift into sleep.

———

My eyes snapped open to the sound of Sally screaming at the top of her lungs. Kline jumped onto my stomach, forcing me into a crunch. The combination absolutely convinced me that Sally rallied a Frankenstein pitchfork mob to run the drug-growing mom tackler out of town. Then, the cortisol hit me, giving me cognitive clarity, and I promptly crashed back onto my pillow.

“Why?” I groaned. I turned to my alarm clock: 12:37. “This better be good.”

Kline mewed and stretched his limbs as I got up, rubbing my eye with my palm as Sally went off on someone. “No, I won't shut up! What did you call me? Oh, you’ll what? Ooooooooh. You’re a big man, threatening a wo—yeah, see! I told you!”

“Why are they fighting?” I asked. I looked out the window. Lights flickered on across the street, and people started moving out like zombies emerging from graveyards.

Something was wrong.

I threw on some jeans, hiking boots, and my lucky Charles Darwin t-shirt. Then, I grabbed my smartphone, keys, BIC lighter, pocket knife, and lip balm, put on a jacket, and looked at my backpack longingly.

Kline hissed at me to hurry.

“It’s a go-bag,” I hissed back. “Something’s wrong.” Go-bags had everything someone would need in the case of an emergency—and rows of screaming neighbors at midnight took the cake. So I grabbed my backpacking bag—the one I took on multi-week trips through the Rockies—and clipped it on.

Kline clawed at my covers as punishment, pulling the blanket up each time he lifted his paws.

“Okay, okay!” I threw out my arms. Kline leaped into them like a toddler rushing to his mom, and we ran out of the house.

———

A crowd of neighbors was already in my cul-de-sac, and orange lights snapped on at random intervals like blinking Christmas lights.

“It’s not aliens!” Edgar, the neighbor who taught his dog to shit on her lawn, yelled.

“Then what is it?” Sally asked. “The Bat signal?”

I furrowed my brow. “The bat wha…?” I looked up and saw something that marbled my skin with goosebumps. There, in the clouds, was a transparent blue hue with the words, “Congratulations! You have been chosen to enter the multiverse!” written in dozens of languages.

“Do aliens congratulate us on shit?” Edgar asked as his wife pulled him back. His daughter clung to her nightgown, a detail that I remembered with eerie clarity later on.

Suddenly, the sky changed. Now, it read:

“Integration will occur in one minute. Please prepare your belongings.”

My heart pumped as I turned back to my house and ran inside. Most people would be grabbing their go-bag, but I was prepared. Score one for me, for once. I just needed to grab my Smith & Wesson M&P Shield, the perfect compact, lightweight semi-automatic pistol with great stopping power for women.

Suddenly, my phone went off as I was unlocking my gun case. I took a sharp breath and answered it. “Hello?”

“Mira!” my mother yelled on the other end. “Are you okay?”

I reached down and picked up Kline, who was far more important than a pistol. “I am. Are you okay?”

“I am!”

“You don’t sound okay.”

“How am I supposed to sound? There’s a countdown in the—“

“Gimme the phone,” my father said in the background.

“One second.”

“No, you’re freaking out,” he said. “Mira. Can you see that… thing in the sky?”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

“Okay. We’re coming to get you. So stay put, okay?”

I swallowed and nodded. “Okay.”

“I love you, Mira.”

“I love you, too.”

“I love you!” my mom cried in the background.

“I love you, too!” I yelled. “Tell Tyler that I love—”

I didn’t even finish my request for my parents to tell my brother I loved him before my vision turned white, and my body felt like it got blasted off in a rocket ship. Then I blacked out.

———

I awoke in an empty white space without any sights or smells. It was just a pure white expanse that made Kline’s orange fur stand out like pop art. It was eerie, and it stressed him out, so he tugged at my jeans. I sat up and grabbed him, holding him against my chest. Then, The Selection, as I later knew it, began. It started with a blue box popping up with a simple message:

Welcome Mira.

You have entered the multiverse. After this brief explanation, you will be assigned a Class and a planet that best suits your path to godhood.