2103:09:05:13:10:18

  Millie’s words held true. By the third day, people had begun throwing me questioning looks and whispered wherever I passed. This had only grown by the end of the first week and now, halfway through my second week at this school, I could hear people talking about me out loud, clearly uncaring about the fact that I could hear them over the din of the school cafeteria.

  I didn’t quite know how to feel about it, but Millie clearly had no such problems.

  “Told you,” Millie said with a triumphant smirk, reading my thoughts with ease. She was strangely good at that.

  “Told what?” Zhou Lihua – or ‘Jolie’ as I’ve been told to call her – asked. She was a small, timid-looking teen with short, straight black hair and black eyes, and a skin that I thought looked sickly pale and she thought looked great. She wasn’t sickly though, even if she was quick to melt under the sun during last Wednesday’s PE, and probably would today as well if this weather held.

  She was one of Millie’s friends, and by association had become mine as well. Or was becoming a friend of mine, or something like that. I had yet to find where the border between ‘being friendly’ and ‘being friends’ lay, but I was confident we were somewhere in the vicinity at least.

  “On the first day,” Millie said, voice grave. “On the first hour, after first class, I was overcome by spirits and prophesied,” she put her both index fingers on her left and right temple, “‘On the third day, looks be cast your way. By day seven, your secret will beeeeee…’” Millie trailed off, head twisting sideways and eyes closing, appearing deep in thought.

  Then, she opened them and said, “I can’t think of anything that rhymes with seven.”

  “She said people would figure out my achronal displacement before the week was out,” I explained.

  She’d proposed a bet on Wednesday, when the rumor first started. I’d declined of course, but that hadn’t stopped her.

  “And I was right!” Millie exclaimed, taking a big, victorious bite of her sandwich in celebration.

  “That’s because you keep telling people,” I countered. At least, she hadn’t bothered hiding the information from her classmates, who then spread it further. That word would spread eventually was not in question, but if she hadn’t, it might’ve taken a week longer.

  “Millie,” Jolie chastised, a common occurrence I’d found.

  “What?” Milie asked, mouth still full. She quickly swallowed at Jolie’s glare. “That wasn’t in the rules. ‘Sides, It’s not like she minds.” She turned her head to me. “Do you?”

  I shrugged. “No, not really. But it does feel like…” I paused, trying to think of a word to best describe it. “Cheating,” I decided with a nod. I took a bite of the ham-and-cheese, hard-bread sandwich Mom had made for me. It was good. In fact, it might be my favorite yet.

  I made a mental note to tell Mom that.

  Millie pretended to be struck, reaching for her heart. “I would never cheat on you.”

  “Well, as long as you really don’t mind…?” Jolie asked.

  “I don’t,” I reassured. “I mean, I did tell you three on the first day and so far, it seems like a good decision,” I said. That caused the two to smile, Millie’s bright and Jolie’s warm. I added mine as well.

  Speaking of, there came the third person I told. “Man, that took ages,” Saga Williams, the third of the once-trio, complained. Saga was a buff, athletic, short-haired – shorter even then Jolie’s – redhead with freckles that outdid mine by orders of magnitude. “Why can’t everyone just take packed lunches like you three?”

  “You don’t either,” I pointed out.

  She waved it off. “Besides me, of course. At least I’ve got a good reason for it.”

  And she did. As an older orphan, and a bit of a trouble child – or so I’d been told by Jolie – there were few families willing to take her in, meaning she lived in a group home. Which meant if she wanted a packed lunch, she’d have to prepare it herself.

  Which she didn’t want to do.

  I opened my mouth to point that out, but Jolie cut me off. “Just let her complain. It’ll go quicker that way.”

  Saga snorted, but didn’t reject Jolie’s claim. She took a spoon-full of, in my opinion, plastic-looking mac-and-cheese. “Anyway, what were you talking about?”

  “Oh, I got it!” Millie exclaimed, then put fingers to her temple again. “‘On day-of-three, stares will-”

  “Sam’s situation,” Jolie cut her off, smirking as Millie comically deflated, leaned backwards in her chair and acted as if she’d been shot dead. “And that the rumor mill’s shown no sign of stopping.”

  “Oh. That,” Saga spat, scrunching her brow. She looked at me. “They did the same when I got put in a home. These things never last long, just until the next new thing to gossip about pops up. Just put it and them of your mind and you’ll be fine.”

  I shrugged. “I don’t mind it that much. It’s just- aside from you guys and a few others from our class, no one’s approaching me about it. Why not just ask?” Would certainly help me grow connections and increase the odds I’d make friends with a masked.

  Not that I’d know if I did. Even with the three friends I had I didn’t know how to breach the topic – not without breaking the Treaty, at least, and that was the last thing I wanted. And there was also the question if I could get friends without Millie there doing the heavy lifting.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  “Who knows?” Millie said. “Some people just liking talking behind other people’s back. Makes them feel powerful or something. They probably don’t even care that much, despite how much they talk about it.”

  “People are just scared to offend,” Jolie said instead. “I would’ve thought it a sore topic too if you weren’t so open about it.”

  “I think they’re just cowards,” Saga added. “When they were talking about me, they ran the moment I looked at them.”

  Millie snorted. “Yeah, but you’re you.”

  Saga scowled. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing. Just that we loooove you,” Millie replied, blinking rapidly and trying to look cute.

  Saga just rolled her eyes at that, then turned back to me. “Why would you even want to talk to them?”

  “Isn’t it better to have more friends?” I asked. Besides my goals, I thought being popular was good?

  The three looked at each other for a second before they all turned back to me.

  “Not really,” Saga said.

  “It’s more about quality than quantity, I think,” Jolie added.

  “Besides, if everyone is your friend, no one is,” Millie finished.

  I blinked at that. “I don’t think that’s true,” I replied, then frowned and looked at Jolie. She seemed to be the most socially aware out of the four of us. “Is it?”

  Jolie moved her head side to side in deliberation. “It depends. There are people that can have quality friendships with lots of others, but what Millie means is that having a lot of friends can lead to having a lot of shallow relationships, and no deep ones.”

  Mollie nodded in confirmation at Jolie’s interpretation.

  “Huh,” I exhaled. If true, that was a glaring flaw in the socialization portion of my personality matrix, especially since it had seemed important to reach my goal. For someone to talk about whether or not they were a masked would require a lot of trust, which wouldn’t form if, as Jolie said, I only made shallow friendships.

  Which meant that rather than cast a wide net, perhaps I should cast a small and focused one? But how would I know who to befriend if I didn’t know whether they were a masked beforehand? It was a conundrum with no clear answer, but it was something I would have to reconsider going forward.

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” I said, then looked all three in the eye. “Thanks,” I said with a smile.

  “What’re friends for, eh?” Millie said, throwing her arm around me and ruffling my hair.

  I scowled and went to fix it while the others laughed. Why did people keep doing that?

  X

  After drying and brushing it, I tied my hair back in place with a scrunchie and left the girl’s locker room. There were still a few other girls lingering about – primarily those with a heavier make-up routine than the one Mom taught me – but I was one of the last to leave. Millie, Saga and Jolie had already left some time ago while I still had to go to my daily remedials.

  A precise date for when my daily remedial lessons – two periods on every day other than Wednesday, when it was a single one due to PE – ended was still out, but it wasn’t anytime soon.

  The walk towards my remedial class was a quiet one. PE went from sixth to seventh period, ending at 16:25. Most days for students ended at 15:30 – including most of my own, not counting my remedial lessons – which was why the halls were all but deserted.

  I knocked on the door before I opened it and said, “Hi Mister Marquez.”

  “Good afternoon Samantha,” the elderly, all but retired teacher replied without lifting his eyes from the book – an actual printed book – at his desk.

  Remedials was mostly self-study in the presence of a teacher, who was there to keep an eye out for slackers and so we could ask questions whenever we needed. Not that anyone asked them aside from me – and even then only rarely – but then again, they probably had less severe gaps in their education than I did. Also, despite their restrictions, it was still possible to search for answers online even if you were locked to the school environment. It was just more limited to ‘trusted sources’.

  I made my way to my usual seat, the one nearest to the teacher’s desk. There were a few other students in the classroom, most of whom I only recognized by appearance. They were for the most part seated individually, with a few duos sitting side by side and talking to each other quietly. Mister Marquez didn’t seem to care if you talked during remedials as long as you finished your assignments and didn’t bother the other students.

  Either that, or he just couldn’t hear it if you talked at a low enough volume.

  I’d planned to sit at my usual spot near the teacher’s desk, but the conversation we’d had during lunch made me reconsider. My wide-net approach to getting to know other teenaged masked and building a team – which had already been slow going due to my inept social skills – now seemed even less feasible.

  I needed to do something different. A new approach, a new angle, a fresh start.

  And what better time to start than right away? Because while I knew most people here by face only, there was one I knew by name: Amber Sinnot, my desk neighbor during regular classes, also had remedials for whatever reason.

  Despite my ambition, any interaction with Amber had stalled after the first day, insofar that could be called an interaction. Besides asking to sit next to her, the only words we’d shared had been in second period during Math, when I didn’t know how to navigate that specific layout for the course on my tablet. She’d done so, which made me think better of her, but it was also clear she’d done it begrudgingly. I’d attempted some further conversation then, but she had quickly made it clear she wasn’t interested.

  And after that, nothing. Not because I tried and she didn’t respond, but because Millie had pulled me in her orbit almost immediately, and making friends with her friends had been much simpler than striking out on my own.

  But here she was, sitting alone at a desk in the back. Here was a new opportunity and renewed motivation. And from what I’d observed of her – general hostility, tenseness of posture, stressed out look and an aesthetic outside of the accepted norm – she fell square within ‘potential masked’ category.

  Of course, it was still highly unlikely she was one. Although people kept claiming the number of superpowered had kept growing since the end of the so-called Dark Age of Superhumanity – the era before Malcator’s conquest – the ratios were still highly skewed. Even the highest ratio of one-in-a-hundred becoming – not being, becoming – a superhuman during their lifetime still meant I had poor odds.

  But even if she more than likely wasn’t one, her behavior still overlapped with them. If nothing else, it would be good practice.

  Furthermore, from what I’d been told and from (for the most part) everything I read online, everyone deserved a friend, especially the isolated. It would be the heroic thing to do. Even if she somehow deserved it – unlikely, what can a teen do to deserve such a thing while in school? – heroes should always give people a second chance. And I was, or will be once I actually go out there, a hero.

  I could practically feel my Heroic Impulse buzzing in agreement. So, I approached her table with confidence, and asked quietly, “Can I sit next to you?”

  She startled, absorbed as she’d been in her assignments. She glared up at me, though I saw her gaze soften a tiny bit in recognition. “Oh, it’s… you.”

  “Samantha,” I provided.

  “Right, Samantha,” Amber replied. She looked around the classroom. “Can’t you sit literally anywhere else?”

  “I could,” I admitted. “But I don’t want to.”

  “Why?” She asked icily. “What reason could you possibly have to sit here?”

  Good, a way in. “I want to be your friend,” I declared. Millie had said she liked my straightforwardness, so maybe it would work here as well.

  Amber looked stunned, staring at me as if I was some kind of oddity. “Are you-” she cut off, releasing a sigh. “Right, you literally were born yesterday.”

  “No I wasn’t. It’s been twenty-six days,” I replied. “I’m almost a month old now.”

  She sighed in frustration. “No, that wasn’t what I-”

  “I know,” I interjected. “It was a joke.” Humor; another thing mostly taught by Millie, though Mom had had a hand in it as well.

  Again, she was stunned for a moment – likely shocked at my wit – before starting again, this time with heat in her voice. “Well, whatever. I don’t-”

  She was again cut off. This time though, it wasn’t voluntary on her part or done by me, but by Mister Marquez. “Amber, stop yelling; I can hear you from here. And Samantha, sit down and do your work.”

  I took the lifeline.

  “Yes sir,” I replied and quickly sat myself down next to Amber. She looked angry, but I still counted it as a win.

  For ten minutes, we kept to ourselves and worked quietly. The rest of the class had also gone quiet after the teacher’s call for silence, but slowly the noise was starting to pick up again.

  When she’d apparently deemed it time, Amber opened her mouth again. “Why do you want to be my friend?” She asked. “Even you must’ve heard something about me by now.”

  I shrugged, then whispered, “Not really.” There’d been some malicious-sounding whispers, sure, but they rarely contained anything concrete. Just snide comments really.

  “Maybe you should ask your new friends then,” she hissed in return.

  “Why can’t I ask you?” I asked, keeping my voice friendly.

  It didn’t calm her though. “Because I don’t want to talk to you,” she hissed again.

  Good point. “My friends wouldn’t like that,” I said, responding to her earlier statement instead. “Just today, they were annoyed at the other people whispering about me. Well, except Jolie. She was just concerned.”

  “Well…” she hesitated. “You aren’t bothered by them discussing you?” She asked.

  It was good I already had a conversation about this earlier. “Not really. It only annoyed me that they didn’t just ask me instead of whispering behind my back. Jolie and Saga said that was because they were scared or cowards, while Millie said they were malicious.”

  “Oh,” Amber said without looking at me.

  Sadly, the conversation died a somewhat awkward death at that. Maybe I said something wrong near the end?

  Still, ending aside, I thought that went well. We had a substantive conversation at least, and she became less hostile as it went on. Though perhaps I’d read that part wrong, considering the way she ended it.

  The rest of remedial passed in silence. When we left, I said a quick ‘see you tomorrow’ to Amber – she didn’t respond – and went home.