TMI

You would think that reading minds would be the ultimate super power. You're wrong; it isn't. Reading minds is incredibly tiring. In fact, I spend most of my time trying to not read minds. By having the 'power' to read minds, I am actually powerless. I have undying headaches that I can rarely control. I feel heartache, death, and fear that is not mine. I have nightmares that are not mine. I know what people think about when most of the time, I could care less. I throw all of my consciousness into building this wall to keep your thoughts out so that I can have my own for a second, a minute, an hour at best. If I focus hard enough, my wall won't crumble for a few hours. I am always exhausted, sometimes cranky if I have enough energy to be. No, reading minds is not a super power. Knowledge is not power.

Opening my locker, I take off my sunglasses and stare into the mirror I have propped up. I look less than average today. I have dark bags under my puffy eyes. I almost always have sunglasses on to hide them; I get tired of Mom telling me that I need to get more sleep. I lightly apply more cream to the dark circles in an attempt to look more healthy. It fails and I give up. I wish my eyes were a vibrant blue or a piercing green, but they are dark brown to match my hair. My curls are pulled loosely into a bun at the top of my head. I can see small ringlets escaping my bun despite my best efforts. My skin is pale and I wish I have the summer tan my peers do. Sighing, I close the locker and head to Pre-Calc.

Reading minds can be handy from time to time. I always know the answer to the questions Ms. Jensen asks me. I also know that she has it out for me, because she thinks I'm an over privileged and unappreciative brat. I know what my mom hopes to hear when she asks how I am doing at school. She also feels helpless when she is around me, because unlike me, she does not know what to say. I can sometimes avoid certain bullies (Peyton 'Evil Witch' Gene, Britney 'Obnoxious Wench' Clinton, Jeff 'Bad-Breathed Punk' Johnson) by hearing their thoughts before I see them. I know when someone is telling me the truth. I know what not to say. 

The school hallways are a dark gray and the lockers are mustard yellow. Yes, mustard yellow! Nobody knows why they would choose the nastiest colors as our school colors. I wind in and out of the crowds of people in the hallway. Three things to always remember while walking through the halls:

1. Don't run. Weave. Weave in and out.
2. Put both backpack straps on your shoulders. Yes, wear a backpack the way it was designed to be worn. Don't worry about trying to look cool, because you look ridiculous when your backpack, and all of its contents, scatter all over the floor after bumping into someone. It also helps you get out of the crowd faster if you have two hands free.
3. Keep your head halfway between looking forward and looking down. This way, you don't have to look anyone in the eye and you won't be crashing into people by just staring at your feet.

Hearing the thoughts of the people I pass is just another reminder of how badly I want to get out of here.

"I am not going to make it to class in time to copy her homework."

"I have such a bad headache from that party last night." Oh yeah, I feel so sorry for you. NOT!

"Ugh. He still hasn't texted me and he's over there talking to her! I shouldn't have had sex with him last night!" Nothing says 'high school' better than a good love triangle!

"Practice today is going to be horrible."

"I've lost 3 lbs. already! This diet is going to work!"

"Is she actually looking at me?"

"Maybe I'll get laid today..." Gross!

I push away all of the thoughts and concentrate on my own. I hate it. I hate reading minds, because I want to live a life that is not overwhelmed by the thoughts of everyone else. And, looking at it logically, the cons definitely outweigh the pros. I don't want to hear what people are really thinking. I don't want to hear the perverted or depressing thoughts of the immature teenagers in my high school. I don't want to hear nasty insults before they come out of Britney's mouth, because hearing it once is already too much. I'm tired of being exhausted all the time, tired of never being able to think my own thoughts when someone else is close by. I want to lead a normal, boring life. 

I walk down the aisle farthest away from the door, next to the wall of windows and sit down at my desk in the back corner. I drop my backpack onto the floor next to me and pull out my notebook and pen. I haven't used a pencil since the 8th grade. There's something about the smudging that really annoys me. So, I use pens and have for the last two years. I've learned to not write something down until I'm pretty sure I want it to be permanent. I flip through my notebook and see all of the scribbled out words and sigh. Okay, so maybe I haven't learned how to have an organized, clean notebook while using a pen. Looking up, I see that class isn't going to start for a few minutes, because I'm early. Only one hour, one hour before I'm free. I start to doodle drawings on a new page and I slip into my world of thoughts. I close my eyes as thoughts pass through me, envelope me.

"Jess, how about you answer this one?...Jess?"

Ms. Jensen's talking to me and I slowly come out of my world. I can hear that everyone is staring at me, hear what they're thinking about me.

"Caught again..."

"She's clearly messed up."

"She's probably on drugs..."

My eyes flick over the board at the front of the class. Ah, so we're learning about logarithms today. Glancing past the written examples on the board, I peer into Ms. Jensen's head and,

"3 is the exponent to which 2 must be raised to produce 8."

Ms. Jensen looks like she wants to wallop me, but she is intrigued as her eyes widen in surprise. I continue to listen to her thoughts.

"I swear she reads my mind." 

I suppress a giggle and bow my head again as I go back to drawing in my notebook. I start to draw my favorite flower, hellebore. My grandmother called them Winter Roses, because despite the cold of winter, they still bloomed in her garden. She had dark blue ones that were so dark, they looked black until you were close. I remember drinking her homemade hot chocolate while staring at them from inside the warmth of Grandma's cottage. Most people walked by them, looking at the other plants she had in her garden. It was their loss. There was something special about these flowers that would bloom in the cold of winter and early spring. They are delicate, light to the touch, and yet so strong to bloom in such cold weather. My grandmother had told me one of the legends of the hellebore. Apparently they were born from the tears of a sad Jewish girl. She was crying, because she did not have a gift to give the baby Jesus, sprouting the Winter/Christmas Rose. I always wondered if the newborn flowers were her gift to Him, or if they were His gift to her.

I can finally breathe once the bell rings; it means that I can escape all of the noise. I pack my notebook and pen while everyone else rushes out the door. I open the side door at the back of the classroom and step out. It's starting to drizzle, which happens all the time in New Hampshire, especially in April. The air smells fresh and sweet. I look at the thick forest of trees at the edge of the grass and start heading that way. Time to clear my head and hopefully get rid of this headache!