Awash in Talent by Jessica Knauss

sprinkler system is, we’re all soaked in less than a minute. And that’s the best-case scenario. I don’t have to tell you what the worst-case scenario is. This lady needed some serious sensitivity training if she was really going to promote inter-Talent cooperation. It does not do to tell the bird it’s caged.
    Think about what you’re saying, idiot, I thought. And then I heard the words outside my head. “Think about what you’re saying, Principal,” said Brian. “You may be kryptonite-free here, but our patches are preventing death and injury.”
    “You couldn’t buy enough insurance to have us here without our kryptonites,” said Raúl. Cynical as it sounded, he was probably right.
    “I’m an Other-Talented Healer,” said the aluminum-hating girl. She looked fine now, not sick at all. “I can heal anyone and it will be like nothing happened.”
    I don’t know what an Other-Talented Healer is, but this girl had no idea what she was talking about. I think she’s about the same age as me, but her overconfidence, which she clearly thought made her seem more mature, sounded like a squawking little girl.
    “Why don’t you continue with the presentation we’re all so anxious to see?” said Mr. A.
    The telekinesis kids looked like I felt: let down. Deflated like old balloons. Like, how could they do their grand finale now, with everything that’s been said in this ginormous room?
    But they looked at one another, then planted their feet and swept their arms upward (not as elegantly as before), and the bench we were sitting on began to rise from the floor. As soon as I could tell what was happening, I hopped off to stand next to the guard, and my side of the bench lifted a little faster. “Get back on,” said the aluminum girl. “We’ll hold you safe.”
    I shook my head at her, so she turned her attention back to the bench, and, apparently with the help of her classmates, lifted it even faster. They were headed straight for the ceiling, which, as I mentioned, was like a million feet above. Even from below, I could see the white knuckles on the sides of the bench. Melinda screamed, so it was a happy time, anyway. Mr. A. looked at the principal and said, “What are you thinking?”
    “They’re fine. My students are holding each individual on the bench in addition to lifting the bench itself. Even if the bench falls, none of the students will,” she replied with the same self-assurance she had when explaining about inter-Talent cooperation.
    But Melinda wouldn’t stop screaming, and Willa joined her, because she’s Willa. So after a stern look from Mr. A., the principal waved at her students and we never got to see what they were planning to do. The bench alit and all nineteen students clambered away, brushing each other off as if terror had stuck to them like a powder. First thing, I made sure Jill was okay, and she was, having held onto Brian’s arm the whole time.
    Aside from the guard, who could hardly get over what he thought was the comedy of the day, everyone was quiet on the ride back. I think we were all processing different reactions.
    I followed Jill inside and looked at our undecorated cinderblock walls—posters, tapestries, and even paint present too much of a threat when we take our patches off at night—and my mind flashed back to the architectural grandeur of Moses Brown. Each room seemed to imitate a different style, like a palace or something, and there were objects everywhere, many of them flammable. Objects to decorate with, objects to use. Objects any of those telekinetics could send through the air in complex loop-the-loops, but here, they would expect us to merely set ablaze. And that accounts for the Spartan, yes, I’ll say it, prisonlike look of the PMA. Those telekinesis kids should have a field trip over here.
    Why couldn’t I be a telekinetic? Or even just normal? Apparently, only 10 percent of the population has one of the three Talents at any given time, so I’ve