friends need to talk to me, who else did she mean? That guy in the trench coat—Nicholas? I’m pretty sure he doesn’t like me, but I’ve never met another guy with powers. It would be sweet to have a friend to watch sports with and talk powers with.
When the final bell rings, I rush to my locker—like if I hurry, everything will happen faster. Friday seems like a million years away, now that I know these other kids are out there. How are they coping? Do their parents know? I’m so busy going over the possibilities, I almost don’t notice the word thanks scratched into my locker door—until Catherine bumps me to get my attention.
“Hey,” she says. One corner of her mouth is turned up in an almost smile. “That stunt you pulled was pretty dumb. But it was cool of you.”
I shrug, like I do cool, stupid things all the time. “No problem. I hope to live it down one day.”
Then, since she’s not saying anything, and awkward silences are poison to new friendships: “So, um, do you want to maybe hang out Friday? There’s this party thing I’m going to, and . . .”
“Another party? Are the Pokémons invited?” She’s teasing me, though—I can tell. “I can’t. I have to work Friday.”
“Okay. Well, what about Saturday?”
Catherine shakes her head. “I work all weekend.”
Right. I wonder if I should ask her straight out if she’s blowing me off. But then I have this other, crazier thought: what if she’s doing what I used to do, claiming she has to work when she’s really going around town in amateur-vigilante mode, trying to make a difference in people’s lives?
Um. But Catherine actually has a job. Whereas I never had an extra-credit science project to do. Or any of the other projects I claimed to be working on.
“Well, maybe when you’re free sometime.” This is awkward as hell. It’s like asking a girl on a date, only it’s not a date. And it’s worse than that, because there aren’t a ton of fish in the superpowered sea. So if I screw this up . . .
“I’m not really free ever.”
“Ever?” I stare at her, maybe a little too intensely, looking for an explanation or something. Because—ever?
Catherine breaks eye contact, turns her attention to some gum on the floor. “Anyway, I have to go. I’ll probably see you if you stop by Roast. I’m usually there.”
She leaves me wondering what that was all about. And what else I don’t know about her.
· D. CARMINE · FILE #00161 Darla Carmine: MY STORY
* SECURITY LEVEL: Confidential
* CATEGORY: Autobiographical Account
If you’re reading this, you’ve reached the inner circle of Darla Carmine. (Just so you know, that’s kind of a big deal.)
Ready?
FACT: Being a genius isn’t easy. (Okay, well, technically it is easy—it doesn’t take any effort. What I mean is that it’s hard to find people you can relate to. And I would’ve put this in a footnote but Sophie told me that most people don’t like reading footnotes, so I’m trying to cut down on that.)
I was born to do great things, and I quickly discovered that I was pretty much alone in the attempt. When other kids were busy building mud pies and eating paste, and picking their noses and trying to wipe their “discoveries” on me, I was dabbling in robotics and adapting Gibbon’s The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire into a coloring book version I hoped my peers could appreciate.
It was the first of many disappointments.
As I entered school and became more ambitious, my lack of real friends became even more frustrating. I had so much I wanted to share with people! What’s the point of making exciting discoveries if you have to keep them to yourself? It would be like Newton discovering gravity and then not telling anyone about it, which leads me to my own personal Zen koan: If a genius doesn’t leave behind a legacy, does her brilliance really exist?
I refused to believe I was destined to lead the life of a lonely, eccentric hermit.
When the final bell rings, I rush to my locker—like if I hurry, everything will happen faster. Friday seems like a million years away, now that I know these other kids are out there. How are they coping? Do their parents know? I’m so busy going over the possibilities, I almost don’t notice the word thanks scratched into my locker door—until Catherine bumps me to get my attention.
“Hey,” she says. One corner of her mouth is turned up in an almost smile. “That stunt you pulled was pretty dumb. But it was cool of you.”
I shrug, like I do cool, stupid things all the time. “No problem. I hope to live it down one day.”
Then, since she’s not saying anything, and awkward silences are poison to new friendships: “So, um, do you want to maybe hang out Friday? There’s this party thing I’m going to, and . . .”
“Another party? Are the Pokémons invited?” She’s teasing me, though—I can tell. “I can’t. I have to work Friday.”
“Okay. Well, what about Saturday?”
Catherine shakes her head. “I work all weekend.”
Right. I wonder if I should ask her straight out if she’s blowing me off. But then I have this other, crazier thought: what if she’s doing what I used to do, claiming she has to work when she’s really going around town in amateur-vigilante mode, trying to make a difference in people’s lives?
Um. But Catherine actually has a job. Whereas I never had an extra-credit science project to do. Or any of the other projects I claimed to be working on.
“Well, maybe when you’re free sometime.” This is awkward as hell. It’s like asking a girl on a date, only it’s not a date. And it’s worse than that, because there aren’t a ton of fish in the superpowered sea. So if I screw this up . . .
“I’m not really free ever.”
“Ever?” I stare at her, maybe a little too intensely, looking for an explanation or something. Because—ever?
Catherine breaks eye contact, turns her attention to some gum on the floor. “Anyway, I have to go. I’ll probably see you if you stop by Roast. I’m usually there.”
She leaves me wondering what that was all about. And what else I don’t know about her.
· D. CARMINE · FILE #00161 Darla Carmine: MY STORY
* SECURITY LEVEL: Confidential
* CATEGORY: Autobiographical Account
If you’re reading this, you’ve reached the inner circle of Darla Carmine. (Just so you know, that’s kind of a big deal.)
Ready?
FACT: Being a genius isn’t easy. (Okay, well, technically it is easy—it doesn’t take any effort. What I mean is that it’s hard to find people you can relate to. And I would’ve put this in a footnote but Sophie told me that most people don’t like reading footnotes, so I’m trying to cut down on that.)
I was born to do great things, and I quickly discovered that I was pretty much alone in the attempt. When other kids were busy building mud pies and eating paste, and picking their noses and trying to wipe their “discoveries” on me, I was dabbling in robotics and adapting Gibbon’s The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire into a coloring book version I hoped my peers could appreciate.
It was the first of many disappointments.
As I entered school and became more ambitious, my lack of real friends became even more frustrating. I had so much I wanted to share with people! What’s the point of making exciting discoveries if you have to keep them to yourself? It would be like Newton discovering gravity and then not telling anyone about it, which leads me to my own personal Zen koan: If a genius doesn’t leave behind a legacy, does her brilliance really exist?
I refused to believe I was destined to lead the life of a lonely, eccentric hermit.
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