off a wall – slow and messy.
Since the night I had those dreams I’ve become more sensitive to my surroundings. Every sound, every scent, every emotion shimmering in the ether finds its way onto my radar. I pick up subtle cues that would normally have gone over my head. It’s as though the world of the unseen has been remastered in 3D high-definition, and it’s overwhelming. I haven’t felt like this since the day I came into my telepathy, over a year and a half ago.
At first I thought my gift had become erratic because I’ve taken a break from training. Now I realise that the opposite is true. Despite the fact that I’ve made no effort to develop it, my gift is getting stronger.
This is awkward. Not cute, romantic-comedy awkward, but ground-open-up-and-swallow-me awkward. I’m standing in my living room in my underwear, my clothes flung across the arm of the sofa. My best friend, Lebz, is bent over, measuring the span of my hips. Kelly, our group’s new fourth musketeer, has encircled my waist with her manicured hands to determine whether or not I’m an hourglass in the making.
I stare at the ceiling and try not to cringe. I resisted, as much as one can resist in the face of two tornadoes. I made some protest about my dignity, but by then my skirt was already around my ankles. It’s my fault for wearing a skirt for the first time in recorded history; Lebz’s keen eye noted that something was amiss. As if that wasn’t enough, the skirt didn’t hang from my jutting pelvic bones as expected. Instead it seemed to…fit.
I’ve always been the wrong kind of tall and the wrong kind of thin, the kind that makes you look like an alien struggling to fit into a human body rather than a supermodel. But something strange has happened to my figure lately. That is to say, I have one now. Hips. A butt. Dips and curves that make clothes cling to me in unfamiliar ways. I’ve taken to hiding it by wearing loose T-shirts over my jeans, but today is laundry day and the skirt, a gift from our house help, Auntie Lydia, is all I have to wear.
Lebz straightens up, widening her kohl-rimmed eyes. “You used to look like a ruler!”
I scowl. “Thanks.”
“Your knees are still weird, your legs are too skinny and there’s no hope for those non-existent boobs, but you have hips now, so you’re officially a woman.”
I put on my most saccharine smile. “You forgot freckles, the monster pimple on my chin, hair that never does what it’s told, funny ears, big nose, fangtastic incisors…”
“Shut up,” says Kelly. “You’re beautiful. Lebz is just teasing, obviously.”
I know Kelly is trying to be nice, but no one wants to be told they’re beautiful by a girl who turns heads wherever she goes.
“You’ll have to get a whole new wardrobe,” she decides, finally releasing me.
“More skirts,” says Lebz, nodding. “Some decent skinny jeans.”
“A tube top or two, a slinky dress…”
A tentative knock sounds from the closed kitchen door. “Are you ladies done yet?”
That’s Wiki, the other musketeer, and the only boy in the gang. Poor baby. The second Lebz and Kelly saw me they shooed him away so they could strip and torture me, and he’s been stranded in the kitchen ever since.
“No!” Lebz calls back.
“Yes!” I snatch up my clothes and pull them on. “So I’m a late bloomer – big deal. I’m not going to start dressing like Kim Kardashian.”
“No, you’re not there yet,” says Kelly, with a forlorn glance at my behind.
I gape at her. Why did I invite these people over? Oh yes – I missed them. We’ve all been swamped lately. They’re battling through Form Six, and with my job as an assistant on the set of a TV show I’ve hardly seen them.
I march to the kitchen to let Wiki in, feeling flustered and more than a little embarrassed. He enters warily, carrying a tray of chips and drinks.
“I made us some snacks. And you look great,” he adds as an afterthought, though I look exactly as I did when he entered the house.
I smile and take the tray. “You’re only supposed to say that if a girl has changed something.”
“I can never tell!” he protests. “You were attacked by the Fashion Police – I assumed some sort of makeover was inevitable.”
“We were conducting a strip-search,” Lebz giggles, helping herself to a glass of lemonade and taking a seat.
“Without a warrant,” I grumble.
Kelly laughs and plonks herself beside Wiki, who immediately slides his arm around her waist. It’s like a reflex action now. I never thought I’d see the day Wiki had a girl in hand rather than a book, but then again, a lot has changed. Two years ago Lebz was a flighty serial monogamist, Kelly and I couldn’t stand each other and Wiki was practically asexual. Now Lebz is a singleton who reads newspapers as well as gossip rags, Kelly and I are friends and Wiki has a gorgeous girlfriend.
On the other hand, some things haven’t changed. I glance at the blonde-streaked quiff on Lebz’s head. As long as I’ve known her she’s been a slave to fashion, switching up her look before I even get a chance to get used to the last one. Today she’s wearing a leather skirt and a ridiculous pair of heels, just to walk round the corner from her house to mine. Kelly, on the other hand, is wearing a cute but casual dress with sandals. It seems she’s rubbed off on Lebz and Wiki’s rubbed off on her.
I lean back in my chair. “So! Tell me all the gossip. What’s new at Syringa?”
The Syringa Institute of Excellence is the best secondary school on the planet. I left at the end of Form Five last year, while most of my peers continued to Form Six, but in my heart I’ll always be a Syringa kid.
“Well, two students pulled a Henry Marshall,” says Wiki.
I frown, trying to make sense of that statement. Henry Marshall, a well-known CEO, vanished under suspicious circumstances a few weeks ago. A security guard found his car in the Airport Junction Mall parking lot. The key was in the ignition and Marshall’s phone and briefcase were in the boot. There were also three bags of groceries on the backseat. So far the police have no leads.
I stare at Wiki in confusion. “What on earth does that mean? They disappeared?”
He shakes his head. “They left their lockers open with all their belongings inside. That’s what people call it – a Henry Marshall.”
“It’s become a thing now,” adds Kelly in disgust. “People leave their lockers open or their bags lying around to bait thieves, and then they watch from a distance to see what happens and film it all on their cameras.”
“Then they post it on YouTube,” says Lebz, whipping out her phone to show me. “It’s not just Syringa. People from other schools have done it, too. It’s really catching on.”
I wrinkle my nose in distaste. “You must be joking.”
“Unfortunately not.” Lebz fiddles with
