School Of The Gifted

I emerge from the hatch lid, finding myself behind a large dumpster. The smell is mild, suggesting it's either recently emptied or not heavily used. I can't help but think it's interesting that the school chose this as my arrival point; I hope it's not a reflection of how they view me.

I close the hatch lid quietly, dust off my clothes to rid them of any grime, and then cautiously poke my head out to see beyond the dumpster. The area is quiet, the immediate vicinity clear of people, which is a small relief. I scan the surroundings, trying to get my bearings in this new environment.

The corner where I've emerged is just spacious enough to accommodate the dumpster, creating a small, secluded area. As I peer beyond this corner, the landscape opens up to a vast field, stretching out into the distance. There's no building in sight, just the expanse of green, perhaps used for sports or as a buffer zone between different sections of the school. The field is dotted with patches of wildflowers, swaying gently in the breeze, giving the place an almost serene quality.

Remembering the warnings from Sisyphus, the man in the submarine, and Old Man Neal about the possibility of being watched for, I approach the edge of the corner with caution. Each step is measured, my eyes scanning for any sign of movement or surveillance. I keep close to the wall, using the dumpster for cover as much as possible, my senses heightened to any sound or sight that might indicate I'm not alone in this seemingly quiet area.

There doesn't seem to be any place where people could easily hide, and I don't see anyone in sight. Taking a cue from the apparent safety of the moment, I quickly exit the corner, but my haste leads me to crash into someone. The surprise of the impact sends a jolt through me, my heart racing as I stagger back, unprepared for the encounter.

The person I crash into falls to the ground with a surprised yelp. She's a girl of small stature, her body slender. Her hair is styled in a two-tone burn, black at the roots fading into a deep purple at the tips, the strands cut in sharp, choppy layers that frame her face, enhancing her gothic aesthetic. Her eyes are lined with dark, smoky makeup, accentuating their piercing quality, while her lips are painted a dark matte shade.

She wears a black, fitted corset top over a sheer, black blouse, paired with a high-waisted, pleated skirt that reaches just above her knees, all in varying shades of black. Her outfit is completed with thigh-high fishnet stockings and heavy, combat boots, the chains and studs adding to her edgy, gothic look. Around her neck is a choker with a small, silver bat pendant, and her ears are adorned with multiple piercings, each one contributing to her unique, dark style.

As she rubs her head, her face still down, she curses, "Fuck, watch where you're going, you asshole! Shit, that hurt like a bitch!"

I think to myself that she's such a foul-mouthed brat, but I apologize anyway, bending down to help her pick up her phone which had fallen during our collision. As I take the phone, my eyes inadvertently scan through the contents. She's on a messaging app, but the interface isn't familiar to me. It might be a less popular app or something specifically designed for this school.

But it's the last few messages on the phone that catch my eye.

She received a message 5 minutes ago saying, 'we found a likely potential location, it's at the trash factory'. The next text urged her to hurry up. She had replied with 'omw', short for 'on my way'. A minute ago, another message came through asking, 'where are you?' In her text box, she had typed 'cominggg' but hadn't sent it, likely just about to when we collided.

I scanned the name of the sender before handing the phone back to her; the name was stored as 'Nessa' with a love and flower emoji beside it.

I hand the girl back her phone, then stretch my hand out to help her up, but she kicks it away, snapping, "I don't need your fucking help."

She gets up on her own, dusting herself off before finally looking at me. Her gaze is sharp, assessing. "You're clearly a freshman," she says bluntly, "and you could be handsome if you paid more attention to your appearance."

I catch the implication in her words; she doesn't seem to be a freshman herself, perhaps a second or even third year. Unsure and opting not to guess, I keep silent.

After she finishes her appraisal, her eyes move beyond me, noticing the corner I emerged from. She looks at me with a weird expression, then asks, "Why are you coming from there?"

I fumble for a lie, my mind racing to come up with something plausible, but she speaks again before I can.

She frowns, her voice more serious now, "Are you a potential?"

My heart skips a beat, the sensation of my secret being potentially exposed sending a wave of panic through me. My face flushes, and I feel a tightness in my chest, the realization that my cover might be blown making me feel exposed, vulnerable. I struggle to maintain a neutral expression, my mind racing with the implications of this girl knowing my true status.

I say "No," hoping the word sounds convincing enough to her.

She sighs, her demeanor shifting slightly. "Do you even know what a potential is?"

I shake my head, feigning ignorance which, at this moment, feels like a shield.

She looks at me with an expression of disgust. "I thought so, but..." Her face changes to one of revulsion as she steps back from me. "The only other explanation for you coming out of the trash corner is that you went there to... ugh, no way you tried to touch me with your disgusting hand!"

I fumble to deny it, but the words won't come out, my mind tangled in the shock and embarrassment of the accusation.

She shakes her head, her disgust palpable. "People like you won't last long here. You can't even control your urges."

I try to defend myself, the urge to clear my name strong. I came to this school to reinvent myself, make friends, and I'll be damned if the first student I meet thinks of me as a creep. I'm about to speak, but then I decide against it. It's not the most appealing cover, but if it protects my secret, I should let it be.

I bow to the girl, offering an apology, "I'm sorry. I've been tense, and masturbating helps me relax."

The girl frowns, then smiles, a mix of amusement and scorn in her expression. "Boys your age tend to do that, but try not to touch people when you haven't washed your hands."

I nod simply, acknowledging her words.

She moves to leave, passing by me, but I call out to her, needing one more thing. "Could you give me directions to where I'm supposed to receive my orientation?"

She points towards a large building in the far distance. "There," she says. "It's called the Coliseum. Other normie universities might call it an auditorium."

"You should go there; the orientation will take place there," she adds before turning to leave. However, she stops, looks back at me, and studies me again. "If I were you, I'd start going now."

She adds, "It'll take you 30 minutes to get there if you run at top speed. And lateness isn't acceptable at orientations. Latecomers are expelled." Then she runs off.

I curse under my breath, "Fuck, fuck, fuck," and break into a sprint.