Just Super

"Is Emily okay?"

That’s the first question I have for Ms. Ruehl.

“She’s safe at home. Would you like me to let her know that you returned safely?”

“Yes, please.”

That way I don’t have to talk to her.

“I have something I have to tell you before I go home,” I continue.

She doesn’t look surprised as I spill my guts. I tell her that the whole thing in the auditorium was my fault. I explain the arrangements I made, the strings I pulled. Then I ask how bad the damage was.

“Structurally, moderately severe. It’s mostly repaired now,” she replies.

Then she goes down the list of every injury. She starts with a few scrapes and bruises, goes through a few more serious cuts and contusions, and gets to Alexandra Green. Her arm was broken, but she’s otherwise okay. I give the closest thing to a prayer I’ve ever given that that’s the end of the list. It is.

I breathe a sigh of relief.

“Should I come to school tomorrow?” I ask.

“Yes, but report to the office instead of first period. I’ve scheduled a hearing.”

I’m not surprised, not even that she’s already done so.

I nod.

“One more thing,” I say.

“Yes?”

“It’s Ms. Doyle now.”

“Noted. I’ll have your records changed.”

I didn’t expect her to be surprised. Nothing surprises her. But I have a feeling no one else will be surprised either.

I hate waiting.

I’m sitting outside the hearing room, waiting as witness after witness goes in, gives their statement, and leaves. I could be in there listening, but I don’t want to hear what they all think of me.

It could be worse; I could have asked Mom to come. Given that she is blaming the whole thing on the school again, I’m pretty sure that wouldn’t help with my strategy of taking responsibility for my actions.

The door opens and Stacy walks out. From inside the room I hear someone speak.

“Just one left.”

Given who I haven’t seen yet, I know who it has to be before she walks past me into the room.

Emily.

When she sees me, she turns away. She looks almost like she’s feeling guilty.

I’m dead meat.

She’s in there longer than the others and when she walks out, I avoid her gaze by burying my face in my hands.

It’s another few minutes before Ms. Ledbetter, one of The School’s admin assistants, leans out and calls me into the hearing room.

“Frank, please take your seat,” Principal Ruehl directs.

I do, and look around the room. Besides the principal and Ms. Ledbetter, there are four adults there. Mr. Berry is the only one I know. The other three are from outside of the school. They were introduced my first time in the room, but I was too stressed out to pay attention, and just think of them as ‘The Tribunal.’

Principal Ruehl nods to Ms. Ledbetter, who closes the door and takes her seat.

“You’ve given your side of the story,” Principal Ruehl says. “Now we have a few questions based on what we heard from the other students. Are you prepared to answer them, or do you need us to continue tomorrow?”

Waiting until tomorrow sounds terrible.

“I’m good.”

Most of the questions are about minor details that I have a hard time believing make a difference. There are a couple of quibbles about just what I said to who. It isn’t worth arguing, so I just accept whatever the other kid said each time.

“Why did you come forward and confess your part in the incident?” Tribune One asks.

“Because people got hurt. I thought they deserved to know what happened.”

“What do you expect your punishment to be, if we decide one is warranted?” Tribune Two asks.

“I don’t know. I know that I could be expelled. Maybe even be sent to the Residence. I don’t think that would be fair, though.”

“Why not?”

“I said from the beginning, I didn’t mean for anyone to get hurt.”

Principal Ruehl looked to the Tribunal and one of them nodded.

“Do you think intentions are more important than results?” she asks.

I want to say yes. 

“No, but I think they count.”

“And what were your intentions when you shoved Alexandra Green, causing her to stumble and break her arm?”

“She was under the falling ceiling.”

“So you saved her from being crushed?”

“I think so. Maybe she would have gotten out of the way in time on her own.”

“But you put yourself at risk in an attempt to save her.”

“She wouldn’t have been in danger if it weren’t for me. And I wasn’t really in any danger. I knew I could teleport out of the way.”

“Even in an area where powers were behaving erratically?”

“Okay, I hoped I could teleport away; it turns out I was right.”

“Yes, that brings us to Emily English.”

“What about her?”

“She said that you teleported her out of the way of the falling ceiling.”

“She would have been fine.”

“She was not as sure of that as you seem to be. It’s unlikely it would have killed her, but she could have been badly hurt.”

Before a few days ago, I wouldn’t have believed that. Now I thought it might be true.

“I didn’t even mean to teleport her.”

“I believe you agreed that intentions are less important than results.”

This is extremely confusing. It feels more like the Principal is trying to get me out of trouble than anything else.

“Yeah, but I got us stuck in another universe.”

“Ms. English filled us in on some of the details of your excursion. She told us about the shooting. Tiara has verified that the two of you saved a number of lives.”

“Emily got us where we needed to be. I didn’t even stop the guy. Emily had to do that.”

She lowers her glasses and locks eyes with me for a moment. Then she turns to the Tribunal. All three of them nod. Then back to me.

“Do you have anything to add, Ms. Doyle?”

I shake my head.

“Very well,” she pauses to clear her throat, “Your actions leading up to the partial collapse of the ceiling of the auditorium were unacceptable. You put the lives and safety of numerous students at risk. In the end, your actions resulted in one student breaking her arm, and twelve students being treated for minor cuts and bruises. On the other side of the scale, without your intervention, at least one of the injuries would likely have been much worse, quite possibly fatal. You prevented another injury in its entirety. Also, a number of people are alive who very likely would not have been.”

“Like I said, that was mostly Emily.”

“Emily did not transport the two of you to that world. Without you, she wouldn’t have had the opportunity.”

“But I didn’t do it on purpose.”

“We have already discussed intent. We are discussing results.”

Why am I trying to argue myself into more trouble?

“Given these facts,” she continues, “to continue as a student at The School, you will be required to perform sixty hours of community service.”

That’s a lot, but it means I’m not being expelled, or worse. 

“You will work with the school advisors to find something suitable.

“Do you intend to continue your education here?”

That’s it? There’s not more? I almost argue, but I’m not feeling that guilty.

“I do. Thank you, Principal Ruehl.”

She looks to the Tribunal. A few seconds later there are three orangey-yellow flickers, and they’re gone—Checkers at work. 

Mr. Berry and Ms. Ledbetter use the door.

Once it’s just the two of us, the principal visibly relaxes.

“I’d like to talk to you a little less formally, Frank.”

I can’t exactly refuse that.

“Okay.”

“First, that was an insanely stupid thing you did. Expulsion was definitely on the table. If anything remotely like that ever happens again, it will be all but certain. Do you understand?”

I nod.

She goes on. “Some of your fellow students feel that you’ve learned your lesson. The fact that you came to me and confessed almost immediately after returning gives me hope that they’re right.”

She looks at me for a moment. It seems almost like she’s listening to something.

“Are they right?”

“I think so. Who said I’d learned my lesson? It was Emily, wasn’t it?”

It’s not like there are any other possibilities. I don’t really get it. She was so mad at me.

“That’s privileged information,” Principal Ruehl says.

Of course it is.

“But, speaking of Ms. English,” she continues, “she let us know that you figured out her danger sense, and its complications.”

I don’t see how that was any of her business. It isn’t against the rules or anything.

“Only partially. She told me some stuff I hadn’t realized.”

“You have been using that knowledge as a safety net for various,” she pauses, looking for a word, “pranks.”

It isn’t a question, so I don’t reply.

“Stop.”

I can’t believe Emily went crying to her about that. I’d already said I wouldn’t do it any more. I opened my mouth to say that.

Principal Ruehl speaks before I can. “She did not ask me to make you stop. That was not her concern. She brought it up in your defense.”

Oh.

“You can go now. You should be getting an appointment notification for Mr. Berry any moment now—”

My phone dings.

She continues, “I’m sure you have a lot to discuss.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say. “Thank you.”

Who needs official punishment when you’ve completely missed a week of school (and most of a day for the hearing) and have to catch up on all those assignments?

When I get home I get straight to work, only occasionally taking a minute to exchange texts with Denise. She wants to know what happened, but I want to wait until we have a chance to sit down in person. 

At dinner, Mom is even weirder than has become usual. Instead of just avoiding looking at me, she keeps stealing glances. When I ask what’s up with that, she brushes me off. She’d be upset if she’d figured out that I’m staying this way on purpose, so it’s not that. 

I should tell her, and I will, soon.

Tuesday I have my appointment with Mr. Berry. He doesn’t bother trying to act surprised that I’m a girl. He asks what led to my figuring it out, and I end up spending the whole session giving him the brief version of my accidental journey. I thought I’d be done with therapy, since I’ve figured out the whole trans thing, but it turns out I’ve probably got a lot more to talk about.

At lunch time I go to the cafeteria just long enough to grab a sandwich. Emily spots me and heads my way, but doesn’t reach me before I flicker to the study room where I’m tutoring a freshman named Peter in history as my first hour of community service. It beats picking up garbage.

The rest of the week goes mostly the same way, minus the therapy appointment. By Friday I’m caught up on schoolwork (barring one test I’ll need to take before or after school next week). I tell Mom I’m going to hang out with some friends from school, and spend the evening finally telling Denise about my excursion.

“Wait, you’re trans?!” she asks, pretending to be shocked, when I get to that part of the story. I roll my eyes and stick my tongue out at her.

“Seriously,” she continues, “congrats. I get why it was hard, with your mom and all.”

She gives me a big hug, and eventually I continue.

“What did Emily say when you asked her why she’s angry?”

“I haven’t talked to her since I got back.”

She once again pretends to be shocked.

“Would you cut that out, please? I’m going to talk to her.”

“When?”

“Monday?”

“Why don’t you call her now?”

“I don’t have her number. I’ll talk to her Monday.”

Denise looks doubtful.

“I will!”

“Good.”

“And I’m going to talk to my mom tomorrow.”

“Oh, wow. You’re ready?”

“I don’t think I’m going to get any more ready. She's had time to cool off over the whole accidental excursion thing. I can’t put this off any longer.”

“Call me if you need me, okay?”

I agree and she gives me a very welcome hug.

Click to skip to summary

It’s Saturday morning. Today’s the day. I’ve already decided that I’m going to tell her at breakfast. If I don’t, I’ll spend the whole day worrying about it. 

We’re still in the same place we were before my trip. She mostly can’t or won’t look at me for more than a second, and when she does, there’s an expression of pity or disgust on her face. I hate that so much that we barely see each other at all, despite living in the same apartment. Admittedly, I’m spending a lot more time out of the apartment than I used to, as well.

But this morning is different. I wake up to the smell of bacon. When I come out, Mom is serving up two plates of breakfast. We even eat together. She’s almost cheerful. Something is up. I might as well take advantage of it.

This will be easier if I’m not trying to maintain eye contact, so I start clearing the dishes before I speak.

“Mom, I have something I need to talk to you about.”

“That’s good, honey, but I have some news I’ve been dying to tell you, first.”

I tense up. I have a bad feeling about this.

“Yeah?”

“I found someone who can help you!”

“Really?” I reply, “Who? How?”

I don’t believe anyone can ‘help’ me, even if I still wanted that, beyond a normal medical transition, as we discussed right at the beginning. Since I don’t want to go back, it’s not going to happen. I’m still worried.

“Well, I’ve been talking with a bunch of women on my moms’ board,” she replies, “They all agree it’s so terrible what’s happened to you, by the way. Anyway, Tuesday a newer mom on the board sent me a private message.”

I feel sick to my stomach. The idea of her sharing my private details with all these strangers feels like some kind of violation.

“What exactly did you tell them about me?”

“Just the basics of what happened. How the school wasn’t careful enough and let this happen to you. How miserable you are like this. Maybe a picture or two.”

“You posted my picture!” I don’t quite yell, but it’s close. “Without even asking me?”

“You’re my son, and it’s my right. Besides, I had to show them the kind of horrible outfits the accident was making you wear.”

She had no right. I open my mouth to yell, but stop myself. I take a deep breath.

“Mom, I love you. I am your child, but I’m almost an adult. I should have a say in my own privacy.”

She starts to speak.

“May I please finish? It’s important you hear this.”

“I—”

“Please?”

“Go ahead.”

“This is what I was about to talk to you about.”

I’ve practiced this. I can do this. 

“No one can ‘fix’ me, because I’m not broken. I don’t need to be fixed. I don’t want to change back. I am never changing back. This is the real me. I’m transgender.”

“You’re not transgender. I’m your mother. I would know! You never showed any signs!”

“We can come back to that part, but yes I am. I’m still your child, but I’m not your son. I’m your daughter. I hope you can accept that.”

“You’re just saying that because you’ve been stuck like that so long!”

There’s no point in holding back anything now.

“I haven’t been stuck since a few days after it happened.”

“What?! How?!”

“I told you, I did this to myself, and it really was an accident, but it was the luckiest accident ever. And since I did it, I figured out how to undo—”

“You can change back? Do it, this instance young man!” she yells.

“I can. I won’t. I’m not a young man,” I reply quietly.

“You’re not one of those perverts!”

I flicker to the park.

My phone rings almost immediately. I decline the call. A few seconds later I receive a message.

Mom: You get back here immediately, young man!

I sit down on a bench and rest my face in my hands. 

She’s my mom. I should do what she tells me to do. On the other hand, I just explained to her that I’m not a young man, so whatever young man she’s talking to, that can’t be me.

That doesn’t convince even me. I don’t know what to do. 

Messages from Mom keep rolling in, alternating with my phone ringing. I turn on Do Not Disturb.

Then I message Denise.

Me: Talk?

Then I set an exception to the DND for her.

I sit there on the bench, paralyzed. At least ten minutes go by. At some point, my phone buzzes, but it isn’t Denise’s custom buzz, so I ignore it. More minutes go by, then the same buzz. I pull it out and check the screen.

My location is being used. I look up just in time to see my mom walking my way, still looking at her phone. She looks up and spots me.

“There you are, young man! Don’t you dare—”

I assume she says something about leaving, but I don’t hear it. I’m already back in my room.

I want to flee, but I don’t have anywhere to go. Denise hasn’t answered, but even if she had, it isn’t like I could stay there for long. I don’t really have any other friends. I have to suck it up and deal with it when she gets home. 

The only alternative is calling The School’s emergency line. Some parents don’t deal well with their kids getting a mark, so The School provides emergency shelter for kids who need a place to stay. But Mom won’t kick me out.

My phone buzzes to indicate that my location is being used again.

She’ll be back here in ten minutes or so.

I go to the kitchen and start to clean up our breakfast dishes. I’ve just started the dishwasher when the front door opens. I dampen a cloth and get to work wiping the counters.

I can feel her standing at the kitchen door.

I finish wiping and get the broom. 

She’s glaring at me.

I finish sweeping, then sit down at the kitchen table. I can’t get out of the kitchen without pushing past her—not without flickering. She continues to glare at me.

“I’ll try not to teleport away again,” I say, almost in a whisper, “if you want to talk. Please stop calling me son, or young man, though. That hurts.” 

She walks to the chair opposite me, but doesn’t sit.

“That hurts?” she says. “How do you think it feels to be betrayed by my own son?”

“Please?”

“Please what?”

“Please don’t call me that.”

“You’re my son. I’ll call you what I like.”

It is really hard to stay in my seat. I want to be anywhere but here.

“What do you want from me?”

“I want you to change back, immediately.”

I put my head in my hands.

“I already told you,” I say, “no.”

“You will do as I say!”

I stay quiet.

“Do not teleport. Not even in the apartment. Go to your room and do not leave until I say you can. You are grounded until I say otherwise.”

That is something I can do. So I go.

She can’t make me stay in my room. Nobody can. But, she’s still my mom.

At first I lie down on the bed and stare at the ceiling. I cry some. I’m getting better at that. Then I stare at the ceiling some more. Eventually, I grab my phone from my nightstand.

It’s locked down. She’s used her parental controls so that the only thing available is 911.

I almost throw it across the room. Instead, I check my computer. She’s changed the wifi password, too.

That’s just cruel.

All my books are virtual, so I don’t have anything to read. I don’t have a television, so I can’t watch anything. There is one thing I can do, though.

I’m sitting cross-legged on a cleared off section of my bathroom counter. I’ve added a cheap vanity to my mental shopping list. In the meantime, my bathroom mirror is my only option for doing makeup.

I smile at my reflection. Then I frown at it. Glare at it. Smile again. Nice.

Over the past few weeks, even before my little excursion, I’ve been gradually building a makeup collection. I can’t afford the good stuff, but Denise has helped me pick out some decent stuff at the supermarket. Even that costs a little more than I first expected, but I’ve put together a nice starter set.

I’m currently on my third completely different look for the afternoon. I created a decent ‘no makeup’ look to start, which worked well with my hippy-chick outfit, then I tried to recreate the ‘club night’ look Denise had done for me one evening. Lastly, I got out my goth-punk-princess clothes, and did, if I say so myself, a kick ass job on the makeup to go with it.

I hop down from the counter to get my phone so I can take a picture. Ugh. She’s even turned off my camera. Damn. I want a pic of this to send Denise when I finally get privileges back.

I stew for a minute, until I remember my other phone. It isn’t any more compatible with this world’s mobile network than my own phone with the other world’s, but the camera should work. I can figure out how to transfer the picture later. Worst case, I can hand Denise this phone to look at.

I pull it from the bottom shelf of my nightstand. I’ve left it charging there since I returned. I’m not sure why. I guess in case I wake up one morning and realize I’m about to accidentally hurl myself into that universe again. I’m always pragmatic.

The important thing is that the camera works. 

I take a few (and by a few I mean less than a hundred—probably) selfies, including some mirror selfies. Damn, I need a full length mirror. I add it to the list.

My favorites are the ones of me glaring at the camera. I feel like I pull off a cute but simultaneously intimidating look. All I need is an eyebrow piercing for it to be perfect. On the list.

Without thinking, I open the Instagram app on the phone (our equivalent would be snapGram). I set up an account one afternoon while I was bored over there.  When I realize what I’ve done, I start to swipe the app closed, but before I can, it finishes loading and comes up with a bunch of photos I haven’t seen before. I look at the bar at the top of the phone. It has a signal.

There is no logical way for it to have a signal. My regular phone didn’t have a signal in the other world. Neither did Emily’s. But it says it has a signal, and it just pulled a bunch of photos from another universe, which sort of makes me think it actually does.

First hypothesis: The portal Tiara opened left some ghost portal that is somehow letting the signal pass through. Pro: It’s all I can think of. Con: That’s a couple thousand miles away in Death Valley. I’m pretty sure mobile signals don’t travel that far. We weren’t even able to get a signal there, so that has to be a no.

Second Hypothesis: Quantum Entanglement. Pro: It sounds cool. Con: I don’t actually know what quantum entanglement is, but am 99.999% sure this isn’t it. I decide the pros have it on that one. It stays in contention.

Then I remember Daniel hooking the phones into his gizmo. He didn’t say that it would have any permanent effects, but there’s a signal.

I think about messaging Other Tiara. I have her contact info in the phone. But I don’t have anything to say to her. There is one other contact, and there were two phones connected in the gizmo. Does the other have a signal, too?

She won’t want to hear from me.That phone won’t even be turned on; she isn’t in danger of hurling herself into another universe. She won’t respond if I do message her. There is no point.

        Me: You there?

I drop the phone on my bed. I don’t want to see if the message gets marked read.

It rings.

I grab at it. I have no idea how to decline a call on this phone, but I need it to stop ringing. I hit answer.

“Frank?” Emily’s voice comes out of the phone’s speaker.