It was so hard not to listen. It was like swallowing food without tasting it. But I was smart. I didn’t let anyone know, not even my parents, or my baby sister, turning six soon.
In every book I read the one who reveals their powers is the one that gets the backlash, gets hunted and treated like a criminal, put to death with a reward on their head. Or worse, put under a microscope with needles the size of sausages prodding at their skin, roomfuls of grey haired doctors with big glasses and well ironed lab coats, asking questions like they’re a suspect of murder, whispering about them in small groups, being referred to as “the subject” or “it”. Because if they knew what I was, I wouldn’t be Rosemary Pearson anymore, I’d be an alien.
So I pretended Samantha wasn’t there, two desks away, looking at me every few seconds, clearing trying to decide what she thought of me. It was like holding my hand in an oven, and being so curious what it would feel like, to see if it would hurt if I touched the metal for just a second, just to see if I would really get burned. I was so close to opening up her mind like a cabinet, reading it like an article in the news. I could feel the oven’s metal inches below my skin. I had to know, I had to know. I pulled out. I did know; I would. I would always, always get burned. I repeated that, again and again, until it rang in my ears like one of the radio songs in my mom’s car. You will always get burned. You will always get burned.