Logic

This was it. This was the moment her entire high school career had led up to. All of the hiding, lying, and avoiding was coming to an end in a matter of seconds.
She wasn’t ready.

Merely a day ago, Shea was sitting in the back of her math class, scribbling notes intently while her teacher explained the formulas for conducting a test of significance. Her passion was rooted deeply in the world of statistics and probability; problems upon problems were scrambled over her room’s blackboard wall, endlessly working toward some sort of discovery.
“Hey, Shea, do you get this?”
The girl looked over at the sophomore, who was scratching a geometric design in the corner of his already disheveled notes.
“No, not really.”
To be quite honest, she just didn’t feel like explaining the process to him. She gave an apologetic smile and continued her frantic jotting, not wanting to spend her favorite class explaining a concept she found so intriguing to someone who only wants the credit.
Lying about it didn’t phase her, though. She lied daily.

With the rest of her day quickly over, Shea crawled up the cracked wooden stairs that lined the interior of her home with every intention of collapsing on her bed. Her head hit the pillow, a billowing sigh rushing from her lungs. She pondered over the day’s events in her head, deciding that for the most part, she had pretty much had it with school. She was over school events and could definitely live without another assembly, but most of all, she was over the lies.
Little questions asked so nonchalantly by acquaintances and friends constantly rack her brain, sealing an undying worry into the back of her mind. One day, she was going to have to tell them all. She comforted herself with the fact that it wouldn’t be soon and began to work on her problems.
She was a small 17 year old girl, no taller than 5’4”, with her frizzed corkscrewed hair resting just above her shoulders. She mostly wore long-sleeved shirts and jeans to cover the freckles she never grew fond of and had wore her father’s old horn-rimmed glasses with sentiment stored in every nick and scratch. Her eyes were a glistening green that her mother always compared to the bonsai tree in the window, her smile in perfect alignment after two years in metal binds. She wanted to feel ordinary, but knew she never could. That was impossible.
An abrupt vibration from her bed jolted her back to reality; she slid to her bed, draping herself over the duvet as she reached for her phone.
Is this Shea?
A confused expression splashed onto her face, not sure who could have gotten her number.
Could be. Who is this?
Shea waited for what seemed like hours, butterflies spawning in her stomach. The anticipation was eating her alive.
I know your secret.
Vortexes now replaced the butterflies, going rampant within her. How could someone have found out? Was she being stalked? None of that mattered anymore; her game was over. She’d be taken away, never to resume the somewhat normal life she had finally solidified.
Once the initial storm of emotions had taken their course and a shaky yet stable breathing pattern found its way back, she called her father.
“D-Dad?”
“Shea? What’s wrong, are you okay?”
“Someone f-found out.”
He didn’t respond. Billions of thoughts rushed through her head, potential outcomes spurring another wave of sobs.
“Hey, don’t worry. It’ll be okay. Are you sure this is what you think it is?”
“N-no, but-”
“Then don’t freak out! Just go to school as if nothing happened. It’s probably only a prank. You’ll be fine, sweetheart.”
Shea wrapped up the conversation and decided to go to bed in order to avoid the spiraling possibilities in her mind. Hours earlier, she could rest comfortably that the worst was far from happening. She wasn’t so sure anymore.

7:09. Everything is hanging on a hinge. Shea hopped out of her car, locked the door, and headed to her locker. A sledgehammer is beating against her ribcage as she takes shaky steps towards the staircase. Only three steps up, she hears another student begin their ascent. She cannot trust anyone.
7:11. She’s opening her locker now, wary of a presence that hasn’t quite left her shadow. There are about twenty students in the hallway, so she can’t narrow it down. Paranoia has nested deep.
7:13. Her heavy platforms pound against the concrete as she heads in the direction of her first period. She isn’t alone, and she’s terrified. To lose her trailer, she leans against the wall and pretends to check her messages, letting traffic flow freely. Nobody gives her a second glance. Was it really just a prank?
7:16. Relief washes over her; people were walking by, the entire school almost filled now, and not a single person has even glanced her direction. She was okay. In a quick motion, she pushed herself off the wall into the flow of traffic, not entirely realizing she practically flung herself into the middle of the football team.
“What’s your problem, man?”
“What’s up with the weird girl?”
“Even four eyes can’t help her see.”
“What a freak.”
Their collective comments reeled back a tsunami of panic, her heart now a hummingbird and her legs woven out of yarn. In a matter of seconds, her worry quadrupled in size. This was it, and she knew it.
“Leave me alone!”
She thrust her arms down in a fury, waves of immense fire licking her sleeves. The flames crept up her arms, completely engulfing her up to the shoulders. Her eyes were smoldering, turning a black that put charcoal to shame, and her hair transformed into an impressively aggressive inferno, knocking the team and everyone else in the hallway back in both fright and wonder.
Shea looked down, realizing what she had done; instantaneously, she extinguished herself and shrunk back into her corner. Her eyes, back to their innocent green, grew wide and began to well while the handful of students who witnessed the event rose from their fall.
“That...was awesome.”
The football player in front wiped his face, his eyebrows now nonexistent, and gawked in disbelief.
“How did you do that?”
“Are you a witch?”
“Did that hurt?”
“Are you Lavagirl?”
One by one, instead of fleeing or calling the police, the students began asking her questions. Shea was bewildered; why were they not terrified? Was this just an act to keep her calm? She began backing away, ready to run and never return.
“Wait, Shea, don’t leave!”
She glanced to the source of the voice, the kid from her statistics class, and immediately longed for the whole scenario to be a dream. She wanted to go back to her problems, to the never-failing logic she lacked so dearly in her reality.
“Shea, that was wicked. You’ve gotta talk to us. What was that?”
She scanned the crowd, searching for the one disapproving or terrified look she needed as an excuse to flee. It wasn’t there. Every single student was looking to her with curiosity; the hatred and rejection she was so ready to accept was nowhere to be seen.

7:19. All logic she held dear was lost. All of the hiding, lying, and avoiding had come to an end in a matter of seconds, and she was okay. Really, truly, completely okay.