1 Accident

Haven's warm, wet palms pressed against my cheeks so tightly that the rim of her blackened silver skull ring left a dark mark on my skin. Even with my eyes closed, I know that her black-dyed hair is parted in the middle, the black synthetic corsage is worn over a turtleneck (a tribute to the school dress code), there is a hole in the long black satin skirt (where Haven caught the hem with a heavy boot on thick soles), and her friend's eyes appear golden only thanks to yellow contact lenses.

I also know that Haven's dad didn't go on a business trip at all, my mother's personal trainer is not so much a "coach" as "personal", and her younger brother broke her CD with records of the Evenness group and is afraid to admit it.

I know all this for sure, although I didn't peep or sniff it out, and no one told me anything. I know because I have psychic powers.

"Hurry up, otherwise it's already a call!" My friend's voice is hoarse, hoarse, as if she smokes a pack a day but in fact she only tried it once. I'm playing for time, wondering who would she least want to be confused with.

"Hilary Duff?"

"Brrr! Did not guess!" She presses her hands closer together, unaware that I don't need to see to know.

"Mrs Marilyn Manson?"

She chuckles and let's go of her hands. Licking her thumb, she reaches out to wipe the mark from the ring on my cheek, but I have time before. Not because I hate her drooling (I know that she is not sick with anything) I just don't want to be touched. Touch reveals too much about a person, it's insanely exhausting, and I try to avoid it at all costs.

Haven pulls the hood off my head and squints at the headphones in my ears.

"What are you listening?" I pull out a CD player from an inside pocket I've sewn secret pockets into all my hoodies so that teachers don't notice the white wires that come out of my ears. Haven's eyes widen.

"Wow! Did you turn it up to full volume? And who sings?"

She holds a Walkman between us so we can listen together as Sid Vicious screeches about anarchy in the UK. To be honest, I don't even know if he is for or against anarchy. I know one thing: he sings loudly, so that he almost manages to drown out my abnormally heightened perception.

"Sex Pistols," I answer the question and hide the player again.

"Wow, you heard me too!" Haven smiles as the bell rings.

I shrug. I don't need to listen to hear. True, there is absolutely no need to mention this at all. I just say, let's meet at the cafeteria, and head across the yard to my class. I cringe all over as I feel two guys leaning against my friend from behind and stepping on her hem so she almost falls over.

Haven, turning around, makes a sign that brings bad luck (okay, he does not bring bad luck, this stupid sign, she made it up herself), and her yellow eyes sparkle angrily. The guys immediately fall behind and no longer fit in with her. I sigh more calmly and enter the classroom, knowing that soon the residual energy from Haven's touch will dissipate.

I head to my seat in the last row. I step over the bag that Stacia Miller deliberately placed in my path and studiously ignore her traditional greeting.

"Lou-user!" she sings out loud

I sit down at my desk, put the earpiece in my ear, put my hood back on, slam my backpack on the chair next to me, and wait for Mr. Robins to show up.

Mr. Robins is always late, mainly because he likes to kiss his silver flask at recess. Well, this is because his wife constantly yells at him, his daughter considers him a loser, and in general everything in life is lousy.

I became aware of this on the very first day at the new school, when I handed him my documents and accidentally touched his hand. Now, if I need to give something to him, I just put it on the edge of the teacher's table.

I wait with my eyes closed, my hands in my sleeves, and switching the player from a screaming Sid Vicious to something softer, more melodic. In the classroom, the maximum volume is not needed. Here, the psychic energy does not rage so much, perhaps because there are fewer students per teacher.

I haven't always been a freak. I used to be a normal teenager. I ran to school discos, fell in love with celebrities and was terribly proud of long blond hair - then it would never have occurred to me to pull it into a ponytail and hide it under a hood.

I had a mom, a dad, a little sister, Riley, and an adorable yellow Labrador named Buttercup. I lived in a wonderful house in a nice neighborhood in Eugene, Oregon. Everyone loved me, I was happy and couldn't wait for my first year of high school to start.

I had just been chosen as the captain of the cheerleading team. My life was full, above only the sky. A terrible banality, and at the same time the absolute truth, no matter how ridiculous it may seem.

However, I know what happened next. After the accident, I clearly remember only one thing: how I died.

I had what is called clinical death. Only, you can believe me, it is not clinical at all the most real. Just now, my sister and I were sitting in the back seat of my dad's compact SUV, Buttercup's head was in Riley's lap, the dog's tail was gently tapping on my leg, and the next moment, hop, the airbags inflated, the car was soft, and I was looking at everything. It's from the side.

So, I look at all these disgraceful shards of glass, mangled doors, the front bumper squeezed a pine tree in a deadly embrace and I can't understand what happened, but I myself pray: if only our people were alive, they managed to get out, like me.