Back To School

**Big High** **Cafeteria**

**Tuesday**

**Lunch**

 Frederick A. Big High School was an unusual place by any standard, but that was why she was here–  her parents had wanted her to attend Saint Smithtons, but the security arrangements and support facilities at Big High School were genuinely unique. They had vastly more experience dealing with large numbers of super-normal teenagers than essentially anyone else, anywhere.

   And not to put too fine a point on it, but – while secret identities prevented any solid census– there were at least a half dozen current and former members of The Big Team in attendance at any given time; often more. Consequences in the event of an … incident would be contained, at least as much as they could be.

   But the same arrangements that made Big High attractive had consequences.She grimly suspected the arrangements that had put Carmen and Nat in separate lunch periods was deliberate; explosive things always seemed to happen when four or more members of the Team were allowed to congregate in one location. It’s what she would have done. Best to keep things manageable and contained as much as possible. This probably also helped facilitate the experience of a ‘normal’ teenage social environment for the school’s more unusual students.

   Thus, Violet Park brooded alone, watching drops of rain pound against the plexiglass windows of.the cafeteria, tater-tots cooling in front of her, as a thousand other students swarmed and thronged, going through the everyday business of lunch in an American High School.

   It was *normal*.

Normal meant *healthy*.

   Right?

By the door of the same cafeteria, Misty Hawthorne shifted from foot to foot, staring around the room. Not for the first time, she considered how easy it would be to just…leave. Walk out the front door. But she’d promised her dad she’d at least give Big High a fair try, and it wasn’t like it had been bad so far, not really.

Just…weird.

She’d really been hoping for lunch with Angy, because that would be something that was familiar and normal in all this, but they’d compared schedules earlier and had no such luck. And sure, she supposed there were plenty of tables open, but…

It wasn’t, she thought to herself pointedly, that the cafeteria was intimidating. She’d faced down two gods and a weird giant puppet lady. She didn’t get scared easily. But those situations had at least been a familiar *kind* of thing to deal with. She just wasn’t sure what she was supposed to *do* here.

She stared around the cafeteria one more time, looking for anything familiar. Her eyes caught a long red scarf and tense posture, and her shoulders relaxed slightly. *Ok, Violet’s here.* Misty headed over to that table, dropping her tray across from Violet’s to sit before realizing that, oh right, she probably should have asked first. Or said literally anything.

“Hey, can I sit here?” She was already sitting, but, whatever. It worked.

   Violet was, of course, Violet. In this instance, that means that her response was a nonchalant grunt and a noncommittal shrug, but if you’d watched carefully, you’d notice that she pulled her tray aside just before Misty’s arrival, to make room.

   “First day?” she asked. She’d heard rumors around the Base.

Misty winced. “Yeah. Promised dad I’d give it a try, so…” she shrugged one shoulder, looking around the crowded cafeteria again, eyes catching on each of the exit points. “Here I am, I guess.”

   “Same,” Violet nodded, sympathetically. *Parents!* . “Part of the deal where they let me stay on Big Team, instead of taking me home to Trenton.”

Misty stabbed at one of her own tater tots with a fork, the gesture less angry than it was automatic. After a moment, she couldn’t hold her question in. “Is it supposed to be this…*weird?”* She hissed across the table.

   Violet made a little face..

   “Think maybe …. you’re asking the wrong person about how it’s *supposed* to feel? I dunno. I only just started back this fall.” She takes a defensive bite of tot to cover some emotions, not wanting to elaborate, yes, just how *weird* the whole thing felt to her.

   “Is this your first time in Midgard’s public school system?”

Misty scowled. “Not…really, no. But I was in seventh grade when I, uh, left.” *Left* sounds better than *ran away from home.* “And it’s been like, four years.” Now she was the one that sounded defensive, her shoulders hunched up.

“And a lot’s changed. And some of it’s good, don’t get me wrong.” For one, the transformed being a thing means she’s no longer the one visibly *strange* person in the classroom. “But I guess I’m, uh, not used to learning like this. Anymore.” Not that she was ever great at it before, but it hadn’t felt this…strange.

This earns a little rueful laugh from Violet. “Tell me about it. I spent two years being transformed into, well…. this,” she gestures at herself, as if there would be something visibly wrong about her, “ and having my brain stuffed full of every mechanism for violence, security and infiltration they could devise, then another year of hopping through time, space and reality on Big Team, and I have to come back and pretend to be interested in book reports and *Geometry*.”

Misty’s head tilted to the side at Violet’s comment, not unlike a confused dog; she didn’t actually *know,* she realized, much of what led Violet to be on Big Team. The comment about book reports and Geometry prompted an amused snort, because--well, yeah. She’d glanced over the class plans that had been handed to her, and it just seemed a lot less…well, *practical,* and certainly less interesting, than what she was used to.

“Wait–” Violet paused for a second– “they let you *skip* from *seventh*?” Violet asked this, in the tone of somebody who had been abducted from the tenth grade and plunked right back down at the beginning of Sophomore year, finding herself both somewhat older and vastly weirder than her classmates.

Misty looked somewhat sheepish. “Uh, yeah? I didn’t catch the whole conversation about it, but I think it’s because it would be “better for my socialization” to hang out with people closer to my age.” She put down her fork to do air quotes, her hands still in their usual gloves. “I think they think that if I make friends at school, I’m not gonna, well,” her voice lowered to a sullen mumble. “Run off and join a bunch of villains again. Or something.” She took another bite of food, more to move on from that than for any other reason, and then tensed up a little as she realized that, oh--she hadn’t actually told Violet that at any point, had she?

Violet, for her part, had been abducted rather than running off. But she’d struggled for a long time with part of her that wanted to embrace what she was good at– even coming face to face with a version of herself that had. She arched an eyebrow in response: “You ran off and joined a bunch of supervillains?”

Misty tensed, for a moment, hackles rising--and then she let out a breath and her shoulders slumped.

“Yeah. When I was twelve,” she said, for whatever clarification that brought. “I thought I couldn’t go home and they were--” *nice to me* isn’t quite right. “I dunno. They treated me like I was one of them.” Unless she screwed up, in which case she was just some half-human kid, too weak thanks to her Midgardian blood, too soft to be a real warrior. She finished off her tater tots with a vengeance. “I’m not going to do it again,” she added, just in case Violet was wondering.

“Didn’t think you would?” Violet did not choose to leave home. The Circle didn’t treat her like one of them. And she *hated* with every fiber of her being the part of herself that missed that life. That said she was *good* at it, she understood the fight, the rush, the way everything functioned smoothly like a finely calibrated machine, without doubt or uncertainty. On the level of ‘*what happened to us’*, they were very different, but Violet understood the desire to *belong*.

She made a crunching noise as she bit into the salty yellow shell of a taco. It was an invitation to continue.

Misty paused at Violet’s easy acceptance of what she said--okay, maybe the talks with Odin and Tyr, the constant low-level *that’s what I would expect from a child of Loki,* were getting to her. She smiled, briefly--a genuine one where she wasn’t trying to hide her teeth--and shrugged. “I mean, well, they weren’t human, I guess. And I wasn’t either, and that was all before the Transformed and Zodiac City were a thing. And don’t get me wrong, that gang sucked,” she added, because that was *also* important.

“But like, it was easier to get along with them because we all were doing the same thing and I knew what we were doing. I don’t know how to get along with *anyone* here. I haven’t even fought alongside them!” She gestured with her free hand wildly. “How am I supposed to *make friends?”*

“Didn’t you have friends before?” Violet asked, between bites of her taco. She used to have school friends, but the things that bonded her to them weren’t there anymore. No bonding over long hours of violin proactive or sneaking out to audition for the school musical. Near as she could tell, the way one made friends now was that Nat decided, and then the matter was final.

Misty looked decidedly awkward, eating for a moment rather than answering.

“Not…really,” she admitted. “I mean. There were kids I knew. People whose parents worked with my dad or whatever. But I wasn’t the kind of boy girls wanted to hang out with because I was weird and then with the boys it wasn’t really better. And they always had questions about my eyes and ears and I couldn’t tell them the truth, and they didn’t like that.”

They finished off the last of the sandwich they had brought and crossed their arms. “Anyway, I *have* friends now, on the team. I don’t know why I need to try to make more.” *And fail* goes unspoken. “How do *you* make friends? Other than fighting with them on the team, I mean.”

Violet shrugged.

“Fair enough,” Misty said. “Anyway that’s why the grade thing, but it’s mostly for like. Homeroom. In terms of like, what class level I’m at it’s kind of all over the place. I tested into chemistry but in math, uh,” she grimaced. “Not as good. Who knows when I’m actually going to manage to be done with all of this.”

“They put me. In. *Home Ec,*” Violet fumed a little, as if the issues with the idea were transparent.

“Good luck on the socialization,” she added earnestly. “The administration tries to encourage it, but the…. whole Big Team *thing* is hard to keep secret unless you’re keeping the rest of the team in the dark, and once that’s out the other students get… *weird* around you, you know? Half of them want you to get them Weatherman’s autograph, and half of them look at you like you’re walking around with a loaded weapon.”

Misty glanced down at her bracelet, which was—in fact—fully capable of turning into a loaded weapon. “I know what you mean,” she said. “People get weird about superpowers but even weirder when they find out you actually like, use them. Kinda wish I got into Home Ec, though, don’t you make stuff there?” she scowled.

“I’m in health and like, I know how to do first aid and we don’t even know if human nutritional stuff is relevant for me.” The sheer quantity of food she’s been putting away all lunch is almost all the proof she needs of that statement. “It’s just gonna be sitting and taking notes and no like, practical stuff because it’s not like anyone’s gonna come in with an injury for us to practice on under pressure.” Which was how she’d learned first aid—under pressure in a freezing wasteland with minimal supplies, and it had worked out fine for her!

…then again, everyone involved had been a bit sturdier than human. “I don’t know. I just feel like it’s stupid. Like, I’ll *do* it, but it’s stupid. I’d rather be making stuff.”

“Got to learn how to make pajeon for the family recipe project. That was kind of OK, I guess? But the sewing is *extremely* remedial. Most of these kids can’t do a backstitch to save their lives,” Violet gestured to her classmates. “I guess it’s better than math. But the whole thing just seems so…. disconnected from anything that I can see having applications to my life.”

“Exactly!” Misty said, relieved that she wasn’t the only one who felt that way. “I mean--it’s--I don’t understand how sitting in one place for a few hours and talking about--about math, or books, or anything is supposed to help me. And like, I’ll do it. For dad.” She’d do a lot of things for her dad. “And I have Angy here, and you and Nat and Carmen and Paige and a bunch of people on the team. So it’s not all bad, but i just don’t see the *point.* It’s not like learning to fight or survive on my own or fix things. I guess Chemistry is useful, though, considering.” She glanced down at her hands, to where her nails were hidden.

“I used to think the point was making other people feel better. They want to put you in the normal place and think everything’s fixed, everything’s OK, you’re right back on track and going to live a normal life.Like you’re going to be an auto mechanic or a dental hygienist or something– I dunno, maybe your academics aren’t as messed up as mine and you get to be a programmer or an anesthesiologist. Like it makes it easier for them to pretend?”

Violet’s power let her perceive the weak spots, the places where the world wanted to break– her taco shell never stood a chance. It crunched in defeat. “Now? I kind of suspect they know it won’t work, but they need to try *something*, and they don’t know what else to do but mimic the forms.”

Misty frowned, considering that, turning it over in her head. “I--guess I see what you mean. But I don’t think my dad at least ever thought I was going to be normal. Given, well.” She trailed off, waved a hand, as if that could encompass everything she meant. “Asgard. Father. Fate, I guess?” She made a face at the word, as though to indicate her distaste for the entire concept.

Violet grunted. *Fate*!

“I don’t think he ever thought I was going to end up normal,” she repeated, still thinking through it. “But I think--I think he wanted me to have a chance to *feel* normal, even a little bit, even though I don’t think it’s working. But I can’t really blame him, y’know?”

“I think most parents want what’s best for their kids. But their vision of ‘best’ is conditioned, by society, and by their own experiences. My parents are immigrants who managed to end up teaching at an Ivy league university; their whole lives were about succeeding because they were very, very good at ‘school’. That led them to push my sister and me in particular ways– not to be the same as them, but to replicate the things they saw as important to their success. I imagine your dad wants you to have some of the same experiences and opportunities he did?”

Misty opened her mouth to agree--because she did, honestly, agree; her parents wanted what was best for her, no matter how hopeless that might seem. And then she thought about the second part of what Violet said, a little. The story of Violet’s family was interesting, she thought, if only in that it wasn’t the kind of thing people usually took the time to tell her.

“I don’t actually know,” she realized aloud. “I mean, about dad. What things that happened to him he wants me to experience, too. He doesn’t talk about life before me a lot.” She’d always just sort of…not thought about that, because it was what was normal. Just a dad thing, like bad jokes. Or music. Both of which he had shared with her, in abundance. “Huh. Weird.”

She shook her head. “I mean, I know my father wants something similar--or, well, at least he wants me to have the opportunities my siblings didn’t get to have. A life without chains. Not super sure school fits into *that* idea, but hey, they decided to raise me on Midgard, and this is kinda part of that,” she shrugged, finishing off the last of the food on her tray.

“And like--I don’t think that my dad wanted me to learn the way I did--well, with the group I was with.” It wasn’t that she thought that the hands-on, practical learning of fighting and mending and first aid was *bad,* precisely, it was just that…she didn’t really want to tell her dad the details about it. He would worry, probably, even though it was all over. “So maybe he’s also just trying to show me another option. Something…gentler, maybe. Even if a lot of it seems pointless.”

   “Yes.” Violet nodded, hrmming. “Gentler.”

The strings weren’t green, they didn’t have color, but there was something *green-like* about them, it was a word Violet might have used in one of her futile attempts to explain to others what the sensory experience of her fate-sense was like.

She followed the strings as she glanced around the cafeteria. Bullies. A kid being shaken down for lunch money. Another being teased about her braces.  A boy sitting with people he desperately wanted to be his friends who…. simply didn’t respect him as a peer. A boy whose parents sent him to lunch with stinky home-cooked food, pulling it out of the bag with a sheepish look on his face. The pretty popular girls table and an array of passive-aggressive frenemy slights, a vicious little social knife-fight for pack hierarchy.  All around the little invisible lattice of social Foucault-style chains. Nothing brutal or violent, just the thin etching of scars that would, over time, keep therapists in business for another generation.

She turned her attention back to the two of them, sitting at their table for outcasts as the rain pounded down outside.

   “Parents are weird.”

   “Do you think they’re right? Is school ever going to give us another alternative, or are we kinda always going to be who we are?” Violet clenched her teeth for a second, seemingly frustrated by something beyond the conversation. “I keep thinking that there’s got to be some other kind of option, but I don’t know that Geometry and Home Ec and going to pep rallies for Beavers sports teams play a big role in it.”

*Are we kinda always going to be who we are?* Without even thinking about it, Misty’s fingers traced the runes along her right wrist, the ones that marked out her family. Her shoulders came up, hackles raising against the question on reflex. It wasn’t one she liked to think about. As it so often did, Odin’s voice rose in her mind to taunt her: *She will betray you. It is simply in her nature.*

   Violet got her own vicious little memory. Handler’s voice. *Weapon: Atropos, you will eliminate the target. You will comply with your programming. Override Code –* and then a sound even Violet’s memory refused to allow her to process.

“There are a lot of people who sure think I--who think people are always going to be who they are. Were. Are supposed to be, whatever--you know what I mean.” She waved a hand, unable to articulate the knot of resentment and not-inconsiderable fear in her gut. “I…honestly, I don’t know.” She was staring down at her tray, eyes looking past it, unfocused. Rain hammered on the glass of the windows--the particular cold-gray rain of January and February, too warm to be snow, too early in the year to kindle hope for spring.

“But,” she said, looking back up to be able to look Violet in the eyes. “I know that I don’t *want* to be the person who I was anymore. Sure, I learned a bunch of useful stuff--more useful than I’m learning here, probably. But also, I was a jerk, I don’t want to be a jerk, and also I really, *really* want to prove the people who say I haven’t changed wrong. So I’m not sure school will help, sure, but I would rather be the kind of person who agrees to her dad asking her to go to school than the kind of person I used to be, and *that’s* gotta count for something. Even if it sucks and is boring.”

“And we can at least try to get through it together,” she offered, brightening again. “Seeing as we’re both stuck here.”

Violet nodded solemnly.

“Does that mean you want the rest of my tater-tots?” she offered, pushing her tray forward with something that might almost be like a grin.