School

She stood at the front of the class, wearing high-heeled shoes made cheaply on some unnameable planet outside the Main Line but sold in expensive boutiques here. Her skirt was respectably short, three quarters of an inch above the knee, and her shirt was a white button-up blouse. Her hair, tied back in a tight bun and her glasses sat appropriately low on her nose. She fit the stereotype and the fantasy and while the boys on the school Omega Ball Team made dirty jokes about her, the polite suburban wives wondered if the unmarried teacher was trying to attract their husband’s attention. She smiled at the thought. At their thoughts, while laughing inwardly at the irony of the class. “How many senses do you have?” she asked her pupils. The answers slowly rolled in, and she smiled, continuing, “what about if you were psychic?” A variety of numbers were uttered, all seven or more. But she corrected the students, “psychics do not have more or less senses than you or…” she paused, “I. But their senses register information in variant ways. A telekinetic, for instance, can see gravity and often describe it visually as topographic lines emanating from the object. A telepathy can hear thoughts, though the sensation is registered in a variety of sounds and…” the fantasy jumps into her head, thought so loud and hard she failed to ignore it. In the wistful image, she is seated in the bonnet of new model sports car while a high school jock fumbles at the buttons of her shirt. She shakes her head, sighs and continues, “images.”

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School

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