Trippiness, Cell Phones, and a Pinch of Mind Reading

I stare at the huge, daunting building. I can't believe I had classes here for five hours and I found my way out.

This is a school? Looks like a teeny, short version of the Chrysler building. Six floors, three block radius, partially glass walls. The school of the future. Then why is its name old sounding? Carver High School. The name is carved into the entrance, the only part of the building that maintains some history. I ascend the stairs leading to the main entrance. My nineties phone falls, and i reach down to pick it up.

My hand comes into contact with the floor. Suddenly, my head starts spinning.

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Everything's blurry. I can barely see clearly, let alone my nineties phone on the floor.

What I do see is pictures. The history of the school is ãll around. I watch as everything swirls.

That's when a hand grabs my shoulder. It's the only thing really keeping me from falling into the swirlyness that threatens to suck us all dry. It's trippy in the very worst sense of the word. Like H, but without all the purple clouds. Which helps, I hate purple. Or maybe I like it. I'm kind of a flip flopper with colors.

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The hand pulls me out of the sepia colored, history filled picture world to my feet. I lose contact with the ground, and I begin to see the world around me again. My eyes focus as I try to focus in on the face attached to the hand that pulled me out of my hallucinatory trance.

Its the guy with the welcome basket. As mysterious and hot as ever. Damn me and my spacing. Makes me look like an idiot every time. My friends never cared, because they've known me forever, but I don't think Chicago will be as forgiving. Just a hunch.

He not only looks like he doesn't really care why I was frozen, bent down on the stairs, inches from grabbing my nineties clunker of a cell phone, but there seems to be understanding written on his face.

He gives me the same stare as yesterday. It's the same intensity, but I don't feel invaded this time. Either I'm used to it, or he's trying to be nice.

"You're used to it." he says.

Huh? How'd he know I was...

"Because I just know." he says, before I can even finish my thought. I look at him bewilderedly. How'd he do that?

"You can...?" I can't even fathom the answer.

"You are not who you think you are." he says simply. He hands me a small card, almost like a business card, only it's purple. I turn it over, to read the words:

"If you can read these words, you are more than you think you are. Or less, it depends on how you look at it. (Hmm, wit. I like witty guys, is my thought.) Go to 77 Charlotte Street and show the door this card.
347-387-0810"

I stare at the mysterious mind reading hot guy. (Best not think that thought too hard, he might have heard it.) "What's this for?"

He says nothing, just takes me by the hand, and leads me to a black mini-van with a good three dents each in each door. He opens the front passenger seat, and ushers me inside. Gentlemanly. Cool.

He closes my door, then walks around to the other side. I take the time as he's turning on the car to tell Ashleigh that I'll be a little late. Granted, late to me is early to her. Best get home at 1 in the morning. She expects me home at that time, I bet. Hello freedom.

This is my thought as the guy pulls out of his parking space. That, and I'm silently berating myself for not looking nicer. In New York, I was normally prepared for this sort of thing. Damn low self esteem.