You've Got Another Thing Coming

I have always found it difficult to live in the present. My entire existence is based on history; things that happened before my time.

Although, I know I’m not the only one who feels this way. Lots of people have problems with accepting reality, for taking the world for what it is and live by its rules.

For some reason, this does not calm me; the knowledge of not being alone. Because I know something that they do not. I’ve been through things that they could never even imagine in their wildest dreams; those dreams that they so dearly want to believe are true, but that they have to come to grips with, are not.

Some people live in their dreams, some people live through them. Some people live out their dreams, but I am the only one who has ever lived a dream so unbelievable, that it can only be true.

I’m nothing out of the ordinary.

There is nothing much to say about me that couldn’t be accounted for a million other teenagers throughout history, and still, I strongly plead my individuality.

No one likes to be the 999,999 others when someone is the “one in a million”, but I was born to always be one among those nines. I want to be someone different; I want to be able to say that my existence counts for something in this world, but I have come to face the truth: I am no one special.

I have a great family, a nice home, good and reliable friends and I do fairly well in school. It’s a fine life with a fine, staked out future. I have enough money to make it through as a middle working class teenager, and everything is acceptable.

Acceptable. It has a dirty sound to it, that word. Though, that word is what always described me best. Therefore, I couldn’t have been more surprised at what went on beyond my reality. Behind the shadows it lurked. It waited, wanting little to do with the world as I knew it, but lingered on in search for something that could be of use, of great assistance.

I sat in the cafeteria, picking at a plate of what, according to the sign, was supposed to be a healthy version of lasagne.
It didn’t fool me. I could see that it was part of something evil, something that threatened to take over the world.

“Aha!” I burst out. “I have a theory!”

My fellow victims of the bad lasagne looked up from their own helps of undistinguished mess.

“Another one of your splendid theories, Cal?” one of my friends asked. I looked up and met her light grey eyes.

I smiled victoriously. “Yes, Joan, another one. Don’t worry; it has nothing to do with sex. It’s perfectly PG-13.”

“That’s not too good”, Joan replied. “It still means that kids under 13 aren’t allowed to hear it.”

Eric, a boy with blonde hair and an impish smile, reached across the table we were sitting at and patted Joan on her arm.

“Joanie, when are you going to learn that nothing Cal says is ever suitable for a child’s ears?”

I grinned at this. My friends knew me well.

“Still”, I said, getting back at the subject, “this theory only contains mild violence and language that may seem harmful for young children. Adults should be asked for permission in case of ever feeling the urge to listen to another perfectly explainable gut feeling of mine.”

Kind faces smiled at me from around the table. Some were intrigued, some more or less used to this kind of behaviour, and therefore not very attentive.
Who could blame them, really? I came up with different theories each and every other day, some actually quite clever and smart, some… not so much.

I held my breath, waiting for everyone’s attention to turn to me, and only me alone.

“The cafeteria personnel are systematically poisoning us, force-feeding us alien food that will slowly take us out, one by one until there are no more teenagers or kids left at school. Then, they will rule the world!”

Around the table people folded. Some looked slightly annoyed but kept quiet, and some tried to stifle their giggles. Joan shook her head.

“It’s a pretty big step from killing off teens to ruling the world”, Eric said with a grin so wide his very childish dimples were an evident fact.

These exact dimples made younger girls at school swoon over him and his cuteness, and uncountable were the many notes he had received in his locker containing a love sick youth’s thoughts about the creations of said dimples.
Some said God had something to do with it; I said that the dimples came from elder women’s endless pinching of his adorably round cheeks when he was a baby.

“Meh”, I responded, “of course there might be obstacles in the way, but if all kids are dead, then who’s left to fight? In the end, the human race will die out, and then the cafeteria personnel can rule the world.”

“If all humans are dead, then what is left to rule over?” Joan wondered.

I opened my mouth to give her a witty and clever retort, but fell short. “The trees?” I said unconvincing, and Eric snorted. His hair fell into his eyes and he pushed it away with a quick gesture that made girls at a nearby table squeal in adoration.

“You could try and make yourself not look stupid every time you come with a new and brilliant idea, Callie”, he murmured, using my full name in the process. “It’s as if your trying your best at being interesting, but it doesn’t work. Think a little first, okay?”

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The time passed by uneventfully. Nothing out of the ordinary happened that day in school, on the way home, while I was doing my homework or while I was in the bathroom, being the mammal I was born as.

When I crept into bed that night, the numbers of that day’s mathematical problem still in my mind, I was reminded of Eric’s words at lunch.

“As if you’re trying your best at being interesting,” I repeated slowly.

I felt my cheeks redden at the thought. Of course I had to make some kind of remark to get attention. I was normal to the point of boredom; if I didn’t make stupid comments, then who would ever notice me?

I had got to know Eric by sourly asking him if he had tattooed his dimples on because the girls would like him more then, and he had laughed and stated that every sting of the needle had been worth it. After that we had began talking, sarcastically at first, but by time we became close friends.

Joan I had met in class. We started talking after sitting next to each other through an entire lecture on why it was not allowed to wear hats inside, and after many raw and ironic remarks about the teacher, we had fully agreed that we were on the same page.
It turned out so that we were on the same page on lots of things.

The rest of my friends were kind of the same story. We met, I made some sort of comment, they laughed and then we started talking and became friends.
It was that way with Paul, a shy kid with glasses and black, messy hair that always stood on end. We called him Harry.
The same went for Laura, a blonde beauty with a taste for horror movies and death metal.
Benny, the boy with a tendency to get pierced wherever he could and dye his hair a different colour every month, and Walter, the leader and most outgoing person of our group. He was the one to keep our friendships tight, fix the ones that were broken and just basically being the hen mother of us all.

We loved each other, and we were always there for one another. We also believed that it was going to be that way forever.

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I whistled completely out of tune, every now and then getting my pouting mouth full of water as I bent my head back and let the shower wash my face clean of shampoo.

Stepping out of the shower, I searched for the towel and friskily dried myself. My skin burned red as I sped for my bedroom across the hall, flung the door shut behind me and tossed the towel into a corner. I opened the door to my closet, stuck my head inside and began to rummage through its contents.

“I’d start with underwear, if I were you”, one of the dressed sarcastically stated.

I straightened up, startled. The last time I had checked, dresses didn’t talk; and they certainly weren’t sarcastic.

Randomly, I picked out my favourite black-and-white dress and poked it. It said nothing. I threw it on the floor behind me.
I chose another dress, this time a greenish blue, hideous thing that I had once got as a birthday present from a distant relative. It was the wrong size, the wrong colour, and definitely the wrong thing for me to wear.
I poked it were it hung in the closet, and - lo and behold - the dress giggled.

Now, let me spell this out for you: The dress giggled.

“Stop it!” it ordered. “That tickles.”

I had never heard of a dress that giggled, talked or was sarcastic. I had never read about it, seen any documentary footage about it or even believed that there would be such a thing. It was complete nonsense. Clothes didn’t talk. That’s basic knowledge. It was against nature.

The dress, however, was completely unaware of this.

I felt a sudden urge to slap Darwin across his face as the hideous dress began to move, dangling from side to side on its hanger.
I could see things moving behind the fabric, the greenish blue colours began to swirl and blend together and I realised with a start that the dress was filling out.

A figure began to take form inside the dress, a pair of legs shot out from underneath the skirt and arms pulled themselves over the top, stretching out and making room for the head that was to come.
It was as if a person was growing inside the dress, and, soon enough, there hung a girl from the hanger, fully clothed in the greenish blue dress. Her feet dangled just above the floor and her head leaned against her shoulder.

Suddenly, the head jerked up and she smiled politely. “Hi there”, she said.

That was when I fainted.