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confident boy calls, waving his arm like he’s in grade three.
    . . . Paul again . . . another student thinks.
    Mr. Arnold sighs loudly. “Yes, Mr. Barrett? What is it this time?”
    The boy doesn’t glance in my direction, but I feel his awareness of me. “Isn’t that like people today, accusing someone of being a Para when they’re not?” I stiffen.
    The room erupts into voices. People’s thoughts pulse with emotion so loudly I almost can’t hear what people are actually saying.
    I clench my hands in my lap, breathe slow and deep like Dad taught me to. I visualize people’s thoughts being covered in layers of heavy air that dampens their volume, pushes them down like sand falling through water.
    Everyone’s focused on what the boy said. I’m sure he did it on purpose, but I don’t think he meant to single me out.
    I reach out toward him and feel it immediately, the way his thoughts seem to vibrate in and out of each other, like 51
    Cheryl Rainfield
    he can manipulate them. He’s a telekinetic. He should know to be more careful! He put us all in danger, just by opening his mouth. And yet, I can’t help admiring him for what he said.
    I take another look at him. His curly brown hair frames his face like one of Michelangelo’s cherubs and his green eyes are vivid and clear. His jeans and T-shirt fit him snugly in all the right places. And on top of that, he’s brave, even if a little headstrong. Like I don’t know anything about that.
    But how the heck did he get so confident, with him being a Para? I glance away, before he can catch me looking.
    Mr. Arnold bangs his book against his desk and the room goes quiet. “We are not here to discuss current affairs; we are here to discuss English. The great masters of writing! Shakespeare! Perhaps you would save your question for a more appropriate class?”
    Mr. Arnold reads aloud again, his nasal voice killing any dramatic effect the words might have.
    I sneak another look at Paul. He catches my gaze and winks at me. I haven’t been shielding as well as I thought.
    He knows, or at least he suspects, that I’m a Para. Unless he flirts with Normals, which I find hard to believe.
    The intensity of people’s thoughts lessens as Mr.
    Arnold drones on, and for once I’m grateful for a boring teacher.
    When the bell rings, Alex is there beside me, smelling of soap, clean skin, and vanilla, and a faint whiff of chlorine. I think I could get drunk on his scent.
    I shake my head, trying to toss the thought right out of me.
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    “I hear you like to swim, Caitlyn.” I wonder if I’m another of his outsiders that he’s trying to make comfortable. But how did he find out so fast?
    . . . asked her yet?. . .
    I turn to see Rachel leaning forward, her gaze focused on us.
    I look back into the heat of Alex’s gaze. I feel myself being sucked into his eyes, wanting to smooth out the old pain I sense deep below.
    Snap out of it! “I—yes. I love it. Swimming, pools . . .” It’s like my body’s taking over, leaving my brain far behind.
    I can’t believe I’m going ga-ga over some Normal—or anyone for that matter. It’s not safe; I know it’s not.
    I breathe out. I am not my body. I can control this. “I love the quiet of the water, the calmness—”
    “Me, too!” Alex says, leaning forward. “The way it feels like the world disappears, and there’s only you and the water. No noise, no clutter—just the water cradling you—” He stops, his face flushing. “There’s a kind of peace,” he adds, quickly.
    “Yeah! I know what you mean.” I stare at him. I’ve never met anyone who loves water the way I do, for the reasons I do. But I can’t sense a fragment of Para in him. Why does he need peace so much? “It’s like—all your problems go away for a while.”
    Alex nods his head animatedly. “Exactly!” He rubs his hair, and his curls stand up. “We’ve got a great pool here. I could show you around after school, if you like. I’m on the