I'm Scared of Heights | ONC 2023 ✔️

2) Overrides the Flight Code

Winn

I'm irregular.

No, not like the ticked-off kind. The kind where my mind bops around in a wacky world of disorganization and creative oddities. Can't say that I'm in the creative flood, though. That's an understatement. I haven't drafted lyrics or tabs in what feels like decades. Though, my genius brain grapples the most hopeful ideas in history. The thoughts are so idealistic that even my positivity reddens in embarrassment.

They're unrealistic. That's the obvious label.

I can't change death.

This isn't my current irregular. It's the former. It's the bustling abnormality that is my schedule, my process, and my life. It's Scramble, the meeting, and the walking mirrors of me.

Glancing at this sophomore, like all the others, throws me into a pit of nausea. My "style choice" was a brilliant coverup in the Christmas hype. The copycats are reminders of my impermanence decked with bald heads, fake piercings, and silver chains. Though, they haven't copied one thing: the excessive makeup I need to apply right now.

I don't have time for that. It's irregular. Usually, I would have thirty minutes to outline next week's schedule and reapply, but not today.

Faking a smile, I drop my green pen into the side pocket of my backpack and hand his marred worksheet back. "Pin me if you need more help."

The sophomore looks at me, an identical bald head blinking like an SOS signal. "Yep, will do. Thanks," he mutters, glowering at the mathematics page. No surprise there. The kid hates tutoring, especially since it's Friday.

Signing out on a slip of paper and a Google form, I skid out of the room, hollering a ritualistic goodbye to my favorite math teacher, Mrs. Langley. Quickly, I shoot down the hallway, the closest flight of stairs, and past an adjacent corridor before halting before the library.

My notepad and questionnaire make their home on the library table, which smells of Lysol. The entire library smells of cleaner, actually. It's a little-known fact that the librarian has OCD.

A boom rumbles the table and rocks the analog clock beside the door. With a gentle nod at the figure, my eyes trail to the blue athletic duffle and backpack slung across both shoulders, seeming to weigh the figure like a sack of potatoes. What if she's carrying potatoes? Why would she have potatoes? God, my thoughts have gotten so much weirder since I got on this new pill. How much of a difference can two weeks make?

"What's hopping, Natalie?" I ask, beaming.

"Life." Natalie nods, her eyes surveying me in a glance. "Scramble is connecting with labs and ancestry agencies to help adoptees reconnect with birth parents, correct," Natalie states, eyeing me expectantly.

Involuntarily, my shoulders shrug as if to say, yep, Scramble strives for connection. That's our brilliant expansion right there. That's where Kyle got the name. Hold up, was that a question? Tilting my head, I wait another second. "Yeah, a team in NC is. They're located near Durham. It'll be up by May."

I may not be alive by then.

Woah, that's morbid. And not very punny.

I may be alive by then.

This new treatment will work. That's what Dr. Thomas tells me. Something about how they tested my DNA and whatnot. God, that was expensive.

Natalie's brows shoot up. "The research triangle of the world? Near Duke, correct?"

"Yeah, we've got buckets of connections now." The prospect of expanding this far was unbelievable then and still is. It's like, wow, this was just a stupid idea before. It's funny how it started with Kyle, a senior at the time, approaching me, a freshman, with the outlandish idea. It was a good distraction, then. And it still is.