The Impossible

Circe Vott seriously needed some fresh air right now. The walls seemed to waver and throb, like the air above the pavement on a hot summer day. It was pointless to suffer through this lecture considering she had stopped paying attention over a half hour ago. She raised her hand, interrupting her Government teacher, mid rant.

"Yes, Miss Vott." He said rather snappishly.

"I need to use the bathroom."

Every eye in the room was on her, thought admittedly, not surprised by her interruption or lack of decorum. But who would expect any manners from the punk girl in the back with the septum piercing, undercut, and heavy purple eye makeup? No one, that's who.

The teacher, she couldn't remember his name even though she'd been going to this high school for over three years and had been in this class for over a month, rolled his eyes. His lack of effort to hide it prompted Circe to glare in return.

"Fill out a pass," he said with some weariness, "And come back to class as soon as you're done."

He had only bothered to say that because they both knew that that wouldn't be the case. The moment her feet crossed the threshold to the hallway, she was gone. Never coming back. At least, not today.

Hall pass in hand, Circe traversed the empty hallways, her excuse primed and ready to fire at any faculty member that would try and stop her. It turned out to be unnecessary, but given the number of times she snuck out, she'd need it someday. As she passed the last trash can nearest the front door, she reached behind it and grabbed her faux leather jacket.

Circe shrugged the jacket on and stepped out into the chill of the mild, January day. The sun was shining, dishonestly hiding the fact that it was a few degrees below freezing. She frowned at the glaring rays, lifting up a hand to block them. Her gaudy assortment of black, baroque rings glittered, and Circe frowned as she remembered the handful of change she had paid to get them.

Was all of life like that? On the surface, everything seems fine. But really, it's all cheap crap. Nothing is genuine. So what is all the fuss about?

Letting the thought slide from her mind, Circe trudged around the circumference of the school, pulling a pack of cigarettes from her jacket pocket as she went. In a fluid, well-practiced motion, she lit the end of a fresh roll and tucked the rest away.

But so distracted by her habit, Circe had missed the extra accessory to her usual hiding spot.

Perched atop the some empty crates she had dragged back here after they were thrown out by the cafeteria staff, was a boy. Oh, scandalous, right? Not really. The kid was obviously a freshman, as his fresh face was one even Circe didn't recognize, not that she paid undue attention.

"It's like they're getting more microscopic every year." She grumbled under her breath.

The boy's lips itched upward into a tiny smile, even though he didn't look up from the book that was balanced on his crossed legs – pretzel style. Circe took a drag of her cigarette, not bothering mask her scrutiny, though he didn't seem to mind.

Messy brown hair peeked out from under an oversized, blue and white ball cap. His thin, long-sleeved shirt and squishy, marshmallow vest didn't seem like they should be enough to keep him warm, but he gave no inclination that the weather was bothering him. Taking a step closer and tilting her head so that she could see his face, Circe noted how his brown eyes continued to flit back and forth along the lines of text. She blew a cloud of smoke into his face to see if she could distract him.

The action didn't seem to surprise the boy. He didn't cough dramatically. He didn't say anything about manners. He just sorta looked up and gave her that 'seriously?' look and waved the air clear.

"Whatchya doing here, kid?" Circe asked plainly, planting one hand on her hip and flicking ash off her cigarette with the other.

"Reading." He answered with a grin, "Obviously."

"During regular school hours? In the cold? No offense, kid, but you kinda struck me as the goody-two-shoes type."

He shrugged, "You'd be surprised then."

"Don't give me that 'looks can be deceiving' bullcrap."

"Sure they can." He said, giving her an ambiguously meaningful look before returning to his book.

Circe scoffed, slouching back against the wall of the school. The cinder blocks were even colder than the air, seeping through the fake material of her jacket in seconds. But the nicotine in her system was finally offering the relaxation she'd been needing since government class had started.

"Fresh air." She chuckled to herself. It was ironic.

The two, left to their own activities, remained in silence for a few minutes.

"Why do you smoke?" the boy broke the air with the simple question. Circe glance over to see that his full attention was locked on her. His gaze was wide and his head was tipped to the side. It was the picture of honest curiosity, genuine interest, and innocence. There wasn't a trace of judgment in his brown eyes.

Still.

Sighing jadedly, she shot back, "Why do you want to know?"

"Usually there's a reason for everything we do."

"Did you learn that in psychology class?" Circe kept her voice neutral, not looking at the boy.

"I'm not taking psych."

"I don't want people hyper-analyzing me."

From where she was leaning, Circe felt the boy let his back thump against the wall. "Me either." He mumbled.

"Besides your addiction to that book, I'd doubt they'd have much to analyze."

"You'd be wrong."

Circe stalked up to him, discovering that their heads were at the same height thanks to the crates.

Getting in his face, Circe snapped, "That's the second time you've corrected me about your quote-unquote 'bad-boy status' without any explanation. I'm not buying it." She took another drag of her cigarette and spewed the exhaust in his face again, "I dare you to prove me wrong."

"Liberare la strada." He intoned, and through the murk of second-hand smoke Circe could have sworn that his eyes glowed for a second.

In a millisecond, the haze had cleared. But it hadn't just dissipated; it had vanished, almost as if the gaseous molecules had ceased to exist. Even the steady stream of vapor from her cigarette butt had been snuffed out.

His face was unreadable: a mask so void of emotion that it sent a chill down her spine.

Circe flicked her spent cigarette to the ground, "Okay," she admitted, "Point."

She took as step back as the boy cracked a satisfied smirk, "Will you answer my question now?"

"Only if you answer mine as well. This isn't a charity ball."

The boy stuck out his hand, "Deal."

Circe shook on it. For all his gumption, his hand was small, fingers thin, grip weak.

Staring him dead in the eye, she said, "I smoke because my mom died when I was fourteen and I have a shit father who doesn't know how to keep it together for his daughter. Ever since then, all my dad does is work enough to pay for alcohol. But we still have a lot of loans from mom's medical bills. I've been employed at a fast-food place since I could get a work permit to try and pay them off. But the interest grows faster than I can repay them. Because I work, I don't do well in school. But because of the debts, I can't even hope to go to college anyway. I'm going to be saddled with this shit for the rest of my life. So I smoke because it's the one thing that makes me feel better."

She was breathing heavily as she finished. She had never explained herself to anyone that quickly, that concisely, or that frankly. But it felt good. Almost as good as another cig.

And the boy hadn't looked away. To top it off, there wasn't a hint of judgment in his eyes.

"My turn." Circe wanted to divert the attention from herself, and that was saying something for someone whose hair was dyed ink-black, "What was that earlier""

"Magic." Was his simple answer.

Narrowing her eyes, she demanded, "Who are you?"

"My name is Dipper Pines." The boy said. He didn't bother to shake her hand again. "You asked two questions, so I have another. Why did your parents name you Circe?"

"Mom was obsessed with myths." She said tersely, not satisfied with the equality of information exchange in their bargain. "Explain what you mean by 'magic.'"

Sensing her irritation, Dipper grinned, "Is that your next question?"

"Is that yours?" she rebutted.

"Point. Magic is kinda like the stuff in fairy tales, but not quite. It's the manipulation of reality through words of power. You might find that most 'spells' are ancient expressions, used so often through the ages that they were infused with a power of their own through peoples' belief in their efficaciousness. For example, one you learn in high school: veni, vidi, vici." As he spoke, he held out his hand. Dipper's fingers sparked as electricity arched between them and his eyes glowed bright white. The power began to build, but as the whine came to a climax, he clenched his fist so that the magic cut off, "That is a destruction spell or a spell of dominance depending on how you interpret it. Spells are not limited to Latin – that is just the language I prefer to study – they can be in any language as long as they meet the aforementioned constraints.

Circe was silent, thoughtful. Their question swap had come to an end. Now Dipper was watching her intently.

She believed him. Every word. All those fictional stories her mom had read to her as a kid could be true. They weren't cheap crap. They were genuine.

"Why are you telling me this?" She asked slowly, hesitant to start up the question game again.

Dipper smiled, seemingly gratified by that question, "Not everyone can utilize magic. It's actually a pretty unique gift."

"So what? Are you my Hagrid?" Circe screwed up her face and tried to imitate a heavy, cockney accent, "Yer a wizard, 'Arry."

"Something like that." Dipper acknowledged with a laugh.

Circe gaped at him, "You're not serious!"

"But I am. I noticed your aptitude a few months ago. Since then, I've deducted which branch you fall into, which is Mage, but the way. I myself am a Wizard. Then I spent some time digging through my contacts." He twirled his hand and a slip of paper appeared out of thin air, "There is a Mage – a matriarch of the Suquamish Tribe – right outside of Seattle that is looking for a protégé. If you can make your way up there, everything else will be taken care of."

Hands shaking as she took the fragile, white sheet, Circe could not believe how her life had been upended by skipping one class. In more than one way, the impossible had happened.

"But, my debts." She whispered, reality crashing back down around her.

Dipper shook his head, frowning, "They're not your debts." He said gently. For the first time, he looked unsure, but he plowed ahead anyway, "Look, you have four months. Try to get your dad's head above the alcohol. Convince him to declare bankruptcy. He'll lose everything, but maybe that's what he needs to start again. You, on the other hand, are eighteen – a legal adult. If this is what you want, well, do what makes you feel better."

Those were her words.

Circe gripped the paper tighter. "Okay."

"Okay."

"My name's Circe, by the way. Circe Vott."

"I know."

"Just thought I'd formally introduce myself."

I think this is my favorite one so far! I was sort of feeling angsty when I wrote it, so it served as a kind of personal pick-me-up. For the Anon that suggested the girl that finds out about magic, I hope this satisfies you as much as it did me. It also explains magic the way I thought it was portrayed in the show, I mean, Habeas Corpus? Very original.

Circe does leave her father after she graduates. Maybe she should have stuck around to care for the last member of her family, but he had four years to get his act together, so I feel like she gave him plenty of chances. She becomes a very talented mage utilizing a Native American Language. She specializes in battle magic and restraining dangerous demons that enter the human plane. Also, the cigarette that Dipper inadvertently puts out is the last one she ever has. (I didn't know how to fit this into the story but I wanted to give Circe closure)

Magician class distinction:

Wizard: their magic comes from within themselves, therefore their power is limited by their own strength. Wizards will eventually be exhausted by strong spells or multiple weak spells; however they can grow stronger over time with practice.

Mage: their magic comes from artifacts and the like, therefore their power is limited by the object they are drawing power from. A Mage can be stronger with a stronger artifact or by carrying multiple weak artifacts; additionally, they are not exhausted by performing spells since they are not the source of the magic.

There are probably other classes, but I don't have their aptitudes mapped out :P

Anyway, thanks for reading!