"Excuse me," said a soft voice nearby. At least I thought it was. Or maybe I was just hearing things.

Curiously enough I peeked one eye from my arms. There was Paris standing beside me while grinning widely. She wore a lilac minidress with shiny black open-toed heels. Her dark blond hair was in long and shiny loose curls that reached to the middle of her back. She wore very light makeup which suitably matched her complexion. Her stunning appearance stopped tears from flowing down my face and swept it with surprise. "Paris? What are you doing here?"

"I saw you sitting out here," she said. She had her usual bittersweet expression engulfing her face even as she spoke. I felt so genuinely rueful for her that it made me start crying all over again. I hate crying in front of a lot of people, but this time it was unbearable. All I ever expected from sobbing in front of anyone was another reason to keep me in that state. Instead, Paris sat down next to me. "Hey, what's the matter, kiddo?" she asked.

I managed to choke back some sobs in order to speak. "I… I have… I have been rejected… My family never showed up."

Paris blinked and was mute for a minute, then she said, "Rejected? In what way? Is this what you had planned at this hour?"

"Yes." I sniffed. "We planned it first thing this morning. Ever since I walked out of your spa room, neither my mom or aunt were there. They were asleep the whole afternoon, so I walked here by myself and I have been in this spot for 30 minutes. I called and texted them and got no response. don't know what's going on."

Paris frowned even more. At least she shared an empathetic trait like Mom. It is easier to notice things like that when you actually talk to someone or witness their actions (well, at least from my experience). "I'm so sorry," she said, rubbing my back slowly. "It hurts to see you this upset. To be fair I have not been myself lately either."

Tears were still rolling down my cheeks. The cool breeze from the restaurant pasted the old ones into my face. Each time I blinked more tears welled up and raced down to eventually drip from my chin.

"I actually need to talk to you about something. Let me make it up to you. I can be part of your reservation and it will be on the house. My treat."

I blinked back tears. I could not believe what I was hearing. It must be a hearty dream. Besides Mom, nobody has ever initiated an offering like that from within. On the other hand, since Paris is as gentle as a lamb, there was a subliminal realm of hope swooping over.

"Come on, don't be timid. I mean it." She extended an arm out to me. Her hand was warm and moderately shaky but doable. I had nobody else to go with despite infamous doubts splashed through my mind. I stood up and she led us inside the restaurant. We were sitting at a table near one of the windows that had old Mother's Day decorations on them.

Barefoot Grill (yes, that is the actual name) was mildly out of the ordinary eateries in South Park. Due to its name, guests have the choice to wear or take off shoes inside. As odd as I see it at least it was a different aspect for a first-time visit to a new eating establishment. It was a partially enclosed building with a bar and an epic view of the pool area. The warmth from the pools' steam made the temperature of the inner restaurant comfortable and subtle. Many guests were dressed like Hawaiians and it fits with this particular Coloradan laid back atmosphere.

"First off," Paris said, taking a sip of her pink lemonade, "I want to know a bit more about you, if you don't mind. You are an interesting fellow to have around." She took a swift glance at the window decor. "Is Miss Honey really your mother?"

The mention of mother triggered an irresistible blush to rush to my face. Not that it bothered me, but it was unexpected and I didn't want to be rude. "Yeah, well not my birth mom."

"Ohh. May I ask what happened?"

"Well, it's a long story, ao I could summarize it for you. I met Miss Honey last year since she was my teacher. She was surprised by my advanced knowledge for my age. Then one day we found out we have similar backstories. Hers sounded worse than mine by far, and all of it led up to a couple of months ago where both of our problems faded away."

I tried to sound uptight without breaking down, yet the flashbacks kept coming back. At least Paris was all ears and never spoke about my tone or facial expressions. Since the day I asked her about her troubles, she must now understand to the point of finding certain questions irrelevant.

"You poor kid…" Paris' voice reached my tone except it was somewhat tense. "I don't want to ask too much, but from what Miss Honey told me it was sort of vague. Sorry if I asked regardless of your background."

I shook my head. "No, no, it's ok. Really."

"Oh, good. It's just that I have something about myself to share with you."

I nodded as a signal for her to talk as I sipped my fresh Sierra Mist.

"I was bullied a lot as a child because of my height and I wasn't bright in some of the main school subjects. Even with my work experience I am made fun of… just not as much as in my childhood."

"How bad has it been since you started working here?" I asked.

"Although it's one person who turns every shift into a nightmare for me, I love working here. So far it is the best job I have been given."

"What does Rhonda do to you, besides verbal abuse?"

"Verbal is what she usually does, and she beats me when nobody is around." Paris flipped her hair behind her shoulders and sighed. "Rhonda acts just like my psychotic school principals, especially my middle school one. Whenever I got in trouble with a bully, she called me out for it. The worst part is my parents only believed one out of every time I got in trouble at school. Of course they taught me to defend myself, but they get upset when I do and get calls and letters from my school."

"They are stupid. No offense," I said, bumptious. "Your school and parents are screwed up terribly. And Miss Trunchbull is no different from that. She is worse than my parents combined."

"If she is like that, then how did she get the job? Or does she still have it?"

I swallowed hard. "Nobody truly knows for either one. But what I do know is she is impersonating a hotel supervisor and I'm her main target."

"Why?"

"Because… I'm the one who made her flee the school and freed Miss Honey."

Oh!" Paris gasped. She slid herself back in her seat. "But… how?"

How? How was I going to tell her? Explain how I achieved my ability to defeat the wretched principal with my mind and eyes. I have shared this with only one person and the results felt vehement from the both of us. It has been a couple of months since I last performed it, and I've no clue if I still have it. "It's pretty wordy to point out."

"I understand," Paris said gently. "Can you show me?"

"Uh… ok." I also didn't find it too appropriate to present it in public since it was a full house. The only way to keep it on the low was to use something small. I immediately spotted the salt and pepper shakers sitting against the wall. Alright, now concentrate, Butters. I drew my eyes on the salt shaker for about 30 seconds until the sounds and background around me faded away. Just the shaker in sight. A light strain stretched across my eyes with bits of heat. This is where I began to remember how it feels. The heat grew hotter and stronger as if it made tons of arms and hands reach out of my eyes toward the shaker. As soon as the hotness shadowed my eyes completely, the salt shaker slid slowly to the left. It's working! I pushed a little harder and the shaker glided more to the west but a bit quicker towards Paris. It took a bit more effort as I copied with the pepper shaker.

"Holy crap," Paris said, agape, "you did that? Just now?"

I nodded which turned me back to reality. It was almost as if everything in a record disc was paused and replayed. "Yeah."

Before speaking her next sentence, Paris was stuck on her words. "I… I'm so shocked at this. I've never met anybody with that ability."

"Now you have."

We had a little giggle fit from that. The atmosphere continued with talking and laughter as we ate. Paris was a lot like Mom, but a couple of years older. It was a blessing to meet yet another person who has similar problems and desires. If she never knew my aunt, Paris would think I'm a kin of Carrie White. Thankfully my hopes from that detail surpassed. Speaking of hope… where were my aunt and Mom?