Genuine Need: Prologue

Life as I knew it ended at the age of sixteen.

Not in the truest sense, that notion of absolute finality – death, if you will – but there have been many times when I've thought it might as well have. For all intents and purposes, my supposed 'sweet sixteen' became equivalent life sentence without parole – no way out. Theoretically speaking, it was over. Finished.

Perhaps I'm being melodramatic. Soppy. Angsty, even. And it wouldn't be the first time I've been accused of such – when I still lived at home during school vacations, late in my teenage years, my mother was fond of pointing out the frivolous nature of my darker moods, often wondering in her sweetly chiding way how someone blessed with so much could act as though the entire world was against him.

But then again… she never had to learn to preen her own body, either.

xxxxx

I grew up in New York, the dutiful son of Warren Jr. and Katherine Worthington, and the only heir to the thriving steel company my grandfather began back in 1955, Worthington Industries. From an early age, I understood that I'd one day be taking my father's place as CEO. With my future firmly in place, I shrugged off any thoughts of true independence and let my parents groom me into a proper businessman – a mix of education, street savvy, social graces, and naturally, charm. From my father, I inherited a quick wit, a built-in bullshit radar, and baby blue eyes. From my mother, an appreciation for classical music, an excellent memory, and thick, blonde curls.

Being born into a family of billionaires sounds like every person's dream, but truthfully, I never thought much of it. Money was never an issue, for better or worse. My parents certainly spared no expense on our lifestyle, but they weren't overly lavish types, and never threw their money away on frivolous things, like some fancy gadget of the week or numerous million-dollar vacation homes that went unused. They were practical in their spending, or at least as practical as billionaires can be. And generous. Whenever they felt I was becoming a bit too spoiled for my own good, they brought me down to earth with an earnest lecture on the evils and problems of loving money just a little too much.

"Ayn Rand said that money is only a tool, Warren," my father told me on more than one occasion. He was a fan of Rand, often spouting off similar quotes from Atlas Shrugged. I'd tried to read the book once, at his persistence, and had fallen asleep within minutes. "It will take you wherever you wish, but it won't replace you as the driver."

"Remember that not everyone is as fortunate as you," was always my mother's chiming response to that comment, which usually led to a separate short sermon on the altruistic benefits of philanthropy. "And while there's no shame in enjoying what you've been given, we also have a responsibility to help others in genuine need."

A responsibility to help others in genuine need. Little did I know how literal that advice would become, years down the road.

xxxxx

Private school isn't nearly as bad as it sounds. The mere name conjures up a variety of unsavory images, from dull, bland school uniforms to strict codes of conduct and curfews. Separation of the sexes. Long, tedious hours in the library, studying for final exams.

But AllCott? Nothing like I'd expected. My parents sent me there when I turned fourteen, mainly at my father's insistence. He'd attended private school in his youth, and often touted the inarguable benefits of paid education. Smaller classes. Closer relationships with the instructors. Discipline. A well-rounded, varied curriculum. The list went on and on. "Nothing but the best for my son," he was fond of saying.

The institute itself had a steep price tag attached -- $50,000 a year for tuition alone – and so we all came from families of wealth, naturally. We were all expected to be groomed into America's future; into the businessmen, lawyers, and doctors of the next generation. Our parents had pushed us, watched us, nurtured us, handing over every last possible opportunity over the years to ensure our future success. Image was everything; perfection the status quo. Failure, regardless of what form it came in, simply wasn't an option.

My first two years at Allen Cottsen Academy (AllCott, as we affectionately called it) went smoothly. I made friends quickly, and soon established a certain 'group' to hang out with. Dated plenty of pretty girls, slept with a few, even fell in love once. On paper, those first two years were a college recruiter's dream: straight A's. Top of the class in geometry, calculus, and physics. Numerous leadership awards. Beta Club. Honor Society. I ran cross-country (second place, state championship my sophomore year), played tennis, and even spent a year in the chorus before I decided singing showtunes wasn't my style. To the average observer, I seemed destined for greatness, following in the well-rounded footsteps of my father, Warren Jr.

However, that was before my own body decided to turn against me. Fate had other plans for Worthington the third, it seemed.

xxxxx

What kid doesn't look forward to their sixteenth birthday? For most, it represents a major step towards adulthood, namely in the form of a driver's license and personal transportation. For me, the question wasn't whether I'd be getting a car for my birthday – it was what kind I'd be getting. The answer? A slick, gleaming black Maserati Spyder; sex on wheels.

I remember that particular day with fondness and precise detail. The afternoon had been spent with close friends; Jakob, Michael, Cameron and I had gone out to the lake and skimmed across the clear water on rented JetSkis, racing each other and laughing until the sun began to crisp our skin. Later in the day, my parents came into town for a formal family celebration. I was given the car immediately upon their arrival – my parents have never been ones for waiting around; they always liked to get straight to the point. Down to business, if you will.

My father and I took a cruise around campus, letting the wind whip through our hair and smiling smugly at the incredulous, jealous stares from my classmates. Afterwards, they took me out for dinner – authentic Italian at Giuseppe's. I gorged myself on Penne Puttanesca and slice after slice of grissino rubata with olive oil, laughing as my mother wondered aloud how I could stay so lean and trim with such an enormous appetite.

"Flawless genetics," I told her with a cunning smile, and she just laughed.

After dinner and dessert, they'd taken me back to my dorm. My father had bidden me farewell with a firm businessman's handshake, while my mother smothered me with kisses and proclamations that her "beautiful little boy" was blossoming into a man. I leaned against my newly acquired Maserati and waved an enthusiastic goodbye as their taillights disappeared into the horizon, waiting until they were out of sight to pull out my phone.

My girlfriend and aforementioned love, Candy, came over after that at my request. Jakob had graciously found somewhere to hide for the night, leaving our room empty, and Candy and I spent the rest of the evening celebrating my sweet sixteenth by christening my bed, his bed, the cherry armoire, and the small sitting ledge in the shower. We'd tumbled back to my mattress and begun to fall asleep after that, still wet. Tangled together and naked; her soft, ample breasts pressed tightly against my still-heaving chest. I'd drowsily patted her damp blonde hair as she snored, smiling to myself, lost in thought.

The whole day couldn't have been more perfect.

xxxxx

You know those peculiar itches you get, deep under the furthest layers of your epidermis? The kind you can't quite scratch? The kind that make you simply grind your teeth and wait it out?

I woke up at 3:34AM that night. We'd fallen asleep relatively early for a weekend night – roughly one o'clock or so – and normally, I'd snooze soundly until ten o'clock the following morning if left undisturbed. But I squirmed around on the bed, feeling a ticklish niggling in my shoulder blades, rolling over and frantically reaching back to scratch the offending skin. I woke Candy up with my grunts of irritation and whispered curses.

"Baby, what's wrong?" she murmured sleepily, rolling onto her side and stretching her limbs in a languid fashion. Normally, I would have gladly taken the opportunity to ogle her naked body, but the tickling in my back was beginning to feel like fire.

"My back itches," I muttered through gritted teeth. "Feels like I rolled around in poison ivy…"

"Let me scratch it," she said. I immediately flipped over, and sighed loudly with relief when I felt her long nails raking across the skin.

"God, that feels fucking great," I mumbled into my pillow. She chuckled, scooting a little closer to me in bed, so that our legs were grazing together.

Several minutes went by, and then Candy stopped. "There," she said. "All better?"

But it wasn't. I twitched, cringing, as my source of relief disappeared and the itching intensified. "Keep going," I begged, suddenly realizing for the first time that perhaps something wasn't quite right with everything back there. "Just a little more…"

"Jeez, Warren," she said. Nevertheless, I whispered my thanks when she resumed scratching. At my insistence, she grated faster, harder. I closed my eyes, struggling to think about something else, something soothing and cold. Icy, frothy waterfalls. Graeter's double mint chip. Aloe Vera gel.

I heard a gasp, and Candy stopped again. "What?" I asked, alarmed for two reasons: one, that she'd quit and my back was effectively on fire once more, and two, because of the panicked tone in her voice. "What!"

She didn't answer at first, but instead flipped on the bedside lamp. Before I could roll over and ask what the hell was going on, she screamed. "Warren, you're bleeding!"

"What?" I leapt up, casting a glance at her as I flew to my feet. Her eyes were wide as she held up her hands, both smeared pinkish-red with blood. The bedsheets had several small, dark stains where we'd been laying. I felt my jaw drop as I automatically reached my arm back, feeling of the spots she'd scratched. When I retracted my hand, it, too, was tinged pink.

"I didn't – I wasn't scratching that hard!" she cried out. I was barely listening to her as I ran into the bathroom, throwing on the light, leaving faint, bloody fingerprint stains on the wall and the white fixture switch. "I just suddenly, God, my hands felt all wet and then…" she trailed off when I didn't respond.

I stood with my back to the mirror, struggling to see over my shoulder. The itching had escalated into something much more painful, a feeling similar to sharp cramps, but a little more intense than that; indescribable. Fuck. I started throwing open the cabinets and drawers, searching for another mirror. I found a small one in the bottom left drawer, the one Jakob used when he was aiming for a close shave, and held it up.

The blood, which had apparently started as a slow seeping, was beginning to flow freely by now, tiny rivulets of red forming thin trails down my back. It was difficult to tell where it was coming from, exactly, though it appeared, by the dark rivers running parallel to my spine, to be leaking from two separate wounds. She's right, she wasn't scratching that hard, I thought, panic rising progressively in my chest. The mirror in my hand began to shake, and I set it down, steadying myself against the sink. Glancing down at my feet, I saw that thick, fat drops were beginning to drip onto the floor. Oh, God.

"Warren?" Candy's voice called to me; she was standing close to the door, but probably afraid to come in. "Warren, my God… are you okay? I didn't mean to…"

I swallowed. "Will you get me some towels?" I asked. "Look in the closet…"

She obliged, quietly coming into the bathroom, eyes downcast, holding out the fluffy towels. I quickly pushed her out and threw the door closed before she saw too much of the damage – she didn't have a particularly strong stomach, and I knew that the sight of blood all over me, the floor, and the wall might possibly upset her. It sure as hell was upsetting me. "Just a second," I told her through the closed door. "Just let me get this cleaned up, okay?"

"Do you need me to help?" Her offer was sweet, but I could tell by her weak tone that she was praying I would decline.

"No," I said, a little more harshly than intended. "Just hang on…" I doubled over when another spasm hit, biting my lip to keep from crying out. I managed to throw one of the towels into the floor when I finally straightened up, letting it catch the red waterfall rolling down my back. With another, I reached back and frantically wiped at the gashes, sopping up as much as I could.

Within minutes, the towel was almost completely damp. Cursing, I threw it into the shower stall. Glancing down, I stared at the specks of red on the towel I'd thrown in the floor, feeling a little dizzy and nauseous myself. What is wrong with me? What the hell is going on? Maybe we should go to the emergency room…

A searing heat ripped through both shoulder blades just then, and I sank to the floor, curling up and resting my face in my palms. It felt like I was being stabbed, like the skin was slowly being ripped from my bones. Biting back a sob, I reached my hands back again, bare this time, to feel and prod at the wounds. I almost screamed when my fingers met up with the ridges of something dense and hard. No, not something. Two things.

Every muscle in my body went rigid when it dawned on me that my skin wasn't broken and bleeding because of an outside source – Candy's nails – but from some alien growth coming from within.

xxxxx

Puberty brings its own set of problems to each individual as he or she is growing up, but a lot of issues are universal. Some kids gain weight, or shoot up six inches too fast, or get acne. Girls grow delicious curves, acquiring breasts and hips; boys' voices crack and eventually deepen, and hair begins to sprout up in new and exciting places. Thanks to the onset of hormones, mood swings are inevitable, as is the newly acquired sensations of sexual desire and the yearning to be independent.

For mutants, I'd learn, puberty also brought changes outside the expected. We'd briefly studied physical mutations in anatomy, discussing certain bizarre real-life case studies, like a girl who'd grown scales and a lizard tail, and a boy who'd developed gills and could breathe underwater. Otherwise normal kids who'd somehow turned into carnival freaks. I'd stared and gawked at the pictures, too, just like everyone else in class; shivering and commenting on how disgusting those people had become.

But in those early morning hours after my sixteenth birthday, the type of 'unexpected changes' I'd previously only read about began to manifest at an alarming rate. As soon as I'd run my fingertips over those sharp protrusions, I'd known with an uncanny certainty that they were not the result of some mishap – not an accidental broken bone protruding or something of the like, as little sense as that made anyway – but they were supposed to be there, as part of my skeletal structure. It took surprisingly little time for me to realize that I was, in fact, becoming a freak. Another case study, just like the ones from anatomy – a stumble of nature's intended design.

Going to the hospital had been out of the question. Telling Candy, also, had been out of the question – so I resolved to find some way to get her to leave. Panicking, I angrily yelled at her through the walls without explanation, blaming her for my scratched-up back. I told her to get out, cursed and shouted, ignoring her protests and pleads for me to open the door. She'd eventually given up, bewildered and frightened, slamming the dorm room door on her way out. I worried that she might call someone else to check on me, or perhaps even the campus EMTs, but no one ever came. A small stroke of luck, if you could call it that.

Once I was entirely alone, I curled up on the floor of the shower stall to catch the blood, and let the tears flow freely down my cheeks as the bony growths in my back steadily sprouted ever-longer. I passed out at some point – the pain simply became too much to bear – and when I awoke the following afternoon, stiff, sore and sticky, I was no longer human.

Because humans, you see, don't have wings.

The first time I looked in the mirror and saw the bloodied, gangly structure of the wings, I got physically sick, emptying the previous night's pasta into the toilet; crying out in pain as the act of retching tore at the already-aching muscles of my back and shoulders. Resting my head on the seat, I'd fought back more tears, wondering what the fuck I'd done to deserve this punishment. I'd heard about mutants secondhand, mainly from class discussions, but had never come across one in person during my sheltered life… they'd always seemed a part of some other existence, some parallel universe. Someone else's problem. Not mine…

I didn't know what to do.

xxxxx

At first, my new appendages were bare and ugly, looking more like the limbs of dead, dormant trees than the fluffy, white wonders they eventually became. A thick, fleshy skin had formed over the bones during my unconsciousness, the same color as the rest of my body, and it was equally as sensitive to the touch. And I could move them – it didn't even require concentration, the act itself felt as natural as when I moved my wrist, or knee, or thumb. I stood in front of the mirror, watching with awe and disgust as the limbs stretched out and in, retracting and folding with surprising ease.

My initial thought had been to run – grab as many belongings as I could, cram them into my biggest suitcase and take off in my new Spyder and head for oblivion. I'd immediately nixed that idea, however – to be honest, in this day and age I knew that it was virtually impossible to disappear off the face of the earth. I had no cash on me, and though I could easily take some out of the bank or use my credit cards, those were too obviously traceable. I could probably hide out for awhile, sure, but eventually I'd be discovered one way or another. And then…

No, running away wouldn't work. But I had to come up with something, some plan of action to hide. And quickly. Jakob would be coming back to the room at some point, probably very soon, and fear took over as I realized I needed to get rid of any and all evidence of last night's incident. I took a shower, scrubbing clean every inch of my skin, new and old. Clothes were a more difficult matter – throwing on a pair of jeans was easy enough, but finding a shirt to wear proved much more difficult. The wing structure was flexible, but only to a point. I folded them as tightly to my back as I could manage – an incredibly odd feeling, that – and attempted putting on the biggest t-shirt I could find over it all. Turning sideways in the mirror, I grimaced.

No dice, unless I was planning to try out for a part in The Hunchback of Notre Dame.

Tearing the shirt off, I started to despair until I remembered the stash of Ace bandages Jakob kept in his bottom drawer – he'd had surgery on his ACL two years before, and always made sure to wrap up his knee before working out. I grabbed four bandages from the drawer. Watching myself in the mirror once more, I strapped the wings tightly against my back, wrapping the bandages tightly around my torso, over and over and over.

It worked, for the most part. This time when I put the baggy shirt on, there was only a slight, noticeable curve. It would serve for the time being.

"All right," I muttered, watching my lips move in the mirror. "Let's get this shit cleaned up."

The bathroom was first, as it required the most work. I scrubbed down the shower, the floor, and the walls where my hands had smeared blood. I grabbed the towels and yanked the sheets from my bed, shoving them into a black plastic garbage bag and throwing it in the dumpster outside. The exertion of cleaning exhausted me – no surprise, considering how much blood I'd lost – so when I came back to the room, I threw myself down on my freshly made bed, closing my eyes and breathing hard. I felt numb. Disoriented.

The phone rang, but I didn't bother to pick it up. The answering machine did the honor for me.

"Warren, honey, this is your mother." I froze, realizing that I hadn't yet even thought about my parents or their potential reactions to their only son's transformation. I caught my breath, listening intently. "I lost one of the earrings I was wearing last night, and I thought maybe it came off inside the Spyder and I didn't realize it… I've looked everywhere and it's nowhere to be found. So when you get a chance, go out and check around in that hot little car of yours, okay?" Her tone was light, sweet. I smiled in spite of myself, gripped with the sudden desire to be a child again, safe and normal, lying in her lap as she stroked my hair and told me stories about growing up in Centreport. "But I've got to jet, your father and I have a business dinner in Manhattan I need to get ready for. Call me when you get a chance. I love you."

"Love you, too," I whispered to the empty room as the machine clicked off. How odd, that less than 24 hours ago I'd been laughing and talking and eating with her and my father, feeling invincible; young and carefree. I thought about my mother, how distraught she would be that her 'beautiful little boy' had become a monster instead of a man. And my father…

'We're proud of you, Warren,' he'd said to me before leaving last night. 'Keep it up, son.' I wondered if he would continue to be so proud if he knew he'd sired a mutant child.

Or, I thought suddenly, for that matter, if his business partners and investors knew… or the press…

No. No, that couldn't happen. I was all alone in this, I understood. No one could know, for my benefit and theirs. No one.

xxxxx

My carefully cocooned life unraveled with remarkable speed. I didn't allow myself time to mourn, or cry, or even get angry – I couldn't, not with the world continuing on around me as if nothing had changed. Terrified to allow anyone to see what an abomination I'd become, I called and demanded a single room (with a little 'coaxing' of the dean, in the form of a massive monetary compensation), moving into it just two days after The Incident. My mother was shocked when I first told her, but I'd reassured her and my father both that I simply needed peace and quiet for my studies.

Over the next few weeks, the wings continued to shoot outward, eventually reaching roughly eight feet each (near as I could tell, from my best attempts to measure); the plumage slowly grew in during this time, as well. Beginning with tiny, wispy baby down, the wings filled out until they were covered with thousands of snow-white feathers in varying lengths and thicknesses, from the very seam where old skin joined with new all the way to the furthest tip.

Despite their massive size, they were amazingly flexible, once they'd completely developed. I found that the Ace bandage trick kept them flat enough against my back, and once they grew longer I began tucking the feathered part into the back of my pants. My wardrobe eventually consisted only of T-shirts and jeans, as they were the only things I was comfortable wearing when I had to go out in public. Winters were the easiest time – especially since the trench coat my father had bought me for Christmas two years before became an everyday staple of my ensemble.

Needless to say, the relationships I'd cultivated at AllCott didn't so much end as they came to a screeching halt. Jakob was angry and confused when I told him I was getting my own room, but I shrugged him off and said I needed my personal space. I broke up with Candy over the phone, flatly refusing to give her a reasonable explanation other than I just didn't love her anymore (the hardest lie I had to tell during this ordeal). I shunned the other guys when they called or stopped by. And eventually, they'd had enough. The clique I'd so easily become a part of gave up and moved on without me.

I stopped speaking up in class, overwhelmed with the desire to suddenly become invisible. Sports was an impossibility, not only because of the extra baggage on my back, but because community showers were unavoidable. I became a recluse, spending all my time indoors, either in my room or the library. My collection of books, CDs and DVDs became nearly astronomical – not surprising, as they became my sole means of entertainment.

At first, my classmates were angry; the teachers confused. They wanted answers that I wouldn't – couldn't – give. I was sent to the school counselor for depression screening; she even called my parents to express her concern, though I managed to reassure them once again by explaining my new priorities (read: education) took precedence over social events. My parents reluctantly accepted this explanation over the phone, though if they'd been at AllCott to witness my behavior in person I doubt it would have worked – because the students certainly didn't accept it. People stopped saying hello to me in the hallway and began avoiding my eyes. Whispers and rumors abounded about the real reason for my sudden change in behavior; some ridiculous and some downright despicable, but none came close to the truth, so I didn't care. I'd done what I had to do, and I would survive.

At least, that's what I kept reminding myself day after day, while wasting the daylight hours away inside my empty, single dorm room.

xxxxx

Suicide was never an option to me, no matter how dismal things became. I'd been taught by my parents to be aggressive, proactive, and determined, and I'd approached my entire life that way thus far and wasn't about to stop now. I might have become a mutant, one of society's most loathed creatures, but I wouldn't give up. Maybe I'd been forced to abandon so many of the things I'd taken for granted – friends, sports, love – but I wouldn't give up. Suicide was a cheap way out. It was like letting someone else win. And I hated, absolutely hated, to lose.

But I discovered one thing in the months after the wings appeared; one thing that brought me joy – flying.

I wasn't sure why the idea hadn't struck me sooner – after all, most animals that have wings, save for perhaps penguins and a few other birds, can fly. I'd wondered about my body being too heavy, though I had only grown to 5'9", and my mother's comment about me managing to stay so lean even with my disgusting eating habits always came back in my mind. The wings certainly looked big enough. Was it possible?

I decided to try.

I snuck out one weekend on my own, taking the Spyder along the country backroads that led to the lake. As a full moon shone brightly overhead, I climbed up the tall rock cliffs that looked over the south side of the water. It was an area famous for cliff-diving, and the guys and I had come up on more than one occasion to fling ourselves over the side and into the water. It was the perfect place to practice.

It was also a disaster, at least in the beginning. My first attempt at flight ended with me hurtling into the water in a downward spiral, wings helplessly folded back and body limp. I hit the water hard, crying out as it smacked the bare skin of my chest, leaving it raw and red. However, I survived, and tried again. And again. I pulled myself out of the water and crawled back up the cliff, shaking the water from the feathers, and throwing myself out into the darkness once more. I ignored the cramps in my back, the stiffness in my joints, and the chill in my bones.

It took all night, but eventually I hit pay dirt – figuring out the proper use and leverage of my wings that allowed me to soar above the water like an eagle. It was a glorious feeling, and I remember having the fleeting thought, as I skirted above the treetops that surrounded the lake, that maybe – just maybe – life wouldn't be so bad after all.

After that hands-on flying lesson, I continued to spend the daytime inside, while the other students were out milling about on campus; but during the weeknights when the curfew was imposed, I snuck out my window and climbed to the top of the dormitory roof. It was easier than it sounds – the single room I'd moved in to was located on the sixth (and top) floor, and there was enough piping and sturdy ledges around the top for me to grab on and pull myself up. So while my classmates slept, I hit the skies – leaping off the top of the building and soaring across the campus and city.

It was strange to consider, but despite all they'd taken from me, when the sun went down the wings did allow me to feel one thing I'd never previously experienced – freedom.

xxxxx

I graduated with honors, accruing more accolades during my stint at AllCott than any of the other students. It wasn't surprising, really, and it at least supported the 'story' I'd told my parents. My new lack of social life left me with few options to fill my spare time, and so studying and flying had become my activities of choice. It had paid off, at least – I'd gotten accepted into the prestigious Sydney Williams University, with several scholarships to boot, and I took a certain amount of pride in the fact that I'd garnered it all on my own, without the assistance of my father's money.

The graduation ceremony was long and tedious, but put me strangely at ease. I sat between Margaret Wooden and Tyler Wright, ignoring the uncomfortable glances they gave me as I sat, passive and blank, listening to the keynote speaker. The graduation gowns, ugly as they might be, were a blessing because of their loose fit and length. I nodded and clapped when appropriate, walked and accepted my diploma with a smile, and threw my hat into the air just like everyone else when we were officially crowned as alumni.

But unlike everyone else, I didn't shed a single tear.

"Congratulations, Warren," my mother said warmly, after the ceremony. We were heading out for another celebratory dinner together. I sat in the back of their car, watching as my classmates hugged and kissed each other, laughing and frantically autographing each other's yearbooks. The parking lot was filled with new graduates slowly going to their cars, no doubt heading out to attend some of the all-night graduation parties I'd been hearing about. Parties that I, as usual, would not be attending.

"Yeah, you're a college boy now," my father said jovially. "There's a whole new world out there waiting for you…"

He continued to speak, reminiscing about his own college years, but I'd stopped paying attention. A tall blonde had caught my eye – Candy, still in her cap and gown, arm in arm with Walter Mitchell, a guy who'd played tennis with me years earlier. They'd begun dating not long after she and I had broken up, so I had gotten used to the sight of her with another guy, but... I couldn't deny the thick lump in my throat when I realized that I would more than likely never see her again. Which could be a blessing or a curse; I wasn't sure.

"Yeah… if high school was any indication," I replied vaguely, turning around in the seat and closing my eyes, "then college should be very interesting."