I sat on the edge of my bed for far too long. I should be up and getting ready for the school day. I expect my mom or dad to knock on my door at any moment but I can’t get myself to move. Not yet, because I feel too different, almost alien in my own skin. Speaking of my skin, it’s turned a shade darker and blue. I’m not sick. I know what’s going on I just can’t believe it. Everyone that this happens to has their skin change color.

“Misha,” my dad calls through my door and then knocks a few times. “You up yet?”

“I’m awake,” I hurried to reply.

There must have been too much anxiety in my voice because my dad followed up with, “Are you alright?”

I tried to say that I was fine but my voice caught in my throat. This was stupid. I was fine. Better than fine in a lot of ways, but this was too much for me right now. Why couldn’t this happen later when I’m grown up? Wouldn’t that make more sense? Of course, these things rarely make sense. There’s no rhyme or reason that anyone’s found for determining who was chosen and who wasn’t. Less than a tenth of a percent of the population gained powers and most of their powers were minor. Barely worth mentioning. Maybe I was lucky and wouldn’t be spectacular like the real supers.

“Misha, can I come in?”

“I guess,” I said. There was no point in hiding any longer. They’d see my skin and know what had happened eventually.

The door opened and he took a step into the room before his eyes landed on me. He stopped moving, frozen by surprise.

“Oh,” he finally said in a quiet voice. Then he came over and sat beside me on the edge of the bed. He put his arm around me and pulled me into a hug. “I think you can skip school for today.”

“Don’t you have to report me?” I asked, knowing there was a registry kept of everyone with superpowers.

“We don’t have to do it right this minute,” he replied. “I’ll call into work and get the day off. Then we can have breakfast and take the morning nice and slow. Then, when we’re ready, we can call and get you registered.”

I nodded.

“Anything in particular you want to eat?” he asked.

“Waffles?” I muttered, knowing that he didn’t like the mess they tended to make but also really wanting them as they were my favorite comfort food.

“I thought you might say that,” he chuckled. “Coming right up.”

With that he got up off the bed and left the room. The entire time he’d been beside me I’d kept my hands to myself and only now did I unfold my arms. I looked back at the bed and wondered if my dad had noticed how the blankets were torn nearly in half. I hadn’t meant to do it. When I woke up I grabbed them as usual and pulled to get the blanket off and it tore as though it were nothing. If it weren’t for the terrible ripping sound I wouldn’t have even known I was tearing the blanket apart. I didn’t even feel the resistance.

How strong was I, now? Strength was a common enough power for people to get and I hoped that was all it was. The fewer powers, the less I’d need to worry about learning to control them. It was hard enough already just trying to remember to do my homework.

“You still need to get ready for the day,” my dad called out to me and I finally got off my bed.

Getting dressed was fine until I went to put on my pants and I put my leg right through the stitching. They were my favorite pair, too. Not much I could do with them now so I threw them onto my bed with my torn blanket. I was much more careful with the second pair of pants but still felt like I was having to be overly careful not to damage them as I put them on.

The door shuddered when I grabbed the doorknob and I loosened my grip at once. Moving slowly was about the only way I could make sure I didn’t damage the door. Even still the knob was bent by the time I got the door open. I finally slipped out and joined my dad in the kitchen.

“You want syrup or jam for your waffles?” he asked.

“Syrup,” I replied.

He nodded and resumed mixing the batter.

“Do you know what kind of powers you have?” he asked in as nonchalant a voice possible.

“Strength,” I said. “Tore my blankets and a pair of pants. Might have damaged my doorknob.”

He glanced up at me with concern flashing briefly on his face before he caught himself and smiled.

“That’s not a bad power to have,” he said. “I heard of some people who had acid sweat and everything they touch gets melted. Anything else you’ve noticed?”

“No.”

“That’s good. Probably just strength then.”

He poured the batter for the first waffle and then pulled the syrup out of the fridge.

“I hope so,” I replied belatedly.

“You’re old enough to join one of the protection forces,” my dad said cautiously.

“I don’t want to join them,” I said at once.

“Good,” my dad smiled. “I always thought the age limit was too young. Eighteen should be the minimum.”

“I’m almost eighteen,” I reminded him. “What difference does a year or two make?”

“It makes a huge difference to me,” he stated, “Maybe twenty-one would be a better age limit.”

“Do you think I’m going to have to go to their boarding school?”

“I sure hope not. It’s only for those who are a danger to others while they learn to control their powers, so as long as you’re just strong, you should be fine.”

I let that line of conversation drop. I hoped my dad was right. I didn’t know anyone else who’d gained powers so all I had to go off of was what I’d heard from others. Little more than rumors. It still didn’t sound like a place I wanted to be sent. For one thing it was all the way across the country in the middle of the Nevada desert.

“Alright, who’s ready for a waffle?”

I put aside my worries and sat down at the kitchen counter. My dad placed a plate with a waffle, swimming in syrup, in front of me and I eagerly picked up my fork. It bent immediately in my hand. I tried to bend it back and it snapped. I swore and then ducked my head as my dad’s eyes turned to me as though he were about to scold me for swearing. He let it slide and instead offered me another fork. I took it, careful not to bend this one, and handed him the pieces of the first fork which he threw away.

It wasn’t a great way to start an already trying day. I ended up bending my second fork as well but at least I didn’t snap it in half. I did break the plate when I pressed down too hard to cut my waffle but at least by then I was mostly finished.

“Sorry about that,” I muttered as my dad threw away the plate and I wiped down where the syrup had spilled.

“It’s alright,” he said. “You’re just getting used to your strength. It’ll take time and you don’t need to feel bad about it. Plates and forks are easy to replace.”

With breakfast finished, he pulled out his phone and looked up the number for reporting new supers.

“You ready for this?” he asked.

“No,” I replied.

“Me neither,” he admitted and tapped his phone to begin the call.