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24 February 2011 @ 08:51 pm
{ runaway_tales } The Truth Is A Piece Of Rubber  
Title: The Truth Is A Piece Of Rubber
Rating: PG13
Wordcount: 480
Story / World: Seerverse
Community:  runaway_tales.
Prompts: Blueberry Yogurt #6: alibi.
Toppings / Extras / Other: Butterscotch.
Characters: Jaime, Janet.
Notes: Last Blueberry Yogurt. Jaime and college get along interestingly. (I don't know if people who aren't the sort we get here are as fascinated by anyone with glasses and full of the desire to try them on. ...I will cop to always wanting to try on other people's, myself, though.)

You can't just – well, apparently you can't just leave school without an explanation. The reason beats me; I mean, it's something I've done for half an age, but these new people really do like their awkwardly worded statements of absence.

I'd play along perfectly well, only I don't think “glasses not working, looked in a mirror by accident, have to go scrub my eyes with steel wool now” would be a sensible excuse to anyone who's not family, to anyone who's not me.

So instead I've been amassing some interesting excuses. I don't really think of it as lying; it's just putting the truth in a framework others can understand, and maybe the truth's a bit of a contortionist to be able to fit but still.

Having it be known that I get migraines, for example (I don't think I do, but we don't have a word for what I do get, and pain, light, sound and color? – I've read about it, it's close), gives people a way to understand when I run out of class choking on blue-black that jumped down my throat in the second when my glasses slipped off my nose.

If people know I'm clumsy, bruise easily, and do self-defense classes (all of the above is true, although that last depends on a cousin who is not the best at punctuality or appointments. Or teaching, for that matter), then they'll ask me less hilariously (when I recount them to Janet, anyway) awkward questions if I come to school with a black eye or a split lip, a crude splint on my arm or a limp and a bottle of ibuprofen in my backpack.

(Someday I probably will have to experience and explain having fallen down a flight of stairs. Considering already that there are teachers who ask me concerned questions about my family, or a boyfriend or girlfriend – hah – I don't think the truth of that case will go over too well.)

When it's common knowledge, there's so many explanations pre-avoided for me. It's really rather lovely the way I have things set up, although not needing excuses would be better.

But if I look I notice other people have it too – whether it's someone blushing and apologizing for a stutter, for some twitch or quirk or particular way the gray-pink cauliflower in their head works or doesn't work, or Janet explaining away her hair or the band-aids on her arms. (They're actually from a hedge, but cats are more believable. Again: the truth has limbs made of rubber.) Everyone has something they need an excuse for or think they should apologize about. Mine are just a bit disruptive, and more singular than most.

Quite literally singular, as it happens; once-a-generation, all-the-rest-are-dead singular. I'm special that way.

I do wish people would stop wanting to try my glasses on, though.