The next day began like every other—chaotic breakfast, Zoe mocking my cereal choice ("Seriously? Cornflakes? What are you, eighty?"), Mom running late for a biomedical conference, and Dad trying to sneak in a monologue about "capturing truth via photography" while eating toast over the sink.
And me? I was already dreading school.
I didn't dread it for the typical reasons. It wasn't the tests or the schoolwork or even the gym class where Coach Thompson appeared certain dodgeball was a type of spiritual discovery. No, I loathed it because every passing day made it harder to disguise the ludicrous small fractures in reality I kept unwittingly pushing through. And today, thanks to the universe's exquisite sense of humor, was the school science fair.
Now, if you've never experienced the thrill of a middle school science fair, let me set the scene: Imagine a room full of worried kids, jittery parents pretending to be interested in baking soda volcanoes, and teachers who simply want to survive without a fire alarm going off. It was gorgeous chaos—and a logistical problem for someone with a time-stopping power they were absolutely not meant to utilize.
I caught up with Rohan before school. He was dragging a lopsided cardboard exhibit that read: "Wormholes: Could We Accidentally Fall Into One?" Complete with sparkly stars and a terrifyingly enthusiastic amount of duct tape.
"Please don't let this thing collapse," he pleaded as we came in. "Mr. Alvarez already said if anything sucks a janitor into a pocket dimension this year, we're banned."
I gave him a thumbs-up. "Don't worry. If that happens, I'll just... repair it."
He squinted at me. "Fix it how?"
"...With enthusiasm?"
He snorted. "You're weird."
I grinned and shrugged. If only he knew.
The fair was being hosted in the gym—same venue as the school photo day tragedy. The world really liked recycling its favorite battlegrounds, didn't it? Teachers patrolled the rows of tables like guards at a very nerdy prison, while students sought to market their experiments with the desperation of unpaid salesman.
I kept a low profile. My own study was purposely boring: "The Effects of Light on Plant Growth." Classic. Predictable. Entirely unremarkable. Just the way I loved it.
But of course, fate hates me.
It all started when Mrs. Lefkowitz—the school's strangely perceptive science teacher—stopped in front of my table. She was the kind of instructor who could sniff out a cheat sheet from three counties over and probably read conspiracy theories for fun.
She stared at me. I stared back, trying very hard not to sweat.
"So, Manjil," she continued, tapping her pen against her clipboard, "this is... surprisingly mundane for you."
I blinked. "Thank you?"
"Last week, I caught a beaker levitating in the lab after you walked by."
"Optical illusion?"
"Three separate students said the bunsen burners turned blue."
"School spirit?"
She narrowed her eyes.
I started sweating.
Rohan, thankfully, stepped in. "He's just got a strong magnetic personality. Science joke. Get it?" He elbowed me, nearly toppling over his wormhole poster.
Mrs. Lefkowitz sighed and walked on, still eyeing me like I was a Rubik's cube that solved itself out of spite.
I exhaled. Crisis mostly averted.
Mostly.
Because not twenty minutes later, some overexcited sixth grader with a Rube Goldberg machine managed to propel a marble at light-speed trajectory across the gym. It rocketed straight for one of the judges—a poor man who had just knelt down to check a baking soda volcano.
Time slowed.
No, I slowed time.
In that moment, I saw it all: the marble in mid-air, the judge's bald head gleaming beneath the lights like a wonderfully vulnerable target, and the teacher across the gym who had definitely seen something unusual.
"Oops," I whispered, and stepped forward, delicately picking the pebble out of its hanging arc. I guided it onto a smoother path—one that bounced harmlessly off a nearby table instead. Then I un-paused the globe.
The judge blinked. The pebble pinged quietly against a chair. The world kept turning.
I sat down like nothing happened. Rohan looked at me weird.
"Did you just move?"
"Nope."
"Are you sure?"
"Very sure. You should get your eyes checked."
Rohan narrowed his gaze. "Or maybe you've been watching too many superhero movies."
I offered him a wide-eyed, innocent smile. "Perish the thought."
Later, as the science fair wrapped down, I observed something else peculiar. A man in a trench coat and sunglasses was lingering near the exit, pretending to study a poster on cafeteria safety. He didn't look like a parent. He looked like someone who truly didn't belong in a middle school gym.
I made a mental note. If anyone asks, he was probably simply a fan of meatloaf Mondays.
The day ended with participation ribbons (Rohan got "Most Theoretical"), uncomfortable photos, and a broken janitor cart that surely did not get struck by a wormhole ray. At home, mayhem resumed. Zoe accidently microwaved Dad's camera lens cap. Mom threatened to ground me for "chewing like a time traveler." (Which—how could she even guess that phrasing?)
I retreated to my room and slumped into my bed, looking at the ceiling.
Today had been close. Too close.
The marble, the teacher, the shady adult with the trench coat... someone was noticing. My ripples were starting to show. No matter how careful I was, this power—the "gift" that was really a cosmic goof-up—refused to stay hidden.
I opened my journal again, scanning past prior sketches: a floating lunch plate, a bird mid-flight, Zoe mid-sneeze. I added a new page:
April 12th. Time stop: 0.3 seconds. Object redirected: marble (about Mach 2). Witnesses: 2 suspected. Threat level: medium. Fun level: 9/10.
I capped my pen and closed the journal, then glanced out the window.
Somewhere in the city, maybe even in Malibu, Tony Stark was undoubtedly still wondering about that mysteriously disappeared meal.
Somewhere in a government facility, someone was undoubtedly studying footage that didn't quite make sense.
And somewhere in the cosmos, a certain deity of blunders was undoubtedly laughing his shiny divine butt off.
Me? I was still attempting to survive middle school without destroying the space-time continuum.
Tomorrow was another day.
And I had a feeling it wouldn't be dull.