Chapter 33: School: Day Two of Being Different

Pulling up to Lincoln High on my ancient bike felt different today. Like I was seeing the place through upgraded vision software that suddenly made me aware of things I’d never noticed before—the way Jessica’s eyes lingered on my face for an extra beat, how Sophia Williams actually did a double-take when I chained up my bike, the subtle head tilts from girls who were clearly trying to figure out if I was the same Peter Carter who’d gotten stuffed in a locker last month.

It’s like being upgraded from 480p to 4K overnight, and suddenly everyone’s wondering why they never noticed the picture quality before.

The guys, though? They were completely oblivious to any change. Tommy was still treating me like the same old Peter, Connor was still being his usual annoying self—probably planning his next TikTok about "rating Lincoln High’s weirdest moments" or some equally braindead content—and every other male student continued to see me as the forgettable nerd I’d always been.

Thank fuck for that. The last thing I need is guys giving me dreamy looks or suddenly wanting to be my best friend like I’m some discount Chris Hemsworth who just transferred from Attractive People High. At least male social dynamics remain blissfully unchanged.

Tommy was already waiting by our usual spot near the bike racks, demolishing what appeared to be a breakfast burger with the enthusiasm of someone who treated eating like a competitive sport. His round face was focused entirely on his meal, completely oblivious to the fact that I’d apparently undergone some kind of overnight glow-up that’s making half the female population do cartoon double-takes.

Some things never change. Tommy will always prioritize food over literally everything else happening around him, including his best friend’s apparent transformation from human disaster to... whatever the hell I am now.

"Morning, Pete," he mumbled through a mouthful of what I was pretty sure was bacon, egg, and questionable life choices. "You look... I don’t know, different? Did you sleep well or something?"

"Different" is definitely one way to describe supernatural enhancement by cosmic forces powered by global female sexual frustration. Although boys couldn’t see, Tommy and I go way back for him to not notice.

"Something like that," I told him, which was technically true if you counted "lost consciousness during magical transformation into a sex god" as quality sleep.

Connor Hayes jogged up to us with his usual manic energy, sunglasses indoors like he’s cosplaying as a discount Jake Paul, probably already planning whatever social media content he’s going to milk from today’s drama.

But the moment he opened his mouth to start his typical morning commentary—which usually sounds like what would happen if you fed a marketing textbook to a goldfish—I immediately started walking toward the school building.

Not dealing with Connor’s bullshit before I’ve had coffee. Some things even supernatural enhancement can’t make tolerable, and Connor’s existence falls squarely into that category.

Tommy caught up to me halfway across the parking lot, and I could tell from his expression that he had questions brewing behind his carb-loaded breakfast coma. His detective instincts are kicking in, which is dangerous because Tommy might eat like a garbage disposal, but he’s not stupid when it comes to reading people.

"So," he said, trying to sound casual while keeping pace with my longer strides, "there are some pretty interesting rumors floating around about you."

Here we go. Time to find out exactly how much of last night’s adventure has become public knowledge in the high school gossip economy.

"Rumors?" I asked, though I had a pretty good idea where this was heading.

"Yeah, specifically about Madison Torres picking you up from your house yesterday. In her BMW. Multiple witnesses, Pete. People are talking."

Of course they are. Rich girl picks up former punching bag in expensive car—that’s gossip gold in high school social economics. It’s like watching Bitcoin randomly spike to a million dollars and everyone trying to figure out what the hell just happened.

"We studied together," I told him, which was probably the most technically accurate lie I’d ever told. "Chemistry homework."

Tommy gave me a look that suggested he wasn’t buying my deflection for a second. "Chemistry homework. Right. Because Madison Torres is definitely known for struggling with academics and needing tutoring from... you."

He’s got a point. Madison Torres asking me for academic help makes about as much sense as Elon Musk’s kid needing me to explain rocket science. The girl could have a 4.0 GPA if she ever wanted and parents who can afford to hire actual Nobel Prize winners as tutors.

"Peter," he continued, lowering his voice like he was about to deliver classified information, "I’ve known you for years. And I can tell when you’re not telling me the whole truth. So, what really happened with Madison Torres?"

He’s reading me like an open book. This is what I get for having a best friend who actually pays attention instead of just existing in my general vicinity like most people.

Before I could come up with another deflection, we entered the main hallway, and I immediately spotted Lea Martinez near her locker. She was surrounded by her usual collection of advanced textbooks and academic overachievement, but when she saw me, her expression shifted to something that looked dangerously close to disappointment mixed with moral judgment.

Great. Lea definitely heard the rumors, and she’s probably mentally writing my obituary as "Peter Carter: Died As He Lived, Making Terrible Decisions and Disappointing People Who Believed in Him."

She gave me a look that could probably kill small animals through sheer disapproval, then deliberately turned back to her locker like I don’t exist. It’s the kind of dismissal that hits harder than any insult because it’s so perfectly calculated.

If she knew that I’d actually fucked Madison Torres last night—multiple times, in multiple positions, with supernatural stamina—she’d probably never speak to me again. Not that she’s speaking to me now, but at least there was currently theoretical hope for future conversation.

I’m pretty sure that even my AI relationship advisor wouldn’t have strategies for recovering from "I lost my virginity to the girl who publicly WILL be called my sugar baby me while you were trying to educate me about my character flaws." Some bridges, once burned, stay burned forever.

For now, I’m putting the Lea situation in the "problems for future Peter" category, right next to "figure out how to use cosmic sex powers responsibly" and "don’t accidentally reveal supernatural abilities."

Tommy was still giving me that analytical stare as we headed toward first period. "Pete, I know something happened. You’re walking different, talking different, and there’s something about your whole... energy that’s changed."

If only he knew that my "energy" now includes supernatural seduction abilities, enhanced physical stats, and a cosmic point system that rewards me with actual money for sexual achievements.

"Maybe I’m just having a good week," I offered, which was the understatement of the century.

"A good week that started with Madison Torres personally driving to your house to pick you up for ’chemistry homework,’" Tommy said, making air quotes that suggested he knew exactly how much bullshit that explanation contained.

He’s not going to let this go. Tommy’s like a dog with a bone when he thinks someone’s hiding something interesting, and unfortunately, he’s got the persistence to match his curiosity.

We settled into our seats for first period AP History, and that was when things started getting weird in ways that had nothing to do with Madison Torres rumors.

Mrs. Henderson started asking questions about the Industrial Revolution, and before she even finished her sentences, I knew the answers. Not just knew them—I understood the deeper implications, the historical context, the economic ramifications, and even the flaws in the textbook’s oversimplified explanations.

What the fuck? Since when do I have encyclopedic knowledge of 19th-century labor movements?

"Peter," Mrs. Henderson said, looking surprised when my hand shot up before she’d even finished asking about the impact of steam power on manufacturing, "you seem particularly engaged today."

I gave an answer that was so comprehensive and insightful that half the class turned to stare at me like I’d just started speaking ancient Latin or solved world hunger in real-time. Even Lea looked over with an expression of genuine confusion, like she’s trying to figure out if I’ve been replaced by a more academically competent clone.

Okay, this is definitely the enhanced intelligence from the system not just my usual smarts. But holy shit, it’s like having Wikipedia directly uploaded into my brain, except it’s not just facts—it’s understanding, analysis, connections between concepts that I never would have made before.

In AP Chemistry, I spotted errors in the textbook’s molecular diagrams before the teacher even pointed them out. Mrs. Park actually stopped mid-sentence when I corrected a structural formula that had been wrong in the curriculum for who knows how long.

In Computer Science with Mr. Peterson, I was solving coding problems before he finished explaining the syntax, writing algorithms with the kind of elegant efficiency that made seniors look like they’re still learning how to use a calculator.

And in English lit, I was analyzing symbolism in The Great Gatsby with the kind of depth that would have made college professors weep with pride—connecting Gatsby’s green light to broader themes of American capitalism, class mobility, and the commodification of dreams in ways that even I didn’t know I was capable of thinking.

It’s like someone upgraded my brain’s operating system overnight and forgot to mention it in the patch notes.

But chaos was coming, or something terribly interesting. I can feel it!