Don't Float

I drape my left arm over the school desk and grasp the edge of it with my hand. My feet begin to float up, and I slam them back onto the floor, then attempt to bend over and use the weight of my right hand to keep it from drifting up again.

            This happened gradually over the past few months, and I was afraid of what would happen when it became obvious. Charlotte broke down the other day, and the teacher sent her to the guidance councilor. I suppose they were trying to help her, but something about telling someone that if I wasn't careful, I would just float away, would surely gain a few strange looks, and then they would probably send me off to an insane asylum.

            The bell rings and I tuck my legs under the seat and shove my things into my backpack. I see one student lean to another and I swear I hear them snicker over how foolish I look. It's lunch time, so I head to the cafeteria. But, I'm not hungry, so instead, I hide in the bathroom, and just try to keep myself on the ground.