Not Human

I stare at my so-called locker. Normally I’d carry my Journal with me, but today I left it in the locker for ‘safe’ keeping. Now it’s gone and I am in deep trouble. I scrape my cloven hoof on the ground, leaving a mark in the fake marble. I’m drawing a crowd, but that’s what today has been like. It started in second period … no, it started at breakfast.

I began the day as a (relatively) normal guy. When I came down for breakfast Mom wished me happy birthday, then got this serious look on her face. She told me there was something I had to know now that I was eighteen.

“Tyler, you’re not human. You’re a magical creature called a ‘spiritus scriptus’, that your father and I summoned eighteen years ago. You know your Journal? That’s your true form; your human body is a convenience for interacting with people.”

“You know how crazy this sounds, Mom? Here’s a clue: Really, Really, Crazy!”

“You need proof? Write ‘I’m wearing my new watch’ in your Journal.”

“I don’t have a new watch.”

“Just write.”

I did. Then I stared at the brand-new Rolex on my wrist.

After that I got the talk about keeping the Journal safe; whatever was written in it would come true for me. I decided to leave it in my locker so I wouldn’t be tempted to use it until I’d had a chance to think about the implications.

I turned into a robot halfway through Chemistry class. After that I became a tree, and then a tentacled alien; now I’m a unicorn. I guess keeping this secret isn’t an option. The weirdest part about being a unicorn is being able to look at someone and know whether they’re a virgin. Stacy Engels is, which is why I had no problem with her sitting on my back and combing my mane.

Stacy dropped into my front seat. It took a moment to get used to suddenly being a car, but at least I could communicate. I used the radio, like those robots in that movie.

“Stacy, can you help me? It’s Tyler. Somebody stole my Journal and I have to get it back.”

“Tyler Harrison? Nerdy Tyler?”

“The one and only.”

“I never knew you were cool. Can you turn into other stuff?”

“Not without my Journal.”

Whatever the speed limit was in the hallway, we more than tripled it. With Stacy at the wheel we found the perps in seconds: a matched pair of stoners in a stairwell who were taking turns doodling all over my life.

Stacy demanded the book. One stoner suggested a price, but when Stacy twisted his arm he reduced it to “Just let go! Please!”

“Great work, Stacy. Can you turn me human again?”

She took out a pen and started writing. Finally she put the book away and climbed onto my back. One hand grabbed my mane and the other caressed my spiral horn.