“Call Me Delphi”

A Contemporary Short Story

“Maureen Morrison, who do you think you are?” shrieked Ms. Stevens as she shook a fist at the back of a faded jacket that was slowly getting farther and farther down the hall. The jacket belonged to Maureen, a 14-year-old girl at Actorius High School. She was running away from school for the fifth time that month. It was easy. Her teachers never taught; her classmates thought she didn’t exist. Things went missing from her locker on a daily basis, and the bathrooms were never clean. That was why she ran away.  

They couldn’t expel her, no. As long as she stayed the top of her class, they couldn’t touch her. She was a genius, and she knew it. She already excelled in all her subjects. She didn’t need to listen to a teacher drone on and on about the Civil War, nor did she need to hear her classmates talking about her in low voices. Their monotone, combined with that of the teacher, produced a most marvelous effect. She preferred to view school from above. There, she could pretend to punch the girl who stole her lunch and laugh at the boy who tripped her on purpose. She scrutinized the school’s concrete rooftop as if she could penetrate its cool gray passiveness, breaking it, shattering it, destroying it.

When the bell rang, Maureen climbed down from the roof and blended into the plethora of bodies exiting the building. As long as she kept her head down, she wouldn’t be noticed. She swung her backpack onto her shoulders and put on the faded jacket’s hood. The hood had a hole in it through which her dingy brown hair could be seen. She knew but didn’t care. It wouldn’t matter anyway. To a newcomer, the chattering crowd would have been overwhelming, but to her, a middle school veteran, it was hardly disturbing. They were like tiny iron fillings, racing across the magnetic field, trying to get away from the pull that was already too strong. In the end, the magnet always wins.

She pushed her way through a couple of giggling 9^th graders and passed by a chattering trio of seniors. They made an iron triangle these three. In a few months, they would be off to Harvard on a full scholarship. The whole town’s pride and joy. Is it worth mentioning that one of them is a smoker? Maureen weaved her way through the last of the crowd as she reached the tiny shack she called home. A few years ago, she would linger by the big houses across the street from school, hoping her classmates would think she lived in one of them. Now, it didn’t matter. She pushed through the front door. It was missing a hinge. They had to prop it up onto a piece of wood so it wouldn’t fall apart. Her mother was by the plastic sink, washing dishes. They couldn’t afford a dishwasher. Her little brothers were pulling a stray cat’s tail. Her father was in the lone bathroom having a cold shower. When he was done, she could go.

“Maureen! How was school?” Her mother’s wet fingers touched Maureen’s cheek.

She tried to smile, “Fine.”

“I got a nice pair of jeans at the flea market today. Why don’t you try them on?”

Maureen glanced at the torn jeans laying on the table. They were looking forlorn. She picked them up to spare her mother’s feelings. They were a few inches too short. On the waistband, in permanent marker, were the words, “I belong to Sylvia Travers.” She wondered who Sylvia Travers was. By the look of them, Sylvia had probably worn the jeans more times than the weak blue fabric could handle. 

Nodding thanks to her mother, Maureen went to the room she shared with her brothers. Her bed was up against the peeling wall, and rusty bunk beds were on the other. By her bed was a cardboard box. She used it as a nightstand. On the box was her magic portal, her laptop. The school had given it to her in eighth grade as a service to “assist less advantaged students.” It was a nice phrase, “less advantaged,” much nicer than what was actually there. She opened her laptop and logged into her Instagram account. There she was, Delphi Papadakis, a glamorous, Greek 18-year-old – on her way to Harvard. Her father was a superstar who lived in Beverly Hills. Her mother was the owner of the largest hotel chain in Europe. 

She scrolled through her profile.

There was the photo of her in Crete, her blonde hair a sharp contrast against the Mediterranean backdrop. There she was driving her first car, nothing less than a Ferrari. There she was with her friends at the shopping mall. She had just bought a new pair of jeans to go with the jacket her father had sent her from LA. There she was, old, beautiful, rich, popular. It hadn’t taken a lot of time to make these photos. She had always known who she wanted to be. Besides, she was a genius, and she knew it. Maureen smiled at the laughing Delphi, admiring her dimples, lenses, and fake eyelashes. Suddenly, the laptop’s screen went blank. As Maureen stood to get her charger, she caught her reflection in the cracked mirror on the wall. And she started to cry.

• Ayah Gouda

*** NOTE from the author: This short story is based on the Greek myth of The Oracle of Delphi in which the priestess, Pythia, lives as a regular mortal but occasionally becomes possessed with the spirit of the oracle and foresees the future for members of the Greek populace who go to her for consultation. In “Call Me Delphi,” I am exploring the idea of leading two lives, one real and one surreal.