Excerpt from How It Feels to Float by Helena Fox, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Most of my tests are fairly easy, which isn't me boasting; it's just a statement of fact. Mum says I might have a photographic memory, which is good for Mum because she often forgets her PIN numbers and passwords.

Mum could be right. All I have to do is look at something and it sticks. Sometimes, the image repeatrepeatrepeatrepeats, like a GIF I can't turn off.

The room fills with the buzz of numbers.Pi scuttles over our papers, theorems talk to themselves. Ms. Hastings looks at her phone—probably at some friend skydiving or snorkeling in the Bahamas, while she's trapped in here with us.

The bell rings.

"Time's up!" calls Ms. Hastings. We hand in our tests. Next class is English.

I don't chat or dawdle in the corridors; I slip between the crowds, a fish weaving. In fifty-five minutes I'll have to speak to Grace.Just keep swimming, Biz.

Mr. Birch stands like a flamingo in front of the class, one foot scratching the back of his leg.

"Okay, everyone," he says, "today we'll be writing about the ego. That is, your alter ego. Consider your readings over the weekend, and the work of Plath in this context."

A collective groan from all of us. We've done Plath now for three long weeks and no one is a fan. I mean, we all "feel" for her, but at this point we've read her and analyzed her and discussed her and it's like peeling an onion until there's no onion left.

"I want you to write a description of your alter ego, due at the end of the day," Mr. Birch says, ignoring our protests. In case we don't remember what he's just said, he writes it on the whiteboard, his blue pen squeaking. He then sits at his chipped desk behind his PC, doing paperwork.

We hunker down to do the assignment. That is, some of us do the assignment; some of us daydream. The new boy pulls out a book and reads it behind his laptop screen.

Fans flick-flick above us. A trickle of sweat moves down between my boobs. I stare at my computer.

I don't much like to write about myself. It's not my thing, discussing any part of me. Over the years, Mum has suggested we go see people because Dad is dead, but then we put it off. I did sit with a man once, when I was seven and a half, in a room with yellow-painted walls and framed cat pictures. The man had round glasses like Harry Potter. He laid out paper and blunt coloring pencils and said to draw, so I did. Then he hummed and ha-ed and said, "I'll just speak to your mum now, okay?" and when Mum came back out, her eyes were really red, so I didn't draw for anyone else after that.

The cursor blinks on, off.

I take a breath, and dive in.


My Alter Ego: A meditation/poem, by Elizabeth Grey


Consider the Ego / The ego is defined as a person's sense of self / Which includes but is not limited to self-esteem, self-worth, and self-importance / Don't we all think ourselves important, that we matter? / We are matter, this part is true / But do we? / And / Is it possible to have an alter self / I.e.: an opposite, matterless self?

No / Such a thing cannot exist / The universe is made of matter / And if I am alter or other, then I would be lacking matter or a sense of matter and as such cannot be in the universe / And if I am outside the universe, that makes me a singularity, a concept impossible to imagine / Therefore, my alter ego is beyond my capability for imagining / And thus, cannot be described.

The End

P.S. Some say God is a singularity, but people imagine God all the time / They think he looks like someone's white grandpa, or Santa Claus / God's Alter Ego is sometimes called a Dog / (Sorry) / It should be added that Dogs exist and have the potential to exist throughout the known universe / So it is possible that my earlier hypothesis is wrong.

I close my laptop, look up at Mr. Birch, who'll get to read this masterpiece tonight. What a lucky guy!

Excerpted from How It Feels to Float by Helena Fox. Copyright © 2019 by Helena Fox. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.