Yeah, she's fine.

(She doesn't look fine. She doesn't sound fine, either.)

"...kay. The telepathy thing is cool, do you have an accent or something in English?"

She's got a thing; she can't talk the regular way.

"Oh, okay. I guess it's convenient you're magic, then."

Here's an English classroom. She gets a chair without a desk, next to his chair and desk. He pulls a notebook and a copy of Midsummer Night's Dream out of his backpack.

"Dennis, why don't you introduce us?" the teacher says.

"Oh, uh, this is Dusk," says Dennis, pointing at her. "She's visiting to check out the school so she'll be following me in my last two classes. She can't talk but she's telepathic."

"Well, I guess we won't assign her a part, then," says the teacher. "Hello, Dusk, welcome, I'm Mrs. McCoy. All right, who wants to be Hermia today -"

Parts are assigned.

She watches, though not with any particular enthusiasm.

People read their parts. Hermia is particularly enthusiastic, declaiming with gestures and exaggerated pronunciation that the teacher tolerates with amusement. When they've read through the scene, the teacher has questions about what characters were thinking, what the old-fashioned words mean, about the verse, about the references - she calls on people with raised hands, though sometimes while she's posing a question she looks a little pointedly at someone who hasn't raised their hand in a while.

That's... weird. Do the pointedly looked at kids seem to feel any particular way about it?

Sometimes they raise their hands, sometimes they avoid looking at the teacher and don't. They range from sheepish to mulish or uninterested.

But not scared. That's reassuring; she relaxes a little.

The teacher asks if anybody has any other comments about this passage of the play. She looks at Dusk; not very pointedly, but it's a cousin of the look she gives the less participatory students.

She had a thought earlier about one of the other girls' ideas about one of the references; she shares it. Doesn't think to raise her hand first.

"That's interesting, thank you, Dusk! In the future even though you're not literally talking, let alone talking over anyone, we raise our hands and wait to be called on in class," says the teacher. And she moves briskly on to the homework assignment, which is to write one page about this act of Midsummer Night's Dream, any subtopic, and include at least four lines of blank verse (rhymes for extra credit encouraged).

Oops.

None of the other kids are tensing up like they expect anything to happen, though? Which. Is weird. Okay.

Kids start packing up their books. "Math is next," Dennis tells her.

Okay.

What have they been learning about?

"Factorization," says Dennis, zipping his backpack and swinging it on. "This way."

Follow follow.

The math class is taught by a tired-looking old man with glasses. He has bad chalkboard handwriting and mumbles. Everyone seems used to this, though not everybody responds to being used to it by paying attention.

Dusk is unimpressed.

(She's figured out selective sending, by now, and she's gone over factorization on her own already; the rest of the class can know that it works like this, some time when his back is turned.)

There are some startle reactions; this teacher didn't have Dennis introduce her to the class. Somebody's water bottle goes over, though it's fortunately closed; somebody loses his pencil.

Sorry. Hi. She's the magical girl over by Dennis; she's just here for today. Can't hear them back, unfortunately.

People calm down, shooting her discomfited or curious looks. The boy who lost his pencil has a spare. The teacher doesn't notice.

That's fine.

She doesn't disturb the class again.

And eventually the bell rings and Dennis conducts her back to the office, where Julie's waiting for her. "Hey kiddo. How were the classes?"

First: hug.

The whole thing was weird but not in a bad way. The math teacher was maybe pretty bad, though, he  kind of wasn't paying attention to what he was doing.