Years ago tragedy struck the Calloway's causing the family to fall apart. Lucariah Augustine St. Francis Calloway was left in the ruins of it all with a mother who couldn't bother and a father who disappeared one night with his older brothers. For...
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The moment we entered the room I wanted to leave. It was too bright and colorful. With chain link colored paper swooping down from the ceiling, and a bright blue carpet on the floor.
It reminded me of a kindergarten class.
Most of the students were separated by groups. Kids that were wheelchair bound sat at one table.
Deaf kids at another. And so on.
I stood, staring at a random corner, as my teacher droned on about whatever it was we had to do for the day.
"Lucariah," I gaze snapped to Mrs. Goldstein the second my name fell from her lips.
Names always fascinate me. The power it has over its own body. The power others hold by saying it.
It was an odd concept. But- it also made me think about the subject of how we get our names.
It comes from parents. They make the decision before this new being breaths this earthly air. It begins before they officially do.
And on some rare occasions, they get to change it. Maybe the parents themselves. Maybe the child once they've reached adulthood.
But sometimes... sometimes things happen that give you a name without your understanding. When I was nine for instance, I got a new middle name by a man I didn't even know. And I don't understand the reasoning behind it either.
Some days I wish I could go back in time and ask more questions instead of living in fear. What was the worse they could do? Kill me? Peace to them and myself.
I raised my eyebrow at the teacher when she stood silent for a second.
"I need you to take a placement test," she said, leading me to her desk, "it'll only take a few minutes and we'll figure out where you need to be. So you'll sit next to Oscar for the time being- Oscar, raise your hand."
I turned to the class and found myself frozen in place when I realized who this "Oscar" kid was.
The wispy black hair. The thick lashes. Silvered eyes.
"Quinn," I whispered to myself.
He stared at me, eyes wide, like he got caught doing something he shouldn't. Like he never meant for us to run into one another this way.
I hobbled over to the empty desk beside him in a state of shock.
"Crow," he signed.
"Quinn," I signed back.
He smiled a goofy little smile; his cheeks going scarlet. "Why are you here?" He wrote on his notebook, slipping it over to me discreetly.
"My dad," I wrote back. Quinnlyn didn't talk. He hasn't spoken a word since he was eight.
