The Compass and the Quill [Under Revision]

7. Not the Same

On any given day, calling me a nice person was tantamount to blasphemy.

I was not a mean person, but I was not nice. If someone interacted with me, it was quite likely that person would come away in tears. Therefore, it was obvious that I  was not remotely altruistic in the financial sector.

But.

But for some reason I couldn't fathom, I was approaching Quilla again, face heating up rapidly and right hand occupied by a large, rather dry cupcake. She was minding her own business, pulling at the grass as her lunch lay untouched next to her. It was a warm day, so the sun glinted off her pale skin and even paler hair, somewhat masking how deathly thin she was. As corny as it sounded, she really looked like she was glowing.

For a moment, my chest felt very strange - not unpleasant, but warm, cozy, somehow molding my reluctant features into a smile.

I shook myself and stomped on my own foot for good measure. Nothing about Quilla Sanders was worth smiling about. I was spelling out my own doom putting myself on the radar of a psychopath like her. No, I was definitely not being nice. I was just making sure I had the last word in that conversation. As if I was going to let a dried-up little strumpet win any argument with me.

"Hey," I barked. "You going to behave or are you going to give me more of that boo-hoo-nobody's-nice-to-me bullshit?"

Her fists clenched in the grass. "Go away," she positively growled. "You hateful monster, you. I hate you."

My chest felt strange again - and this time, it was definitely unpleasant. Maybe it was because no girl had ever said those words to me, and anyone else who had I had never cared about. But coming from her, those words h-

No. I was definitely not feeling that feeling that four-letter word that started with 'h' and rhymed with skirt. Hell no. I was feeling harassed. Of course I would be - there were seven billion people on the planet and I, of all of them, had to suffer the misfortune of sharing a desk with her.

"Look," I spat. "If you have a problem with these people being mean, just suck it up. If they're not nice, you have the luxury of not owing them any kindness. And I hate manipulation, so rest assured I won't be saying anything to use you."

Quilla finally looked at me, and to my lack of surprise, I was instantly fascinated by her eyes. "You seem to have skipped Human Behavior 101," she retorted. "They taught us that members of the human species should be civil to each other. Niceness isn't in your DNA, but you can speak English instead of Pure Insult."

I took a deep breath and decided to finish off what I had come to do. "I'm going to sit down," I said. "If I am too close, tell me."

"Why?"

Refraining from answering, I took one step towards her and then another. She stiffened and pressed into the trailer but remained silent. Stupid girl. Experimentally, I took a third, rather large step towards her.

"No!" she yelped, almost folding over and sliding under the trailer. "Too close."

Smirking, I took a small step back. "How's that?" I asked.

"Good..."

"Alrighty." I sat down cross-legged in front of her. "Now don't scream, okay? I'm not going to hurt you. Look what I have."

I stretched my arm out slowly. She didn't flinch per se, but I couldn't call the way her body jerked away a twitch. Her curious, scarlet eyes fell on the cupcake I was holding out, coloring with confusion. "Is that white powder laxative?" she asked, pointing at the cupcake with a bony finger.