What happens when you can't even recognize your own parents, but you're able to identify the most notorious playboy in school? //
Asher Thomas lives in a world where she isn't able to recognize people's faces, including those of her parents and even...
The next day, Aaron and I drop in early to turn in our project, hoping that Mr. Riley had not arrived yet. 'Twas a blessed day, for he wasn't present when we set the folder on his desk and made a dash for it.
"I am so happy I wasn't there to witness him gloat," Aaron cheers, letting out a sigh of relief. "You're quite the sneak."
As soon as he says this, we pass by a clique of girls, walking in the same stride. The five of them are clad in similar, short-skirt outfits, and all shoot me a dirty once-over. One even has the nerve to take a stab at the heel of my foot.
"Slut," someone hisses. I let out a startled laugh, and they stare, presumably thinking that my 'mental disease' has rendered me speechless.
"I'm sorry," I snicker. "All of you are truly hilarious. Ever tried out to be a jester?" They exchange sideways glances, glossy lips tightening. One thing of many that I have learned from the female population – no one ever knows how to respond to me.
"Well." I flash them a sugary smile, shrugging. "You would be perfect."
One lets out a little huff, spins on her heel, and marches down the hall. The others quickly follow, as if dragged by an invisible leash. Even before they're out of my earshot, their whispers swarm in the air, leaching into the walls. I'm sure that within seconds, new gossip will be making its rounds – however, that's hardly news.
"Hey." Aaron laughs, remembering my jab. "What happened back there?"
"Nothing," I say with a lilting smile. "Some people never change."
Aaron ponders this, hands deep in his pockets. A few seconds of silence pass before he asks, "Have I?"
"I don't know," I respond truthfully. "I just met you."
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Dinnertime. Dad and Heidi are talking quietly, cutting into their bratwurst. Heidi migrated from Germany ten years ago, but her roots are no less prominent than before. I don't remember the last time she made an American meal without a hint of German food. Heidi could cook a paper bag and I'd eat it happily.
I swallow a bite of broccoli, thinking over my words carefully. Even at the slightest mention of my health, it tends to spark a great deal of anxiety for my father, and worrying him is the last thing I want.
I clear my throat quietly, looking up. Dad pops a chunk of bratwurst into his mouth, while Heidi sips her wine gracefully. "I've been having some headaches lately," I say slowly, gauging their reactions. Heidi's glass freezes in her fingertips, and Dad's knuckles turn white around his fork. Backtracking quickly, I say, "It's really nothing. They don't last a long time." This doesn't seem to quell their unease any further, and I add with a shaky laugh, "I never have it. Just once. Or twice." I gulp. "It's nothing, just some minor migraine ... nothing, nothing ..."
Dad sets down his fork slowly, jaw taut. He remains quiet, while Heidi puts down her wine glass a little too forcefully, the red wine sloshing. "Asher," she says quietly, deadly serious. "You must tell me everything. I can't let the same thing happen to you as ..."
