Memory

Chapter One- Trystan

Someone brushes their way past me down the aisle to get to their seat in the back row. I look up to see who it is, but I am stopped short as a paper drifts into my vision. It is slightly crumpled; I lower the paper to my lap and carefully open it.

Meet me after class, the note reads.

I look up, furrowing my brow. Half of the class in my Algebra course is asleep, lulled into boredom my our eight period math teacher, Mr. Radical. His name fits his subject completely, in my opinion.

Anyways, he's your usual stuck-up math scholar, with his short-cropped black hair and bright gray eyes, his clothing always too ironed that it looks like he wears clothing made of paper. He usually has this odd scent, though I can't really place it. It kinda smells bad.

He is still talking; he hasn't even taken notice of some of his class sleeping. He is facing the smartboard, red-colored "marker" in his right hand, rambling about some "hard" equation.

Now, who wrote this note? The handwriting is slanted and spiked, so it might be a boy. Well, there are a few boys that would come at me--I mean, I am one of few girls that aren't Treated. But I am over fifteen; others are probably going to get their Treatment soon.

I look back at the person that had passed me. It happens to be a guy I used to be Chemisty buddies with, named Ashton Waters, an un-Treated. He was said to have a crush on me in freshman year, but at that time, I was in no condition to start talking to people that weren't Treated, let alone like someone. I lift the note just enough to get his attention from the front. I mouth the words, "You sent this?" He gives a silent shake of his head, sending his dark Beiber-hair flopping side to side. Nodding once in thanks, I turn back around.

I spot a light-haired boy a few seats in front of me. That's Jonathan Smith-- king of the jerks. That one boy you see slobbering after pretty girls. Though, many fall for his good looks; especially with his bright blue eyes and glossy light brown hair. I've seen his handwriting before, when I was reluctantly teamed up with him for an English assignment. But it's more straight than slanted. So, no, it's not him. He knows better than to mess with me anyways; I'd punch him the moment he touches me. But I am almost glad at the normalcy of it; at least he hasn't been through Treatment-- yet.

Then there's Cory Bluebird. Weird last name, right? Anyways, he's a quiet, timid boy, usually the one to do creepy stuff, even if he's Treated. I don't think--

"Trystan!"

I jump at my name being practically shouted--which is quite unusual in this society-- and I whip my head towards the front. Mr. Radical is literally staring at me, with his lips pursed and his hands on his hips. His face looks so red right now, almost like a cartoon version of a kettle pot, whistling and shaking and steaming hot.

The thought almost makes me laugh. But I say tightly, "Yes, Mr. Radical?" I bite my lip to keep from giggling.

"Shouldn't you be paying attention more than staring at Cory?"

Faint, annoying snickers erupt from the class, suddenly awake as if by magic. Or by Mr. Radical's high-pitched voice, too high for a male.

Heat rushes to my face. I look over at Cory again. His ginger brows are furrowed, as if confused. What? What is there to be confused about?

Okay, now I'm annoyed.

He deserves one of my rude retorts. But it is a risk. I can't have the teachers suspicious about me.

"Vous ne devriez pas payer plus d'attention à votre hygiène?" Which is French for, Shouldn't you be paying more attention to your hygiene? My family is French; my parents took it upon themselves to speak nothing but their native language around me till I was about five years old, though, it's kind of illegal to speak another language other than English in other cities. It's okay here, but other authorities will suspect you of plotting against them in secret. It's so stupid.