Keys of Life

Chapter Twelve: Faye

Chapter Twelve: Faye

   I glanced to my right, paying no attention to the droning voice at the front of the classroom. I'd always admired the girl I was sitting next to. She seemed so calm, so collected, as if nothing would penetrate her wall of organisation and professionalism. Her russet red curls were always tied back into an elegant bun, joined by a few wavy tendrils escaping from the tight knot.

   I had never spoken to her, not in the year I'd been here. My knowledge of most of the people in the room had been gleaned from overhearing their interactions with everyone else. Maybe one day, I would turn around and chat to her for while, would tell her the things about myself they were all desperate to hear. People wanted to see past the mystery, to peel back the layers of secrecy and delve into the story that lay beneath. As far as I was concerned, they could have fun trying.

   It wasn't that I was unfriendly. I just never had anything to say. What did I care about the latest social faux pas? At least, that was what I told myself. Yet there was a corner of my mind that I had banished into silence, a part that thought little company would have shortened the journey. I knew that I came across as aloof, detached and cold. I couldn't do anything to change that, couldn't force myself into a facade of being bubbly and carefree.

   The ultimate insult in their eyes was that I hadn't bothered trying to get to know a single person. An entire class thought I was happy sitting by myself in the library, reading the latest fiction. A little allowance was made for the story that had preceded me, the tragedy of a dead brother. Who wouldn't be 'changed' by such a loss? In the end though, it didn't matter. After two weeks of sympathetic glances, everyone got tired of waiting for the drama that would never come. 

   In my old school, I would've been the one who was telling the gossip, the centre of attention. I used to be able to taste the excitement in the air, letting it build as people clustered around me, each jostling for a better position. I would chat about mundane things for a few minutes, science homework or the dress I saw in Oasis, brewing the tension until it was ripe and perfectly cooked. Then, with the slyest of 'slips', I would let the smallest snippet of information wriggle out of my tight hold, just enough for their eyes to brighten with secrets and a smile to begin playing on their mouths. For the next few hours I heard crumbs of rumours that had spread like dandelion seeds, rooting themselves far and wide. Finally, with a few carefully chosen words, I would whisper it in the ear of someone on the fringes of the whole thing, someone who wasn't exactly popular, but who knew a few people. That was when it would leap like flames gliding on oil, seeping through the entire year and alighting curiosity like candles.

   I didn't feel like that person anymore. I didn't even want to. Everyone denies that they're part of all the whisperings and sidelong glances, that they would never do that. Don't kid yourself. The buzz of scandal will never fade to just an annoying hum in the background. Some people say that gossip is something to be despised. Maybe it is. Yet despite the hurt the rumours can cause, it's the only thing that can unite an entire school.

   Impressive, really, when you think about it. The pupils act like little more than caged animals, either looking on passively, resigned to their fate, or banging on the bars hoping that if they cause enough fuss, someone will let them out or pay them some desperately craved attention. Yet they all gather around the first person to have any news and discuss it all like civilised adults.

   I listened to the sounds of thirty mouths breathing, of whispers and suppressed laughter, and the groans of chairs. The sounds of people filled the room, creating an almost silence that was nearly blissful. It wasn't that the murmurs annoyed me. I just wished that I was part of it.

   The sound of the bell ringing made me jump, sending my nerves clattering into tense jumble. I gathered up all of my books, jotting down the homework I had somehow managed to catch. I ducked through the door and nearly ran to the bathroom, promptly throwing up neatly into the toilet bowl. My hands shook, my mouth tasting like acid and spices. My stomach twisted, but my breakfast managed to stay in my stomach, unlike lunch. The sudden wave of nausea was almost refreshing, a change to the normal rigmarole of the day. I had the urge to shove my fingers down my throat, not because I was worried about my weight or that I was in need of psychiatric help, but because it was like a clean slate, like someone had purged my body of the time since I had last eaten. That was what appealed to me most - the ability to turn back the clock.

   I mentally shook myself. My gag reflex was not the answer to my problems. Wiping my mouth with a spare tissue, I swished some water around my mouth and spat it out, pleased that the vile flavour was almost gone. I flushed the toilet, focussing my mind on every little movement that I made, wondering what to do next.

   I could go to the school nurse, get myself sent home so I could laze about the house, doing homework and whatever else I could think of to try and get rid of the shaky feeling in my legs. I could go to geography, just like any good, conscientious student who was more concerned about grades than health. No one would have a clue what had happened, and no one would really care that I was late.

   I made my way down the corridor, my feet leading me away before I had made a conscious decision. Apologising to my teacher, I gave my excuse that I hadn't been feeling well and convinced her that I didn't need to see the nurse. With a worried glance, she told me that I could sit down, her concerned expression peeking over the top of her oversized glasses. Sinking down into my seat, I popped a mint into my mouth, swishing it down with some more water. I concentrated all of my energy on tectonic plates, on absorbing details about igneous rocks and magma.