The bell rang and I was startled awake. I heard a few people laughing, no doubt at me, but I didn't care. I learned to not care very quickly. I'm not very attractive, though my features can be attractively described, and I'm not particularly athletic, which is why I'm completely ostracized from the entire student body. Though, I suppose saying the entire student body isn't quite accurate, because there is one group of people that actually bother to acknowledge my existence.
Even though they're, you know. Bullying me.
Sad but true, I'm an intellectual in a jungle of chest pounding, low browed, muscular dolts with so much school spirit if you inject a twenty ton elephant with it, it'd die. The school has started a new program to get rid of the bad blood between my old school, St. Peter's Academy for the Intellectually Gifted or PAIG (one of the hardest high schools to get in-my mom went there, and went on to go to Harvard and she said Harvard was easier) and my current school, The American Institute for the Athletically Gifted or AIAG (one of the hardest muscle head schools to get in-whoop-dee-freaking-doo).
I honestly couldn't care less about the bad blood between these two schools. PAIG is a total brain on steroids, and AIAG is a total muscle on steroids (excuse the fact that a brain is a muscle too). If I had any choice in the matter, I would have gone to a college specializing in the music industry. I've got some real pipes-not to brag, I'm just saying. I've seen a lot of people enter the music industry that aren't even half as good as me.
Enough with the buts and the whining, though. This is where I am and I've got to deal with what's in front of me instead of complaining and fantasizing. Usually this is where the looser girl of the school would probably introduce her best friend, or even the hottest, most popular air head in the school as her secret crush, and afterwards, the story gets pretty predictable-she ends up falling for the bad boy or the looser, and there's a happily ever after, or maybe she gets with the guy who's popular and sticks it to the Mean Girl.
Well, lucky for you I don't have a crush. I don't have a mysterious past either, or some kind of pained, mysterious side of me. And unlike most protagonists, I'm not white. I'm what my only 'friend' in PAIG liked to call me-a mutt. I'm an Irish-Latina with some Italian thrown in just to make sure my lineage is mutt-y enough. If you still think this is a predictable story, give it another guess, tinkle top.
As we speak, I am being shoved into a locker. I guess you can say I'm the 'smart aleck nerd who knows her way around eloquence and literacy'. You can now scratch off any possibility that I'll have a prince charming, too. Because, really? Real life bites it. I am no bad ass either, but relief be to you I am a total hardcore rocker.
In the shower.
But you can relax and rest easy, because not only am I going to find out something life changing by the end of the day, I either have ESP or I'm just plain psychic. Literally, I kid you not, I have not one clue what I'm going to find out because I was woken up when I was having one of my dreams, but I know it's going to be big. The most I can hope for is that I'm actually adopted and my real parents are huge rock stars, or even rich people.
But, before that happens, I've got to get out of this locker. Jimmy is cool and all for someone who doesn't mind shoving a fifteen-going-on-sixteen girl into a locker, but this boy can peel paint I tell you. Instead of making a big fuss like the people you see on TV do when they get shoved into lockers, I waited until the laughter, mockery, and the smell of month old chilly fries and doughnuts faded. I reached into my pocket, this time not worrying about school property.
I clenched my army knife tightly, leveling it with my wrist, and thrust it through the locker door. If the principle or the dean didn't want me destroying school equipment they shouldn't allow the monkey jungle to throw their metaphorical poop at me. An eye for a locker, I always say. I slid the knife easily to the edges of the locker, marveling at how stupid some of these people can be.
They know that whenever they stuff me into a locker I'm like a total can opener, yet they can't help but shove the being with a higher level of thinking in the giant metal jock strap holder. Sometimes when I'm alone, I truly morn America's future. No joke- I literally bawled to my mother once. Everyone was laughing their but off, of course, but come PTA meetings, no one laughed after that.
Some of these kids can barely spell loser let alone take a freaking regents. There's a lot of money behind the scenes, but I couldn't care less. Did I mention I'm no goodie two shoes? Yeah, I get taking action if a little old lady were being mugged in front of me, but I'd totally ask for payment after saving her but. After all, what do you expect to happen when you walk around with a freaking fur coat and pearls? Oh, I'm sorry, you're rich. I don't want to dirty your Porsche, madam.
Yeah, right. If only.
By the time I was nearly finished with my inner monologue rant, I was free. I kicked the locker door open like it was a simple doggy door, and went on my way. While walking down the blue halls of AIAG, I spotted a little girl. I stopped. Dead ahead, about three meters in front of me, was the coldest thing I'd ever seen.
She wore a white dress, with little frills on the bottom, and she was insanely pale. Long black hair flowed down her back, and her face... nothing. Its like I couldn't register what was in front of me. Every time I tried to see, her image became fainter, like a ghost. Then she ran.
I stopped and speed thought. Would it be in my best interest to follow her? What would I gain by following her? Do I really want to know? Something told me not to go near her if I could help it.
But I still hesitated.
I know that little voice in your head that tells you what's good or bad isn't something you should ignore when it tells you something different then the usual right or wrong, but I still felt compelled to follow the girl. If I wanted to follow her, time was running out. Then I gave up; I knew I'd regret it if I didn't follow her.
I bolted.
I started regretting not participating in gym a little more. A girl with C cup boobs can only run so far without getting a cramp or smacking herself in the chin a few dozen times. Why girls desire huge boobs was beyond me. I mean, having power over a guy would be fun, but only for a little while. Every up has it's down; it's nature. I had to stop a few times and stretch when I got close enough to her that I'd be sure I wouldn't lose her, and, quite frankly, I started chaffing after the first three miles.
I could only worry in the back of my head how I'd get back home with no cab fare. I wondered a little absent-mindedly if I'd actually make it home. Then I reminded myself what I had gotten myself into, and tried to figure out what I'd get myself out of. Yep, that's me lone wolf freak who apparently enjoys chasing down strange little girls. Just Plain Jane here.
Honestly, I have no idea why I'm bounding through the woods when I can be chilling with future hockey, baseball, and basketball contractors who enjoy long walks on the beach, eating at newly open stores, shopping, and shoving a fifteen year old girl into lockers. I felt compelled to. The more I think about the possibilities of where that little girl is going, or who she's going to meet, it feels as if I'm being bound to the answer.
My lungs were now on fire, and every muscle screamed out for me to stop. I'm about to hit the wall. I can just feel exhaustion and fatigue catching up with me, like some kind of miasma protecting the wall. I knew as soon as I broke through the metaphorical wall called a limit, It'd be smooth sailing. Until, of course, I hit the holy mother of GOD, I should not have done that stage.
After that, I'm totally trapped. Then, I did something I would normally crack up at, but in this situation it's totally not funny, because it hurts like hell. I ran into a tree. I was so tired I couldn't even concentrate on how much it hurt. I couldn't move. I suppose I did better than most-I sprinted about three and a half miles. Or it felt like it. I could barely move when I started feeling those tiny spasms in my legs-you know, the ones you get when you've either walked a lot or ran more than usual? Yeah, those.
My lungs desperately grasped for some air. Tiny spots danced around my vision, the kind I always read about in books. When my breathing got relatively normal, I started to realize where a was. The sky had changed color-night time. I couldn't have been running that long. I looked around me, fully realizing how much my feet hurt. Thick, lush trees stood every where, and underbrush riddled the ground.
My breathing returned to normal, and I tried to stand, and failed. My legs went numb, and I couldn't stand. Great.
I don't remember Central Park being this green. Or ladies coming out of trees. Especially that last part.
"Hey," she yelled. "Where do you get off running into me like that? You'd at least think you would have enough common courtesy to apologize." She looked at me expectantly for about three seconds, and her eyes got wilder. "You... You... swamp kelpie!" She stomped off into the tree.
Usually, in the movies or in the books, the heroine would recover from something like that and talk to it, or even keep walking, their D cups bouncing like nobodies business. But me? Yeah, I think I need new pants. And a bath. And some of the medicine in the little cups they give out in the crazy house.
I just stared at the tree for a good five minutes, not entirely sure what the hell that was. Or what to do. Then the girl stalked back out of the tree. "Stop staring! Didn't your mother ever tell you it was rude to stare?" She glared at me.
Now, the usual reaction for something like this would be a witty come back, or some ass kissing remark. Sorry to disappoint, but apparently I'm not the usual. "Yeah."
"Well then, why are you doing it?" She crossed her arms, still furious with me.
"I never said I'd listen to her." This did not make her a happy camper. "Besides," I continued. "I've never met... you before."
She looked taken aback. "What do you mean?" She looked at me intently, and seemed to notice something. "You're wearing human clothing. What, are you a Solitary Fey?" She backed up, looking extremely cautious.
"Uh, no." I got up carefully, and with great effort I steadied myself. Then I remembered something I'd read not too long ago. "Wait, Fey? As in... Faerie Fey? Not Fairy as in Tinker Bell? Like, Samhain and the Winter Solstice parties and everything?"
"Yeah..." The girl looked a little worried now. Now that I really look at her, I saw. Long, mossy hair, skin the color or finely produced cherry wood, and a dress with a leafy pattern. Then I started to realize it was leaves-all held together by vines.
"Holy... you're a Dryad."
"Yes, of course. Haven't you ever seen a Dryad?"
I looked at her weird. "Do a lot of humans run into you? Because I don't know anybody who even spares a thought about mythology. They barely spare a thought about anything unless it comes to drugs, drinking, sports or test."
"But... wait... you're not human."
Silence.
"What are you implying? I know I'm no Kate Middleton but I'm not a troll." Hmm. Funny wording.
"Obviously not." She looked me up and down. "But I cant believe that someone with as noble a lineage as you would wear filthy human clothes."
"What?"
"I mean to say that you're-"
Then I woke up.
Breath didn't come easy to me. I grasped for my swiss army knife and quickly jabbed at the locker, easily slipping the knife in the metal and cutting through it harshly around the lock. I kicked it open and gasped. No wonder I had a hard time breathing in my dream. I was suffocating in a sweaty jock strap locker.
I breathed in through my nose, grateful that the janitor, my only actual friend if you can even call the school janitor your friend, sprays down the hallway every two hours with disinfect and air freshener.
I rose, my feet oddly unresponsive, as if I'd been running. I quickly tossed the idea. Something like that isn't possible.
While walking home, the streets were unusually quiet. And dark. I urged myself to walk faster, no matter how silly I was being. Reason tried to settle over me, failing feebly. This is New York City. It's never a quiet, peaceful place. There's always a siren from some kind of truck or cop car, cars honking, people talking on their cell phones, cabbies and deli men yelling in a foreign tongue.
When I finally got home, reliefe settled over me only after I closed the door. When I turned around, my mother had tears in her eyes and a placid face. "Ray," she said. "We need to talk."