Sequel to/ spin-off of this story is titled 'Metamorphosis'.
~*~
What comes to most people's minds when they think of rich kids? Mostly that they are snobbish, stuck-up jerks who are busy planning the next vacation to an exotic location in their daddy's private jet, and then, plan another one right after that.
I wish that were the case with me. At least then, things would have been simpler.
Instead of being born with a silver spoon in my mouth, what I was born with, I could say, was a bedroom that was, well, special. I really don't know what made my parents design it in that particular manner, but it had been creative and strange of them. They are a jolly lot anyway, really not the types that would strike you as billionaires. It's the famous, spirited Jamaican blood that flows in our veins after all.
Once again, this, right here, is yet another strangeness that defines my life. Because if I were to tell anyone that I carry Jamaican roots in me, the less informed ones will do a double take. An instance of prejudice, because not all Jamaicans are black. Some are white as well - like my dad, Stephen Williams. And his illegitimate son with some white woman whose whereabouts or identity I have no clue of.
Me.
My dad's legitimate children are a total of five in number, all mocha or coffee or whatever colour you would give people of mixed heritage. Because the next thing the less informed wouldn't know of is that the slaves that were brought to Jamaica years ago, all those black and Asian and South Asian folks, found common ground and made love, and now, I would say, Jamaica is a mirror that shows the world what cultural hybridity looks like.
To put it straightforwardly, my mom Fiona (though she isn't my biological mom, I never felt that she isn't, for she loves me as one of her own) is of Black-Indian mixed heritage.
And the five legitimate siblings, in the order of their births, are my twin brothers Leon and Louie, my sisters Lilly, Leslie, and the youngest of the lot, Laurie, who is only thirteen days older than me - the reason why she's virtually my half twin.
Mirror shown to the world brings me back to the creative and strange thing that my parents did while designing my bedroom in our huge mansion of a Renaissance Revival style home in Long Island. They placed two huge stretches of mirror spanning across the two opposite walls of my room, so that it resembled an endless, reflecting, infinitely repeating abyss of my neatly furnished room. And as a little kid one of my favourite things to do was jump around on my bed with my siblings and watch our infinite, tunneling reflections jump with us, like a strange, extremely synced orchestra.
If this wasn't done to my bedroom, I probably wouldn't have been fascinated by the world of physics, and perhaps would have instead been into dancing, like Leon and Louie, or maybe be interested in criminal investigation and harbour a dream to get into the FBI, like my sister Lilly, or just be annoying twerps like my two other sisters Leslie and Laurie.
Anyway, what they did to my bedroom had lasting effects in me. As a child, as little as four or five years of age, I would lose myself in flights of fancy, imagining strange worlds within those reflecting mirror worlds. What if those doppelgangers are all real, all wondering at the other infinite doppelgangers before or behind them, all the while thinking they are the real Noah Williams.
When I was five years old, I had decided that it's not God, it's the Universe that answers our prayers. As you must have already chuckled and guessed it, this view of mine would be subject to repeated, significant alterations, in the years to follow. There would even be a time when I would conclude grimly that the Universe is just a cold, heartless, pitiless, meaningless place, our existence an unfortunate accident, and our life an absurdist play; I would conclude that the Universe is simply dead to all our sufferings and our helpless prayers.
But there would also be a time when my thoughts wouldn't be as grim and final.
And so when I was five years old, eagerly waiting for my first day at school, I had prayed hard to the Universe that it let me find someone at school who was exactly like me, as interested in the same exact weird topics as I was, as different and weird as me.
It wasn't that I didn't have anyone to talk to about my ideas and theories before I started my school life. For I used to babble my strange, fantastic and weird theories, and all my flights of fancies, to the best person to talk to on these topics. My dad.
Did I tell you that my parents were the best parents in the world? I'ts not because we were rich. It's because unlike some snooty rich kids, we weren't raised by our nannies. We were raised by our parents. We did have nannies. I'd say they were there just for the sake of it, paid for naught, if you ask me. Because as far as I could remember, it was my mom who would fuss over me and Laurie, brandishing spoonfuls of mashed yuckiness that's made just to torture kids, or teaching us alphabets and words, or accompanying us for every little thing, be it parents-teachers meetings, the Mensa meetings I'd have as a ten year old, Laurie's gymnastics lessons, or Leon and Louie's dance battles.
But dad would be away a lot of times. Mom would fill the role as effectively as she could during those times. In effect, they never let us feel left out or alone, so we were never brought up as rich neglected kids.
It was a mistake, perhaps. Because had I not been brought up so, I would never have been so sensible as to even think deeply about things and just complicate things for myself.
These thoughts in my head that shaped my psyche, as early on as four or five years of age, these thoughts that I babbled to my dad, about reflections and strange worlds, they wanted to find their expression in someone I could relate to, someone of my own age. I wouldn't find that someone until the first day of my school.
~*~
September 1, 2005.
Trinity School, New York.
I sit fidgeting in the car. It smells good, of our mom's perfume, Les's strawberry bubblegum that she is chewing like a cow in her mouth, Laurie's strawberry-smelling shampoo, my shampoo. And soap. I want bubblegum too.
"I want bubblegum too." I mumble.
Mom says Les is allowed to have them because she is older. I get to have them when I'm older, too.
It's not fair, but I swallow the indignation down and sit quietly. Our car is big, and long, unlike the one we use when it's just me and mom, or me and dad. Two more cars, black in colour, accompany us. One leading us and one trailing behind us. Security.
We stop before a gate. I press my nose to the glass. A huge, rose-coloured stone building stands imposingly before us, trees standing like sentinels, with their jagged branches outstretched, welcoming us all crookedly.
School.
It's my first day.
I'm nervous, and scared. I hold mom's hand and try not to cry.
There are kids being ushered in by older people - teachers, maybe - kids of my own age. We step out, me holding mom's hand tightly, Laurie doing the same to mom's other hand. Our four guards in their black suits step out, too, from their cars.
Les struts in confidently, black curls flouncing, bag swishing, and is gone, disappearing into the crowd of kids before I could even blink.
And then mom gently pries her hands away from ours. Me and Laurie look at each other and automatically reach out to each other and hold each other's hands. It's her first day, too.
"Go on, I'll see you soon!" mom says, smiling encouragingly, swooping down to kiss our cheeks.
I look at Laurie and feel comforted. At least I have someone with me.
But she is sobbing.
I feel a little better then. At least I am not sobbing. I press her hand comfortingly. "It's okay." I nod at her.
She sniffles, and nods back.
We walk together to the gate, and through the gate. A teacher smiles at us welcomingly as we walk together through a huge arching entryway of the stone structure. All in all it looks like an old castle. But once we are inside, it doesn't look like an old castle, but like a school.
"See, not scary at all." I tell Laurie. Laurie smiles a little at me, before sobbing again quietly.
I sigh. But I still hold her hand.
And then a teacher is making all the kids of our age stand in a line. I have to let go of Laurie's hand then. But she stands right behind me like my shadow.
A boy stands before me, a black haired boy. His pale nape stands out, he has messy locks. And he has a light blue shirt on. Laurie suddenly drops something with a crash behind me.
I turn back mutely, perplexed and shocked. I am even more shocked to find that Laurie had taken out her pencil case from her bag and now it, along with its contents, are lying on the floor.
"Why did you take it out?" I ask her, eyes wide.
"I- I just wanted to check if I had my eraser," Laurie mumbles, and begins to sob again.
"Oh god." I mumble in return, bending down quickly to pick it all up as Laurie stands rooted to her spot, embarrassed and scared, showing no sign of budging.
But then I see someone crouching next to me, and a pale hand joining mine as it picks up the pencils (and some hair pins, and some candies! Laurie is so silly). I look up.
It's the same boy who was standing in front of me.
"Thanks." I tell him, as I shake my head while picking up the things and putting them back one by one into the case.
"You're welcome." he says quietly, handing me a hair clip.
I take it from him, cheeks burning, quickly putting it back into the case.
"What is going on here?" a voice floats to us, extra sweet, extra caring. It's a teacher, and she quickly takes the case from my hand and puts things in and settles the matter in a flash. She asks us whose pencil case it is and I tell her it's my sister Laurie's. I also tell her that she is sorry so don't yell at her.
The teacher laughs. "Oh no, love, I won't be yelling at Laurie. It's okay, Laurie," she coos at her, putting the case back into her bag and zipping it up for her.
I nod at the teacher appreciatively. The teacher only laughs, before walking away to stand at the very beginning of our line.
I stand facing the line, feeling responsible and slightly older. I hear Laurie's soft snuffles and I turn and tell her it's okay, holding her hand once, before facing ahead.
I'm greeted to the sight of the mess of black hair and the pale nape again.
They look soft. The mess of black hair.
He doesn't smell of my soap or shampoo. He smells of...mint. Perhaps.
I reach out a finger and tap tentatively at his shoulder. "Um, what's your name?"
The boy turns. I see eyes like mine. They're a glowing amber.
"Efrim." he is quick to respond. "Yours?" he asks politely.
"Noah."
~*~