Thank gooooddddd
Reserved. Few other words could accurately describe the girl in the stained blue jeans with unnatural and bright orange hair. Poetic, perhaps, for the sparse words she did speak were quiet and unsure, the careful listener could nearly hear a lisp, almost like a skip in the deliberate lyricism she would utter. Shy? The quiet manner could easily be mistaken for charm, endearing in a subtle way as she sat by her lonesome, close yet far to her peers, and observed. Whatever she was…she was something.
It wasn’t as if attempts weren’t made. There was a musician, fingers drumming indeterminable beats as he told jokes and stories of the places he’d been and people he had seen. The center of attention, his favorite instrument, he cast aside to try a new song. He sat beside the girl, the one off by herself, and extended a warm and hushed greeting. Porcelain cheeks tainted red and a small wave of a gloved hand was returned before he was introduced to the fine, tangerine strands.
She was annoyed. Loud, flirty and personable in the most extreme of ways, she didn’t take kindly to playing second fiddle. With a short tisk of a breath that escaped her lips, the Mattel-approved, bubble pink smile was back in place; for someone so friendly, she didn’t take well to sharing. And while she told the group of the glorious globe of perfection she belonged to, a sharp and lined eye kept close watch as those drumming fingers came to a halt and pressed flat to the knee.
Amused eyebrows rose and fell as the incessant yapping continued on, eyes keeping tally of anyone who edged too close and where they kept their wallets. She traded the help she ever-so-desperately needed for an extra dollar in her pocket; She dealt a fate, of sorts, in the form of a gamble, emotions as if they were no more than cards in a deck. She had offered the quiet girl a roll of the dice, and was refused with no more than a wave of that gloved hand and glance of the cool cerulean eyes. She had to laugh; the girl didn’t need a song. She needed a lesson in more worldly ways.
The elder, messenger bag at foot, huffed at the dirty child he sat next to. She could learn much from him if she wasn’t so stubborn. They all could learn from him, he mused, and take heart from his wisdom. He had lived. The rogue, he had encountered many like her, reminded him of the dealer and the young man he sat next to: a soul wanted to be heard. Hidden under the false hair, she was shining bright. He smiled to himself, time would surely tell.
Pushing the glasses up the bridge of his nose, he closed the spiral notebook that rested in his lap. She was just shy of the enigmas he wrote about in his last best-selling novel, but unlike the troubled teens and young adults he wrote about, he didn’t know what secrets Miss Clementine hid; he didn’t know how her story would end and that bothered him more than it probably should have. His intrigue was further piqued as Mr. ADD Hands finally rejoined the group, somewhat deflated. The writer silently pondered to himself; maybe this could be the inspiration for his chart-topping follow-up?
A woman of undisclosed age wrung her hands together. A mother hen by nature, the girl’s behavior gave her a distinct desire to wrap her arms around her and provide the comfort she knew she could give. The girl would cry, she would assure her whatever plagued her young and fragile mind was gone now. The others would clap and send their most revered praise; it would be good. And she had, in fact, tried, and the girl did cry, however it was a yelping cry, promptly followed by a surprised shove. The redhead had apologized with wide eyes, her words running together and overlapping and wearily watching the woman from that point on.
There was an actor among the small group who watched his peers closely. A man of drama, he was slightly perturbed by attention being paid, even unconsciously, anywhere than on himself. The tension was light, but still very palpable, a steady fog hanging over the group. Eerily enough, the quiet girl seemed to be the only one who didn’t take notice. Like the flirty girl’s sheltered world, she was protected. It was possible she wasn’t invested into her own character, which provided further confusion. Confusion was quickly paired with hope, a warmth that lifted some of the haze, as the musician moved back to her side.
The artist, typically dark and pessimistic, smirked. The black pen doodles that covered her off-white khakis were slowly filled with greens and pinks. The dealer and the actor had sparked conversation, as had the teacher and writer. The others listened and filled in words, deep yellows and blues penetrating the black and white. She watched as the musician spoke words, inaudible from where she sat, and the girl slowly smiled, her own mouth forming what could be no more than a sentence. Smirk evened out to smile as the artist idly drew on an empty patch of the beige fabric in a vibrant orange.
Her eyes were warm and soft as she looked around to the nine comrades she sat with, in a circle. Each different yet each stunningly the same. She herself, no more than a wanderer, a jack-of-all-trades, was admittedly about as jaded as one could come. But there was a certain understanding and respect among the group that even she couldn’t deny. And each had helped the timid girl in some way or another; be it the teacher’s silent understanding or the musician’s refusal to give up. She grinned wide and met the crystal clear blue orbs herself as the musician’s hand ruffled the tangerine strands. She was something alright.