More From "Untitled"
The next part of my Untitled story. Can you keep up?! LOL!
TO MY STALKER! DON'T READ THIS YET! I like the whole symbiotic, alternating-reviews thing we have going on, and I want to read and review another of your stories before you do another of mine. Especially because you're such a better reviewer than I am; I don't want to overwork you! LOL. So hold off until I read your Satan story--and any other of your stories--first, please!
Okay, and to everyone else...if there is, in fact, anyone else...here it goes!
It had started out well enough, with Anne introducing me to the kids as Miss Wallace and inviting me to lead the group in an artsy math project. It seemed simple: Cut out a construction paper triangle, write out the Fibonacci Sequence in pyramid form (it was already done on the blackboard), and then decorate the paper with the various colorful art supplies that cluttered the short, glossy oak tables. I’d been sitting at one table for a while, with two boys and one girl-Rodney, Chip, and Reno, respectively. I’d lingered here because, unlike the rest of the students, these were the only three that weren’t constantly chattering in those shrill, pre-pubescent voices, saying absolutely nothing of real consequence. Rodney and Chip were too busy engaging in some sort of decorating contest to even notice I was there, and Reno kept her eyes low, seemingly intent on finishing her project. She had amazing focus for a fifth grader, and a face far too serious; looking at her, I found it hard to believe she was only ten years old.
Her hair was dark brown-almost black-and twisted back into a tight bun at the base of her neck, not a single strand out of place. Her eyes, hidden well under her thick lashes, were a clouded shade of amber, and her lips were pressed together in a hard line, brow furrowed. She wore a faded denim jacket over a champagne colored vest and solid white t-shirt, along with a pair of double-cuffed blue jeans. She looked like a kid, of course, but not really. She was what Nettie called “an old soul in a young body.”The last thing that caught my attention-though it would have been the first for most-was a long, white scar that ran from her left eyebrow, curved over her temple, and ended at her jaw. It was a neon sign, flashing white against her tan cheek, and I wondered if it had something to do with her seriousness.
I opened my mouth to speak to her-to weigh her personality against her somber features-when something hit the back of my head and ran coolly down to the base of my neck. I turned slowly. At a table behind me were five girls; three were laughing, one was trying desperately not to, and the final sat perfectly still, eyes wide and hand clapped over her mouth, absolutely horrified. The table had a thin strip of pink goop across its top and I reached around to feel my head. When I brought my fingers back in front of my face, they were the same shade as the goop, sparkly and sticky. I recognized it instantly. Avery had once had the entire rainbow collection. Glitter-glue.
The girl launched herself at me. “I am so sorry!” She wailed. As she got closer, I could see how badly she was trembling and any anger that might have risen in me evaporated just as quickly. By now, all the other students-except for the one named Reno, who stayed focused on her project-had turned to see what the commotion was about and were laughing, pointing, cracking jokes. Anne stood from the table she was supervising and started shushing them, ordering them to mind their own business and get back to work. The girl in front of me began to shake even more and I could see moisture coating her big blue eyes. I tried to give her my friendliest smile and placed my hand on her shoulder, gently steering her to the door and out into the hallway before she burst into tears. I’d barely pulled the door shut behind us when she began whimpering. “I didn’t mean to do it-honest. I just put my hand down and it hit the stick and it went flying and hit you. It was an accident,” she insisted, as if there was no way I would believe her. Her breathing quickened, approaching hyperventilation, and I had a funny feeling that she was one of those kids with freakishly strict parents. I laughed at this, recalling my own mother’s obsessive tendencies, and put one hand on the girl’s head. She silenced immediately.
“What’s your name, again?”
She sniffled, still fighting back tears. “Helena.”
I smiled at her, “Well, Helena-if you say it was an accident, I believe you.”
Her eyes widened hopefully, “Yeah?”
I nodded. “Besides, you know,” I flipped my short hair over to one side and twisted my eyes to see it, “I always wondered what my hair would look like if I dyed it pink. Now I don’t have to go to a salon.” I inspected the thick blob, already drying in my dark auburn locks, and wrinkled my nose. “Not really my color, though. What do you think?”
She imitated my gesture, scrunching her nose against her face, and shook her head. “No. Maybe blue?” I was glad to see all signs of a breakdown gone from her face.
I pointed at her warningly, “Don’t go getting any ideas.” When she laughed, I laughed, and opened the door again. “Tell Mrs. Aceman that I’ll be back in a few minutes, okay?” Helena nodded and skipped through the door, a smile still on her face. I heard the other students asking her if she was in trouble, and her easy replies that she was not. I shut the door again and walked quickly to the girls’ bathroom, locking the door behind me (students were never allowed to go during class time anyway) and bending my knees in a big way just to see myself in the mirror. From the front, I looked the same as always. Dyed dark hair-straightened every morning-cut in tidy layers that barely brushed my shoulders, with temple-length bangs. Two intense, hazel eyes that seemed to be stuck on a permanent shade of silver with flecks of yellow-green around the pupil. Average nose and thin lips, light freckles over my cheekbones, a scrawny neck and broad shoulders. Yes, from the front, nothing seemed out of place. Then I flipped my hair to one side as I had just minutes before, but this time it was with a sigh and a deep frown. The glue was definitely dried out, and far from unnoticeable. I was going to have to wet my hair to get it out, which I really did not want to do; my hair got very curly and untamable when it was wet, and it wasn’t something I wanted people to see-I wouldn’t even go swimming with anyone outside of my family and very close friends for the very same reason. As I debated with myself, I nervously began running my fingers through the tainted locks, breaking them apart and scratching away as much of the dried paste as I could.
TO MY STALKER! DON'T READ THIS YET! I like the whole symbiotic, alternating-reviews thing we have going on, and I want to read and review another of your stories before you do another of mine. Especially because you're such a better reviewer than I am; I don't want to overwork you! LOL. So hold off until I read your Satan story--and any other of your stories--first, please!
Okay, and to everyone else...if there is, in fact, anyone else...here it goes!
It had started out well enough, with Anne introducing me to the kids as Miss Wallace and inviting me to lead the group in an artsy math project. It seemed simple: Cut out a construction paper triangle, write out the Fibonacci Sequence in pyramid form (it was already done on the blackboard), and then decorate the paper with the various colorful art supplies that cluttered the short, glossy oak tables. I’d been sitting at one table for a while, with two boys and one girl-Rodney, Chip, and Reno, respectively. I’d lingered here because, unlike the rest of the students, these were the only three that weren’t constantly chattering in those shrill, pre-pubescent voices, saying absolutely nothing of real consequence. Rodney and Chip were too busy engaging in some sort of decorating contest to even notice I was there, and Reno kept her eyes low, seemingly intent on finishing her project. She had amazing focus for a fifth grader, and a face far too serious; looking at her, I found it hard to believe she was only ten years old.
Her hair was dark brown-almost black-and twisted back into a tight bun at the base of her neck, not a single strand out of place. Her eyes, hidden well under her thick lashes, were a clouded shade of amber, and her lips were pressed together in a hard line, brow furrowed. She wore a faded denim jacket over a champagne colored vest and solid white t-shirt, along with a pair of double-cuffed blue jeans. She looked like a kid, of course, but not really. She was what Nettie called “an old soul in a young body.”The last thing that caught my attention-though it would have been the first for most-was a long, white scar that ran from her left eyebrow, curved over her temple, and ended at her jaw. It was a neon sign, flashing white against her tan cheek, and I wondered if it had something to do with her seriousness.
I opened my mouth to speak to her-to weigh her personality against her somber features-when something hit the back of my head and ran coolly down to the base of my neck. I turned slowly. At a table behind me were five girls; three were laughing, one was trying desperately not to, and the final sat perfectly still, eyes wide and hand clapped over her mouth, absolutely horrified. The table had a thin strip of pink goop across its top and I reached around to feel my head. When I brought my fingers back in front of my face, they were the same shade as the goop, sparkly and sticky. I recognized it instantly. Avery had once had the entire rainbow collection. Glitter-glue.
The girl launched herself at me. “I am so sorry!” She wailed. As she got closer, I could see how badly she was trembling and any anger that might have risen in me evaporated just as quickly. By now, all the other students-except for the one named Reno, who stayed focused on her project-had turned to see what the commotion was about and were laughing, pointing, cracking jokes. Anne stood from the table she was supervising and started shushing them, ordering them to mind their own business and get back to work. The girl in front of me began to shake even more and I could see moisture coating her big blue eyes. I tried to give her my friendliest smile and placed my hand on her shoulder, gently steering her to the door and out into the hallway before she burst into tears. I’d barely pulled the door shut behind us when she began whimpering. “I didn’t mean to do it-honest. I just put my hand down and it hit the stick and it went flying and hit you. It was an accident,” she insisted, as if there was no way I would believe her. Her breathing quickened, approaching hyperventilation, and I had a funny feeling that she was one of those kids with freakishly strict parents. I laughed at this, recalling my own mother’s obsessive tendencies, and put one hand on the girl’s head. She silenced immediately.
“What’s your name, again?”
She sniffled, still fighting back tears. “Helena.”
I smiled at her, “Well, Helena-if you say it was an accident, I believe you.”
Her eyes widened hopefully, “Yeah?”
I nodded. “Besides, you know,” I flipped my short hair over to one side and twisted my eyes to see it, “I always wondered what my hair would look like if I dyed it pink. Now I don’t have to go to a salon.” I inspected the thick blob, already drying in my dark auburn locks, and wrinkled my nose. “Not really my color, though. What do you think?”
She imitated my gesture, scrunching her nose against her face, and shook her head. “No. Maybe blue?” I was glad to see all signs of a breakdown gone from her face.
I pointed at her warningly, “Don’t go getting any ideas.” When she laughed, I laughed, and opened the door again. “Tell Mrs. Aceman that I’ll be back in a few minutes, okay?” Helena nodded and skipped through the door, a smile still on her face. I heard the other students asking her if she was in trouble, and her easy replies that she was not. I shut the door again and walked quickly to the girls’ bathroom, locking the door behind me (students were never allowed to go during class time anyway) and bending my knees in a big way just to see myself in the mirror. From the front, I looked the same as always. Dyed dark hair-straightened every morning-cut in tidy layers that barely brushed my shoulders, with temple-length bangs. Two intense, hazel eyes that seemed to be stuck on a permanent shade of silver with flecks of yellow-green around the pupil. Average nose and thin lips, light freckles over my cheekbones, a scrawny neck and broad shoulders. Yes, from the front, nothing seemed out of place. Then I flipped my hair to one side as I had just minutes before, but this time it was with a sigh and a deep frown. The glue was definitely dried out, and far from unnoticeable. I was going to have to wet my hair to get it out, which I really did not want to do; my hair got very curly and untamable when it was wet, and it wasn’t something I wanted people to see-I wouldn’t even go swimming with anyone outside of my family and very close friends for the very same reason. As I debated with myself, I nervously began running my fingers through the tainted locks, breaking them apart and scratching away as much of the dried paste as I could.