Disclaimer: I don't own Hamilton at all and give all credit to the amazing Lin-Manuel Miranda. Star Wars as a whole, including the reference, belongs to George Lucas. The story and poetry are entirely my doing, but I got the style idea from The Memory of Things by Gae Polisner.

The looming brick building causes a nostalgic pain to resonate in my chest. It reminds me of home, down to the white marble of the steps that are everywhere in France, and the students that, unlike me, are flying up the steps to the open doors of the school. Some are walking slowly, chatting with friends with wild hand gestures. Others ascend quickly, taking the steps two at a time.

I swallow hard. Nothing like a healthy dose of anxiety to jump-start your first day back.

I don't have to talk to people, which is nice.

They don't talk to me

anyway.

I take the steps

on my toes

two at a time, as usual.

Just another face in the crowd.

Unseen and

invisible.

A chiming minnow in the silent sea.

I exhale deeply and push back my shoulders, rising to my full 6'3 frame. Then I start up the steps, skipping as many as my long legs will allow until I reach the doors and slip inside.

I turn the ocean on, my face set.

The world crashes into

my ears.

Perfectly

normal.

Except the chiming.

Everyone is

swimming inside.

I glide;

swim in after them.

One unit

among many.

Back

to the

revolution.

My school is beautiful. Sunlight filters through the glassy ceiling, bouncing off the shiny tile floors. Giant banners hang from the rafters, displaying pictures of a navy blue tricorn hat above the words Go Revolutionaries!

"Revolution," I murmur subconsciously to myself. "Revolution." I say the word slowly, sounding out each individual syllable. "Reeehh-vohhhh-LOOO-"

"Ahem."

I jump, my attention refocused ahead of me.

A girl stands there, hands on her hips in a wide stance. Chocolate-toned and curly-haired, she gives off an air of superiority.

"You look lost."

I sigh. "Angelica, I'm fine." I try to push past her, but she steps in front of me.

"No, you're lost, french fry," she repeats boldly (Um… french fry? She never calls me that). She grabs my arm and turns around. "Principal's office to the left, music hall down that way, straight ahead and to the right is the cafeteria. Classes are over there in that hallway." All of this is accompanied by wild hand gestures in various directions. "Got it?"

"I know where-"

Angelica cuts me off and leans forward "Look, I haven't helped anyone today yet, and I want to at least make it look like I'm doing my job," she says in a low voice. "So just pretend like you're clueless."

I nod in fake agreement.

Angelica steps back, smoothing out her salmon-colored (or possibly peach-colored, I can never tell the difference) t-shirt. She winks. "Au revoir, french fry."

Then she disappears into the crowd.

My sister's

there.

A ferry guiding the new boats.

She

lunges for someone in the waves.

They probably

don't

need help.

I know I don't.

My chiming helps.

I find my class

easily.

"William Kruz?"

"Here."

"Helen Lacks?"

"Here."

The teacher, a short, skinny woman with ash blonde hair, scrunches up her face in confusion.

Oh, no, here it comes. I brace myself.

"Marie Jo-sef Paul Yi-vez Ro-shay Gil-bert du Mot-ee-air, Mar-keys de Laf-ai-ette."

I grimace. She butchered eight out of my nine names, many of which I'm surprised to even hear on the attendance sheet. An all-time low.

"Just Lafayette is alright, madamoiselle."

The woman glances up. "I see, Mr. Laf-ai-ette."

The teacher says it

completely wrong.

He's French,

I know that much.

We've only crossed

paths

in the

sea.

Without looking from my webs and whorls,

I know he's

grimacing.

A schooner creaking

over chiming

deafening waters.

"Just Lafayette is alright, mademoiselle."

A beautiful, graceful

mahogany

schooner.

She moves on. "John Laurens?"

Yes!

"Here," says the boy in front of me. He too, has an accent, though less pronounced than my own. He's lucky in that way.

I lean forward and tap his shoulder.

John jumps and turns around. "Wha...?"

I put my chin in my palm. "Bonjour, mon ami."

Laurens smiles, his newly-braces-deprived white teeth bright in contrast to his tanned skin. " Hey, Laf. Thank god you're here, I was about ready to jump out the window."

I look around. "Um… there's no windows in here."

John does that snap-and-point-at-someone thing. "Exactly." He raises an eyebrow at me. "Representing?"

I look down at my French flag striped t-shirt and grin in response. "Take a guess, mon ami."

"Gee, it can't be France," Laurens banters, smirking. "It's gotta be Russia. Or maybe Poland, I don't know. They're all the same colors anyway." He sticks his hand out with American frankness. "You can't be more obvious."

"Don't even try me," I say devilishly, wiggling my eyebrows. We both laugh loudly, the sound carrying throughout the room.

I hear their laughter through spirals and squares.

I know Laurens well.

My sister's got

his best friend

wrapped

around her finger.

He's a

fairly

good guy. People like him.

"Margarita Van Renessaeler Schuyler?"

Just Peggy.

I raise my hand.

"This says you go by Peggy?"

A nod.

"Very well."

Lafayette considers him a friend.

I know

Alex does.

I turn the ocean off.

The sea

calms.

The schooner's creaking vanishes.

My chiming remains.

Laurens' hazel eyes twinkle under the fluorescent lights. "You're still sticking with being a marquis?" He pronounces "marquis" mar-kiss.

I roll my eyes. "Hardly. What do I use it, anyway?"

Damn you, French grammar.

Laurens is about to respond but is cut off by the teacher. "Now for the rest of the period, I want you to turn to the person next to you and shake their hand," she squawks, "And tell them some things about yourself. Go!"

I blink. What the

I turn sideways in my seat. "Desoleé, do you know what's going…"

I trail off. The girl I turned to is staring at a yellow spiral notebook in front of her, doodling with intense focus. She didn't even acknowledge me.

A fluttering feeling fills my stomach.

I know this girl, all too well.

Well, I've known her since eighth grade.

Okay, fine.

I've seen her around, anyway.

I've wanted to know her since eighth grade, but that's impossible.

Mainly because:

a) She's a Schuyler, which means her family is rolling in money and would dismiss me as a simpleton, marquis or not,

b) I don't know her name, and

c) Neither Angelica nor her other sister, Eliza will tell me what it is because they're super protective of her.

And, as I'm now just realizing:

d) I wasn't paying attention to the roll call, so I can't even guess what her name is.

Nevertheless, I'm royally screwed.

No pun intended.

Anyway.

Her hair is golden-brown and wild with curls, pulled back in a ponytail. Her glasses, thick-framed and black, are resting ever so slightly on the peak of her ski-jump nose. I resist the strong urge to push them back up for her.

"Hello?" I dare to speak louder this time. No response.

Huh.

Triangles,

trapezoids,

triangles,

trapezoids,

triangles,

trapezoids,

triangles,

trapezoids,

triangles,

trapezoids,

triangles,

trapezoids.

I tap her shoulder. The girl jumps and turns to face me, eyebrows raised expectantly.

I'm taken off-guard by her eyes. I can't decide what color they are. Liquid copper, darker around the pupils, with the smallest dots of mint green scattered vaguely throughout. They remind me of the Statue of Liberty. She wears a black sweatshirt with the words "A LONG, LONG TIME AGO" printed on it in a familiar, slanting yellow font. She's a Star Wars fan?

Something in front of my face brings me back to reality: The girl's hand, snapping my attention back to her. She points angrily at the bridge of her glasses. My eyes are up here.

He tapped my

shoulder.

Why.

Does he

want something?

I

don't want

his

staring.

Not now.

I turn the ocean on.

The chiming doesn't relent.

"Oh, sorry," I say quickly. "It's just-" I move my finger up and down, gesturing to her clothing- "I like your sweatshirt."

She raises an eyebrow and tugs at the fabric. This?

I nod.

She touches her cheek to indicate a blush- it doesn't show on her honeyed skin- and smiles. Thank you. She turns around completely to face me and crosses her arms. Printed on the sleeves are the words "IN A GALAXY" and "FAR, FAR AWAY".

I laugh. "That's really cool."

The girl does the smiling-down-tucking-hair-behind-her-ear thing that a lot of girls do when they try to flirt with me. I can't remember at what point in my life I started hating the gesture, but made by her, it's cute.

Everything about her is cute.

He likes Star Wars.

That's

at least

one thing we have

in common.

Come

to

the

dark

side,

schooner.

I

have

cookies.

The bell rings, scaring us both. She moves in a graceful sweep, sliding the notebook into her bag and closing it with a swoop. I do the same, though less gracefully. We stand up in unison.

Aren't we supposed to shake hands?

No, screw that.

Let's be bold, shall we?

I offer the girl my hand, palm up. She takes it, and I smile and raise it to my lips, brushing them against the back of her hand. "It is an honor, mademoiselle."

He

kisses

my hand.

He has

the elegance

of a

swan.

I feel a warm

tingling.

The sea tosses in

slow motion. The warmth

embraces me.

I turn the ocean turn off.

My chimes are silent.

She tilts her head elegantly, lips parted in a surprised, blushing smile. It is mine too, monsieur.

Before I know it, she lets go of my hand and vanishes into the crowd.

I stare after her, suddenly aware of something on my palm. I look down.

There, lying in my open hand, is a piece of notebook paper, folded in quarters. I unfold it.

My jaw drops.

It's a drawing.

An ocean, clear and turquoise blue. Stretching far beyond the confinements of the page.

A boat, vast and dark against the dying sunset.

Birds, drawn as small m's in the sky.

All patterned and geometric and exploding with rich color.

A looping signature in the bottom right hand corner.

And below that, a note scrawled in black pen.

Margarita "Peggy" Schuyler

Semi-professional Artist and Nerd

Sorry for ignoring you, it's not intentional.

I was born deaf and suffer from constant tinnitus, despite my hearing aids. They're small, you can't see them.

Call me sometime, schooner.

(286)-267-3449