Disclaimer: Doesn't belong to me. I'm sure you could've guessed that.
A/N: Hey guys, I'm back. :] I don't doubt that you're all disappointed in me, since I didn't finish my last story, BUT I promise at SOME point, "Persona" will be finished. But it's been so long since I've worked on it that I'm going to rewrite the entire thing. I don't know when - it probably won't be too very soon, but I loved the idea I had with that story and I want very badly to finish it. And with this one... you guys just have to keep me motivated, okay? Let me know what you think of it - good and bad. Tell me how I can improve, what you would like to see. Point out mistakes or tell me what you liked. I don't want to quit halfway through another story, so don't let me, okay?
Chapter 1 – Odd One Out
"Why doesn't she talk to anyone?"
"She's really weird."
"She's obsessed with school. I mean, she has like one hundred percent in every class."
"That's because she has no friends."
"Who would want to be her friend?"
And they all laughed. Ms. Charlotte Stanford glanced up at the students, willing them to be quiet but a little too afraid to say anything. The truth was, some of their remarks rung a little true. But considering the amount of things they said about the poor girl, it was only likely that something would.
"She looks weird, too."
"She needs to do something about her eyebrows."
"And maybe stop staring at the floor."
More laughter.
"Do your work," Ms. Stanford mumbled. Nobody past the front row heard her; they kept talking. The same things, over and over and over again every day. Every time she was absent or left the room or fell asleep in class, they couldn't keep themselves from talking. They turned around in their seats and smacked their gum and examined themselves in compacts and talked while Ms. Stanford tried to figure out what exactly set the girl apart from them. She was pretty, not exceptionally so, just like most of them. She was nice and friendly to anyone who engaged her in conversation, on the rare occasion that someone did. She was polite; she said 'excuse me' and she apologized for bumping into people in the hallways. Her grades were exceptionally good – not as good as the other students believed, but better than any of theirs – but she wasn't exceptionally intelligent.
"I heard her parents are crazy."
"She doesn't have parents. Just her dad."
"How can someone not have parents, idiot?"
"Her mom was a movie star. She never knew her."
"That doesn't mean she isn't crazy, too."
They laughed again.
She was undeniably different, though. She always carried a book on top of her stack of schoolbooks, and could be found with her nose buried in it when not in one of the texts. On group projects she worked alone. Her clothes were plain; not unstylish at all, but basic. She seemed as uninterested in the boys as she was in the girls. She never wore makeup. She always seemed oddly in control of herself, unbothered by the mood swings and peer pressure that plagued her classmates. During lunch and between classes, she either read or stared wistfully at the floor, the walls, sometimes the ceiling. Some of the teachers worried about her, but no one could quite pinpoint what made them do so. They had a few parent-teacher conferences when they could come up with some obscure reason to do so – usually concern about her lack of friends, or some such thing – and her home life appeared to be normal. It was true that her mother had been a movie star and that she had died in a tragic car wreck several years before, and her father credited the behavioral changes to that. "Sarah had always hoped Linda would come back for her some day," he had said.
She came back into the room then, and sat the hall pass gently on the edge of Ms. Stanford's desk. She was careful not to make loud noises.
Her eyes strayed to the far corner of the room, to Rebecca and Yvonne and Nicole. She heard them talking; she probably did every day. She dealt with it well.
Ms. Stanford couldn't deny that a large amount of her interest stemmed from her interest in the girl's mother. Linda Williams had been a wonderful actress, and it was surprising that more students hadn't made the connection. Sarah looked a lot like her, and seemed to have an interest in acting as well. Mr. White, the theater teacher, said she hung around practices a lot. He wondered why she never signed up for the plays.
Sarah took her seat in the back of the room and opened her bio book to study. One copy of today's assignment sat on Ms. Stanford's desk; it was headed, 'Sarah Williams.'
The class ended and the kids hurried out the door. Most of them watched the clock and gathered up their book with five or ten minutes left before the bell; it didn't take long for the room to clear out. All that was left was Sarah, closing her text book and her notebook and stacking them neatly before heading towards the door.
"Sarah." She had said it before she realized she intended to. The girl's brown eyes glanced up and met hers, bright with surprise. Teachers rarely spoke to her unless congratulating her on a good test score or taking attendance.
Carefully, Sarah switched her books to the other arm and approached the desk. Ms. Stanford sat down her pen and feigned authority. She couldn't think of anything to say besides: "How are you doing?"
She looked shocked. "I'm fine," she claimed, and dropped her eyes to the books in the crook of her arm.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"Don't pay attention to them." She motioned Sarah towards the door. The conversation had been awkward and pointless; bringing it up was a bad idea. She seemed to have come across that tidbit of advice on her own.
Sarah muttered a 'thank you' and turned away. Her cheeks were flaming and her head was bent. Halfway to the door, her hip bumped against the corner of Ms. Stanford's desk, making her stumble forward and drop her books.
"Oh," Ms. Stanford jumped to her feet and hurried to help Sarah off the floor and pick up the fallen books. She regretted even more having called the poor girl over. All she had done was humiliate her, and probably inadvertently bruise her hip as well.
"Thanks." Sarah managed an awkward chuckle to dispel a bit of the pain and embarrassment as she accepted her books. She practically ran out of the room and down the hall.
Ms. Stanford sat back at her desk and picked up her pen, trying to focus on grading papers instead of her strained conversation with Sarah. She sat the pen back down, leaned back and crossed her legs. Her foot came down on something….
Under the desk sat a small red book. The title, Labyrinth, glinted across the cover in elaborate gold lettering. She picked it up, realizing at once who it belonged to. I'll return it tomorrow, she thought.