Prologue – The Girl of Chapman Avenue

Friday, October 16, 2009
2:57

Seph Roman (Row-MAH-n) didn't want to spend her whole weekend at home. The pain that had lasted throughout the whole week seemed to split her head in half; no Advil or Tylenol was even the least bit useful.

However, her friend had been cold and silent the whole day, and she deduced with the power of Sherlock that the apology lunch wasn't enough to pay for the crime of abandoning her for almost the whole of last week. It didn't help that Seph had spent her time ditching with her newfound friend, Chris, whom Nyssa – the angry friend – hated with a passion, and didn't bother to cover it when she first started to talk with him.

"Nyssa, my love, I would like to partake in a dinner with you tonight," she had lied earlier that day, a smile plastered on her face to mask the throbbing in her head. She threw her arms out to their small group of friends, every last five of them either shaking with laughter, their mouths pressed into lines to keep it in, or bursting out with loudly obnoxious laughter. "It's been years, my friends – years! Ten to be exact; since Kindergarten. The best of friends."

Nyssa had softened and gave a faint smile, so Seph had called her brother – who was a junior to her freshman and most likely on the other side of the school – to kick him out of the house for the weekend.

Now, she walked down the sidewalk from school to her house, Nyssa at her right as always. Students on bikes and skateboards and longboards raced passed them, other teens walking in pairs. She loved how she was able to walk back and forth, to and from school and home, so she didn't have to take a bus or be picked-up.

She matched the faint thumps of her heavy tan boots to fall into rhythm with her constant thoughts of Ignore it, ignore it. Her headache hadn't went away, but it didn't grow stronger, either. But it was still there. She didn't turn almost anything in because of it; probably failing at her Algebra test – there's a reason I'm in class 1A anyways – not paying attention with the reading of their assigned book about a boy's journal during the Holocaust in English – at least I didn't get called on; the kid never made sense – falling behind in running the track with the rest of the ROTC – why didn't the P.E. classes have to run around the football field once a week? Maybe it's 'cause we're in the classroom most of the time.

"Your head still hurts, doesn't it?" Nyssa asked, a smile twitching at her lips. "Put your hair down; that bun's so tight I wouldn't be surprised if that's why you've had it."

Usually, Seph didn't take off the uniform until she got home. But she was pretty convinced that the way she felt her face was being pulled apart starting at the hairline was another reason for the pain. Pulling off the camouflage hat which had to be pristine and straight at all times – God, my teacher's such a girl – she stuffed it into her already full bag. The ROTC had to wear full uniform every Friday, which usually results in being sweatier then the rest of the school by the end of the day. She pulled her brown hair out of the severe bun, letting it fall down to her elbows.

If anything now, she felt worse. Her hair was always long with it's strange combinations of thick and thin curls and waves. The only time her father – one of the more well-known publishers for the local newspaper – let her cut her hair was during the summer between third and fourth grade. It had been so long, to her knees at least, because of the weight her head was always tipped back, and others always took to high chin as a sign of stubbornness. The headaches then were nothing compared to the ones she had now, but still her father took her to her doctor, and she had told him to cut her hair short.

"Better?" Nyssa asked, dragging out the word so it came out in three syllables instead of two.

"No," Seph said, doing the same with turning it into two syllables. She moodily put her cap back on, straightening it with a sharp jerk of her hands and pulling the fold down over her freckled face.

"You're so pissy," Nyssa stated, laughing. She ducked down to avoid Seph's arm, laughing harder when she straightened. "See?"

"Cruel."

The pulsing in her skull intensified.

The two started up the short path to the front door. When they were younger, walking home from elementary school, Seph would jump over the cracks, playing by the "the floor's lava" rules instead of the "step on a crack and you break your mama's back". Nyssa, even though Seph's closest friend, was the more militaristic, despite not being the one in ROTC. Ever since she had started attending her annual summer camp, she had become a little distant, and had started to work more with her mother.

Her mother, Gina, was a sculptress, an independent woman who spent vast moments of her time hovering over a block of stone, wondering what she could turn it into. A majority of her work resided in their backyard, sitting pretty in her overflowing gardens. She mainly created statues of the gods, the Greek ones to be more exact. Her favorite was Hephaestus, the apparently ugly god of fire, metalwork, an Olympian.

Gina made a living of throwing her tremendous galas in public parks, vaguely disguised as art shows. Carters with their pristine white jackets and gleaming carts would bustle around, bringing tray upon tray of foods and drinks into the vast white tent, where the guests sat fanning themselves. There would be a small band set out to play at the far side of the tent, their music just as airy as the statue Aphrodite's chiton. A few days after the party, trucks would come by and take away the more favored statues of the guests.

"I want Nutella," Nyssa declared, walking faster towards the door. She usually ate healthily, keeping fit with daily exercises and not indulging herself in bags of sweets like Seph.

Seph wondered if her nausea would kick in once she ate.

Then pain she had never been close to experience before slammed into her. Barely acknowledging the jarring sensation of her knees smacking to the concrete path, she lost all control to her body. She thought of what it said in the Fault in Our Stars book a friend made her read, oblivion was only a minute away.

Faintly, in the distance, Nyssa screamed – and kept screaming.

Some men from neighboring houses ran out. One went back inside for help while another dialed 911 on his cell. A young couple walked out upon hearing the commotion to see what they could do. The woman collapsed on her lawn just as Seph had.

The last Seph felt was something cool and hard – roughly round, like a coin – being pressed into her hand. She knew it was Nyssa when she felt the warmth of familiar calloused fingers closing her hand around the object, the tips of her friend's curling dark hair tickling her face.

The ambulance took almost twenty minutes to arrive from the nearest hospital. By the time the blue lights flashed over the scene, Seph was laying unresponsive and motionless on the ground. Nyssa Brizio knelt at her head, forehead pressed against the tip of her cap's fold, whispering in a language the others didn't know.