I spread my arms wide, the wind ripping my sound of delight from my lips. My body dips smoothly in the air, sending me floating slowly down towards the earth. I turn and soar upwards, my body knowing what to do, even when my mind doesn't. The cool breeze, the warm sunlight; it is what I have always wanted. Then the light changes. Thunderclouds replace the puffy marshmallows of a few seconds ago. Lightning cracks, and I am caught in a whirlwind of hot and cold air that rips at my long hair. Then a bright yellow light encompasses me and I jerk wildly. I plummet downwards headfirst, struck by a lightning bolt I didn't see coming. There is a ringing, and the closer I get to the stark land beneath me, the louder the ringing becomes. Just as I am about to hit the ground, surely killing myself, the ringing reaches its peak, and I startle awake.
I sit up gasping, the memory of my dream turned nightmare still lingering. I reach over to turn off my alarm clock- the ringing that saved my dream self. Then I collapse back on my pillows, wishing that my life was all puffy clouds and flying. But as of now, I'm stuck in the nightmare that is my life. I lay there for a minute, thinking about the characters from my favorite books. Because yes, I am that obsessive. Maximum Ride and her flock, Iggy, Fang, Angel, Nudge, Gazzy. And Dylan. They're imaginary, figments of some guy in Florida's imagination. I don't know why I'm wasting my time thinking about them.
I roll out of bed and get dressed in my typical sweatshirt and jeans. Like every morning, I stare at the ridges on my back. Mom says I was born with them. They make it look like folded up umbrellas were shoved under my skin. Those damn things ruined my life. I used to have friends, believe it or not. Then, once, I went to a sleepover. While we were getting changed, my friend Molly noticed them. No one has talked to me since. I'm the weirdo of the school, the freak, the oddball, the social plague. I yank my sweatshirt down over the bumps, shielding my insecurities from view.
"Ro, you're going to be late!" cries Mom. I pick up the pace, pulling my hair into a ponytail, brushing my teeth at breakneck speed. Still, I was too slow. I run out the front door just as the bus roars past. The upperclassmen hang out of windows, laughing and yelling insults.
"Freak!"
"Anorexic weirdo!"
"She's not anorexic, she's a whale!"
And the classic, "Blackhead!"
I'm used to the insults, especially the ones involving my black hair. I sigh and start walking. I can already tell its going to be a cruddy day. But hey, when was the last time I had a good day?
§ª§ª§
Lo and behold, I'm right. Before lunch, I get detention in math, an extra twenty page reading assignment about the life cycle of the cockroach in science, and a principal visit for mouthing off in French II. Then after lunch I fall asleep in language arts, twist my ankle in gym, and, when we form groups in social studies, get yelled at for not having friends to pair up with. And then, as the rotten cherry on top of the melted sundae that is my day, I have to sing in front of my entire choir class. A cappella.
Finally, I'm free. The bell rings, and I sprint out of the choir room. I run into a couple of Goth juniors who cuss at me, knock over a cheerleader, and finally make it to my locker. Frantically, I spin my combination, desperate to get to the weekend, when I realize someone is standing behind me. I look up to see Zane Jones, the hottest jock in school, watching me. Me being the romantic fool I always am, I can't help the images of us dating, then getting married, and growing old together. Yum.
"I think that's my locker," he says, giving me a glare which shows how impatient he is. Reality check much? I nod and smile, moving aside, but I'm furious, both at myself and at him. How could I not realize that I was at the wrong locker? I look around and mentally swear. I'm not even in the right grade hallway. This is the senior wing. I'm a sophomore. The stares pummel me from all sides, and I can practically feel myself shrinking. People are whispering. Zane is straightening back up and looking at me like I'm dog poop that he just stepped in. I blush under all the attention, and a girl walks up to me. It's the cheerleader I knocked over in the hallway. She smiles sweetly at me, and I relax. Big mistake.
"Honey," she stage whispers. "I don't think this is where you belong." People around us laugh, and she smiles again, egged on. "In fact, you better be careful. Not everybody here is as nice as I am. If you don't watch out, someone's hand might just… slip." There is a searing heat as she dumps her extra large, no fat latte down my sweatshirt. I gasp, and all the people laugh. Then another cheerleader walks up and stands by the first.
"Oops," she says, and tips her cup so the contents empty onto my head.
I am burning with shame as I dash for the sophomore wing, their laughter echoing in my ears. They had nothing to gain for bullying me. They did it for laughs, for entertainment. I grab my stuff blindly, shoving anything I touch into my book bag. Tears blur my vision, and then pour down my cheeks. I walk out the front doors crying before I notice that all the buses are gone. I am the only student left, except for those whose parents pick them up. Once again, I start the long walk home.
§ª§ª§
My mom adopted me after her husband died, for company, she says. My foster father was an incredibly rich man, so we live in a mansion on what is referred to as The Money Pile, a wealthy subdivision where all the CEOs and their families live. Since the first day I can remember, the kids I live next door to have had their every whim catered to them, from Sweet Sixteen's to keg parties. I could have had that too. If I really wanted to, I could have been popular. I could have had friends, and parties, and too many boyfriends to count. But I had watched as my neighbors went from fun kids to mean and snotty pre-teens to spoiled, bratty teenagers, all the way up to their DUI arrests and jail time. I didn't want that to happen to me. So I made a couple of friends and stayed out of it. And when I lost those friends, I couldn't be bothered to make new ones. And now I'm Blackhead.
These are the thoughts and memories that swirl through my mind as I walk home. I'm on the side of an abandoned road, and as I think, I register a commotion up ahead. My legs freeze halfway through a step. This road is commonly known as "Kidnapper Avenue", and several of my classmates have been taken here. There is a loud yell, a young girl's, and then a man's groan. I turn the corner in the road slowly, in case I need to run.
What I see stuns me. Zane and a bunch of other seniors, all the populars that are entirely to gorgeous to be real, are surrounding a bunch of kids, ranging from six or seven to seventeen, a year older than I am. But these kids are different. Not only are they the tallest, skinniest people I've ever seen (and they call me anorexic!), but they're throwing punches the likes of which I've only seen in MMA fights. And Zane and the cheerleaders are holding their own, showing off skills I would NOT have thought they possessed. I feel myself rooting for the violent anorexics. Just when it seems like the strangers are getting the best of my classmates, something horrific happens.
A roar I can only describe as unholy fills the air. The populars double in size, and their muscles rip their clothing to shreds. They are instantly covered with thick, coarse dog hair, and long claws sprout from their fingers. Yes, even the girls- not the best look, black hair and ripped cheerleader uniforms. Their fighting power surges, and in a last ditch effort, the kids jump in the air, and wings sprout from their backs.
Wings?!
I stop breathing, frozen, but the battle I'm witnessing doesn't even pause. The dog things unroll wings as well, and leap into the air after the kids. I don't know what to do. Call the cops? Would the police even be able to beat the creatures? Yet, it seems like my best bet. I fumble into my backpack, digging around. Then I curse- I could make a sailor blush. But it's like a montage in my mind's eye. Running to my locker. Shoving books in my bag. Slamming the locker closed, with my phone still inside. Great. That's great. Now what? I watch the action in the sky for a moment. How am I supposed to stand up to five ripped populars when I can't even talk to them as normal seniors without having coffee dumped on my head? Then I notice the van.
It's parked on the road, about a hundred yards down. Peeking out of the windows are the tips of what seem to be guns. A vague thought enters my mind, but it's so insane I don't want to entertain it. But I do. If I can just get to the van…. Without letting myself think of the things wrong with my plan, or all the ways it could blow up in my face, I sprint for the truck. Praying the dog men won't hear me, I swing open the doors. Facing me is a wall to wall panel of gadgets and guns, ranging from handguns to two man grenade launchers. Wow.
I scan the racks. I've never seen a gun in real life, much less shot one. Reaching out, my fingers fall on a neat little pistol, already loaded. I just hope it has a good enough range to reach the dog boys. Then I pause.
Dog boys…. Something about these "people" is just a bit familiar.
Jumping back out of the truck, I duck, hearing a high pitched scream. I try to ignore the grunts and groans coming from above me as I kneel and steady the gun. Drawing from every cop show I've ever seen, I aim the barrel at the dog man that was Zane. I draw in a deep breath, and as I let it out, I squeeze the trigger.
There is hardly any kickback, but I'm startled by the noise it made. But that's not the only thing that surprises me. Twenty yards away from me, Mr. Big-Bad-and-Ugly plummets toward the earth, his wings whipping in the wind.