Delicate pastels bleed out of the chalk on the sidewalk as each raindrop kisses the ground. I shift my weight onto my other foot and water spatters onto my orange Converse and up my skirt, moistening my mismatched polka-dot socks. My right hand is numb from gripping my iPod so tightly, the giddy tingling a sweet companion to Ellie Goulding's "Lights" ringing in my ear.
I hesitate in the doorway of the FBI Headquarters at Quantico, wanting to kick myself for ever applying to replace my half-sister, Penelope, as a technical analyst. Not only is she the greatest of said occupation the FBI has ever employed, but she's also always been granted the gold as a person. Unlike me, she's bubbly and perky, a laughing, vibrant character whose confidence and people skills are through the roof. You might mistake her for a flamboyant fashion designer and never guess she was actually a technical genius aged only by the confines of a tiny computer-teeming office. And although we share the same curvy frame and quirky sense of style you would never guess we're related.
To be frank, I have no clue as to why I even wanted to pursue a trade at the heart of the government at only 21 years of age. Perhaps it was due to the fact that my father was a noted diplomat and had always forced his reputation down my throat. Or maybe it was somehow linked to everyone always nurturing my intelligence, encouraging, no, bullying me into leaving Pakistan. Whatever my motive was, there is no trace of it any longer and suddenly I feel lost.
I try to salvage a bit of confidence but only a shred withstands and I desperately try to convince myself that this is my calling, everything I've worked for (though involuntarily) my entire life but by the time my sweaty fingers curl around the door handle, it's impossible to console me.
I trot across the lobby with a slight swing to my hips as to exude at least a morsel of pride and tackle security in a breezy, over-it manner, only to find myself in the complete opposite side of the comfort spectrum. I'm on the verge of suffocating beneath a blanket of self-pity when I notice a tall man with coal-black hair approaching me.
"Aamanee," he seems to recall, stuffing a series of papers in a manila folder. I don't miss how he's ogling my outfit. I figure he's either comparing me to my half-sister or regretting recommending me to the FBI.
"Um, yes," I confirm, sighing and peeking at his ID badge etched with the name Aaron Hotchner. I peer at his face from beneath my lashes and measure the dark circles fencing in his eyes.
"It's good to see you again," he comments, reaching out with his hand. I subtly wipe my hand on my skirt before taking it.
"How about you come meet everyone first before I take you to your office," he suggests, tucking the folder under his arm.
"Um, sure," I consent. He ushers me into a large conference room with a circular table centered in it. Planted around it is a pair of each gender. Their exchanges draw to a close the moment the door is hauled open.
As I adjust my messenger bag on my shoulder, everyone rises and their eyes dart from me to Agent Hotchner and back again. This goes on for a minute until finally one of the women, the raven-haired one, announces herself.
"Hi, I'm Emily Prentiss. And, um, this is Agent Derek Morgan." She gestures towards a tall, sturdy, bulldozer of a man with dark skin, who hits me with a pearly smile.
Motioning towards a statuesque fair-haired, goddess of a woman, she continues, "This is Agent Jennifer Jareau, and you can call her JJ."
She finally comes upon a tall, lanky young man, only a few years older than me with chestnut hair, "And last but certainly not least, this is Dr. Spencer Reid." He merely nods at me and I'm captivated by the cinnamon hue of his eyes.
Agent Hotchner shatters my transfixion, "Why don't you tell the team a little about yourself?"
I swallow hard and lick my lips before beginning, "Um, well my name is Aamanee Al-Dimashqi and, um, I come from Pakistan. Generally, I like to play around with technology and, um, listen to music." I scan the room to see if I've satisfied everyone and when I snag a quick smile from Agent Morgan, I exhale in relief.
"What part of Pakistan do you come from?" the young doctor wants to know. I glare at him, surprised at his odd level of interest but then I'm realize that he doesn't sound disgusted or intimidated, just intrigued, so I give him a chance.
"Um, Charsadda," I reply reluctantly.
His brow crinkles, "That's in Khyber-Pakhtunkhwa, right? Did you know it is sometimes considered to be the second coming of Damascus since it is well-known for its land fertility and beauty? It is also – "
"Kid…" Agent Morgan interrupts, signaling for him to stop talking. I cock my head at the doctor, still torn between the thought of him being sincere or mocking.
"Sorry…" Dr. Reid mumbles, and retires to flipping through the manila folder draped over his arm.
"So let me show you to your new office, then, Aamanee," Agent Hotchner broadcasts to the entire team, as if recommending that they resume what they had been doing. He escorts me out and a few hallways later, we arrive at a tiny office crammed with countless gadgets.
"This is where you'll be conducting most of your work," he informs me. "There will be occasions where you'll join the team on outings, as well."
"Okay," I say. I step into the room and pace around, nodding and drinking up the area. It's not messy, but it somehow resembles a junk yard, the miscellaneous piece of an establishment.
"So how about I leave you now so you can settle in?" Agent Hotchner proposes.