"Annie! Guess what?" A chipper voice shrilled into her left ear. The owner of the voice went on rapidly, without even waiting for an answer from her companion. "It's the first day of the rest of our lives!"
As they walked down the sidewalk, Aniline glanced at the girl next to her, completely unimpressed. "Uh," she reached up to brush a reddish-gold strand of hair out of her angular face. "All right." The strawberry-blonde managed.
Aniline wasn't usually like this. Often, she was bright and outgoing, laughing like there was no such thing as pain in the world and dancing like no one was watching. She was intense – she would pour all of her love, all her life into something, like it was never going to hurt.
But, today, was the anniversary of her parents' divorce.
Her fingers tightened on the plastic handle of her battered violin case. The protective cover was made of a stiff, dull gray material, scratched and worn. It really wasn't doing anything, she reflected, except for covering a violin that was even more dilapidated than the case.
She stretched languidly as they approached the sprawling campus where their private high school was located. Walking into the school, Aniline winced and cursed as someone's arm hit her. "Damn it… hey!" She groaned, rubbing the back of her neck as it happened again. The tall, thin girl sighed softly.
Okay. It was only seven thirty-two, by her watch, and it was not looking as if today would be her day.
Last period.
Something that had made her day worth surviving.
Aniline set her violin case down, beneath her chair. She didn't know why she'd actually carried it around all day… it had been a comfort, though, especially at lunch. Her friends – her well-off friends, most of the more popular girls – had demanded to know why she was carrying the violin. It had occurred to her that none of them knew that she'd been playing all of her life.
Six months ago, Aniline had just moved from New York City to the lush suburb of Alexandria. More than three hundred miles from home, she'd stood out in the sleepy, dull town. Aniline sighed. At her middle school in New York, popularity hadn't existed. The school was just too big, with just under three thousand students – and it was only for sixth, seventh and eighth grades. Now, she was enrolled in a private affluent high school, where cliques were obvious, and there were less than a hundred kids in each grade.
The girl brought her eyes to the front of the room as the band director came in.
He was a tall, handsome young man, clad in pressed khaki pants and a light blue button-down shirt. His wing-tipped shoes made little noise against the floor – he had a light, airy presence. He picked up a piece of paper off his desk, and looked at the assembled students – only about twenty in all. A disappointing number, but he was undeterred. His smile never faded, and he looked around the room, his neatly-cropped sandy hair falling into his cerulean eyes.
A girl sitting in the next row, with a pug-like face and a banner of blonde hair, spoke in what she assumed to be a quiet tone, "I bet he's gay." The girl murmured.
"Actually," the man called, "Though not opposed to it at all, my tastes tend to run more towards women." A few girls giggled coyly, leading him to amend, "My own age." He spoke for several more minutes, introducing himself as Eric D'Agastino. He was outlining his objectives for the year, with a confidence that most new teachers lacked, when Aniline grew bored and glanced to the right.
"Hey," she whispered, looking at the girl.
Small and skinny, with pale skin and large eyes, the girl next to her looked like an old-fashioned china doll. "Hello." A soft ghost of a voice replied.
"I'm Aniline."
"I know," the girl answered.
Aniline was taken aback. "You do?"
"You're in my English class and my History class." She said softly, "I'm Lorraine de Toren."
"Pretty name," Aniline commented, "French?"
"Yes," Lorraine replied, her thin, pink-porcelain mouth twitching into a smile. "Yours' is German?" She asked.
"Yeah. Or ja, rather." The strawberry-blonde flashed a grin.
"Hey, girls!" Mr. D'Agastino called, "I'm sure whatever you're talking about is vital, so why don't you give each other your phone numbers so you can wrap this discussion up on your own time?" He glanced at his watch, frowning as the girls both blushed, hardly daring to breathe. "Well?" He demanded crisply.
Aniline smirked, and tugged a spiral notebook from her bag. Ripping out a page, she scribbled her name, screen name, and cell number on it. "I. M. me or something." She chuckled.
"Good!" The band director proclaimed, "Five points for following directions." He grinned.
Aniline blinked. She had just been doing what she'd always been taught to: humor the madman before people in white coats with sharp objects get involved.
Aniline had a sudden feeling that this year, band might be a bit different…
If only she had known.