Mr. Ree here, and, upon recent events, have a story to tell. It's dedicated to you, high schoolers and college kids with no idea what to do next.
Disclaimer: D. Gray-Man is the property of Katsura Hoshino and Funimation. This series is a parody and nothing more, so please support the official release. Got it? Damn well better.
~X~
1. That Girl, Blank
After getting a bagel from one of her favorite shops, a bicycle collided into her, sending the bagel into the mud. She crumpled into a pile, side aching, eyebrows furrowed as pain surged from her abdomen and into her lower back. Her arm, outstretched in front of her, struggled to assist her in sitting up. From the corner of her eye, she saw the bike tire spun in lazy circles. It slowed to a stop before she managed to wobble on her own two feet. Mud covered her jacket, her favorite one her older brother bought for her on her eighteenth birthday. Mouth open, a nasty comment started to come out, but upon seeing the stranger collapsed a few feet ahead of the bike, the comment died in her throat.
"Are you okay?" came out instead.
He groaned. A backpack with spilled contents—clothes, what appeared to be a wallet, an empty water bottle—covered the red-bricked sidewalk beside him. Part of his old jeans tore off, as did some flesh off his shin. "Fine," he croaked as he sat up. Face scuffed and eye (only one?) weary, he glanced at her with a sheepish grin. "Sorry 'bout that," he said, "wasn't expecting anyone to come out of the cafe so quickly. Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," she said, ignoring the throb in her side. She cradled her arm less suspiciously before extending the uninjured one out. "Do you need help?"
"Nah, I got it." He grinned again before picking up his backpack and shoving his contents in quickly. By the looks of it, he had all of his possessions on him, meaning one thing—he was homeless. "Look out for cyclist-psychos with no depth-perception, okay? 'Cause they ain't me with the training of having one eye." He tightened the orange scarf around his neck before pedaling off again, winding his way around the corner before disappearing behind a building. She stared after him for a while longer, wondering who he was, then shook her head. So much for a simple snack time. The bagel looked soggy in the mud.
Still, part of her mind wondered if it would still be good to eat. She giggled a little at the thought before starting to walk. The pain in her side nearly subsided, and she would've completely forgotten about the boy with the bicycle if it wasn't for what her foot kicked up.
A notebook, covered in leather and mud, skidded a few inches in front of her, catching her attention. She tilted her head, realizing the boy must have missed picking it up, then, after a moment's hesitation, bent down and lifted it up from the edge of a puddle. Old binding kept the pages from flying open in the wind. In barely-legible ink, a title sprawled out on the cover:
Bookman Junior's Property (DO NOT TOUCH!)
Well, not a title, then. She pocketed the notebook and told herself she would give it back to the boy tomorrow, if he happened to cycle by the next day. And if not, she would find someone who knew any Bookman Junior's. Nodding to herself, she started down the sidewalk, feeling better, and thoughts preoccupied with the idea of graduating high school within a week.
~X~
Top of her class (aside from another student, the studious Allen Walker) and full of potential, Lenalee Lee already knew what she wanted to do with herself. She studied advanced placement classes in biology and took several courses in anatomy. She took computer courses ahead of time, starting in March, to get a feel for what it was like in the medical field. With a proud GPA of 3.9, she obtained several scholarships to the perfect colleges that excelled in the medical field. They sent her letters, almost begging for her to join their curriculum. Since her brother was also interested in science and medicine, it wasn't too shocking for her or any of her friends that she wanted to become a brain surgeon, or something of the like.
"I'm home!"
Komui, her brother, looked up from looking over notes and smiled. "Welcome home, Lena . . . lee?" He looked her up and down. "You're covered in mud! What happened?"
"I tripped." She didn't want her brother to worry too much about her. She smiled when he looked at her suspiciously. "No, really, it's fine. I hurt my arm a little, but other than that, I'm fine. How was work today? Did Reever chew you out for being lazy again?" The more she distracted him, the better—but he still looked suspicious. Clearing his throat, he put the papers down.
"No, he was too busy with Johnny, who keeps getting sick."
"Ah." She took off her jacket and threw it into the washing machine. "I'm going upstairs to finish my project. Call me if you need anything. Oh, and the meat in the fridge is getting old—you should probably take that to work with you, okay?"
He nodded. She smiled one more time before kicking off her shoes and heading up the stairs. The light overhead didn't work, so she didn't bother attempting to turn it on. Night crept up quickly on the twilight, baring its starlit fangs and chewing it to pieces with its sharpest incisor, the moon. She opened her door to her room and closed it with a sigh. Of course, she lied about the project, too; she finished it two weeks prior, and it surprised her that her brother didn't pick up on that. Maybe he was letting her slip little white lies in. He trusted her, after all.
She placed the book onto her desk, where colorful pencils stood tall in the metal tin can she found, and where her calculator awaited to do complicated equations of the statistics variety. She rummaged through her bag, picking up her math book and letting it thud onto the desk. Curiosity urged her to take a look inside the book, but the stranger clearly wanted it to be private. What did she expect to see in it, anyways? A bomb plot? A map to an imaginary land? She shook her head and picked up a pencil with a smiley-face eraser. Statistics took priority over foolishness—she couldn't afford to get lazy in the last stretch of school.
Maybe it had a story? She scribbled down the median of the number of rodents dying after smoking x amount of cigarettes. An unfinished story, waiting to be published? A homeless man with the most brilliant plot, clinging onto that notebook like it was the last thing to give him hope, and she had the nerve to take it with her. She glanced at the notebook nervously. The black ink read the same as before, though it seemed more faded than before under the lamp's light.
"Focus," she muttered under her breath, then resumed describing the five-number summary for the rodents who died from smoking x cigarettes. Her pencil lead snapped half-way through her synopsis, making her rummage through one of the drawers for a sharpener. It slipped out of her fingers and clattered against the floor. Groaning, she rose from her chair and slammed her knee underneath the desk, making the tin full of pencils fall and roll on its side. The notebook also fell, covers spread wide and pages bending in contorted shapes.
"Crap." She never said such words around her friends. In fact, it startled her to say anything like that, and profanities were certainly out of the question. Knee throbbing, she picked up the sharpener first, then the tin of pencils, and, hesitating, reached down and picked up the notebook. She hoped to have closed it before catching glimpses of anything—her curiosity badgered her enough as is—but couldn't help but see a portion of a picture.
A sketchbook?
Pushing aside her statistics book, she fingered through the leather cover and turned to the first page. In bold cursive, it read, Vol. III. Underneath that, another string of letters read, Lavi Bookman, Jr. And beneath that, (No, my father wasn't named "Lavi", but I am an apprentice of Bookman, so I go by Junior—ah, who the hell are you trying to explain this to? Yourself? Idiot.)
She turned another page.
Day: February 17th
Weather: Sunny and humid. So not used to this.
So starts my third volume of whatever this constitutes to be. It's difficult to get anywhere it seems, what with being unable to use the highway. One, I still have no money. Two, they don't permit bicycles on the highway (wonder why—couldn't have to deal with that drivers are assholes and will hit you, but hey). I am still in Alabama. This place is as depressing as its name. When I biked by, I saw all of three houses in this small town, and maybe a person. Oh, and a lonely gas station with nobody in it. Hello, northerner, welcome to the South.
It doesn't help that it's nearly eighty and humid here. Isn't it February? Where's the snow? Where's those patches of black ice that threaten to send me flying over my handlebars? No where, apparently.
Fields. I noticed that, too. They extend for what seems to be miles. Mostly grain, too, and some cotton here and there. It's kind of invigorating to see some green in the deadest of months. Lots of machinery, too, and farmhouses, really old farmhouses—maybe abandoned? Well, one is. I know that for a fact.
I'm staying the night in Alabama with a woman named Lois. She's loud and knows what needs to get done, and actually made me cook dinner. I haven't cooked in the longest time (because, you know, no food), but apparently it was a success. She asked me to stay longer with her and her husband (who apparently is working on another farm) for the time being, since I have no place to go. I told her I couldn't. It makes me sad that I can't tell her why.
Lois runs the farm, too. Her family used to be slaves there, but the "white people" family left several years ago to someplace else (she didn't like them, indicated by her tone), leaving it up for sale. So she bought it, and renovated it some. There's a library past the old fireplace, and when I haven't been helping around the house, I've been sneaking peaks at books. She caught me there and almost yelled at me for slacking when she noticed I was reading history.
"You like history, boy?" It's refreshing to be treated like a five-year-old, to be honest—compared to the others, Lois is the nicest to me. I nodded.
"Let me show you something, then."
Past the farmhouse (hidden for some reason) is an old "slave-shack." She showed me where her ancestors lived and how they worked for the "white people" slave-drivers. One her relatives, whose name got lost in the records, could read and write—which was amazing, I tell you. The woman even had a diary, one that the wife of a slave-driver gave her. Lois gave me the book to look through, and, given the woman's circumstances, it is wonderful. Details of day-to-day life, some practices in writing words (using repetitions), and even poetry.
"We've been safekeeping it for years. It's how we know who we are. It's how we know this is where my ancestors lived. Don't be stealing it now! I will beat you to death."
I told her I wouldn't. And I won't (I only stole a few pens I found laying around). After all, she fed me and even let me use her shower. That's a plus. I even get my own corner in the small library she has with pillows AND a blanket. I must've hit the jackpot today.
Getting late. Will write more tomorrow, as always.
~Lavi
Beneath the segment of writing was a sketch of the "slave-shack" Lavi described. Pencil shades depicted shadows as rusted chains laid scattered in corners. Lenalee shuddered and pushed the notebook aside, feeling a chill rise up her spine. Sad things made her flinch away and made her want to talk to her brother. He always took care of her and made her feel better. She wanted to forget she even read it, especially since she did it without permission.
But one thing caught her attention within the passage. It was so small, she almost didn't notice it at first, but in the middle, the line, "It makes me sad that I can't tell her why", made her reread it. He never explained what that reason was for him leaving so soon. She frowned. Maybe she would never see him again, then, if he upped and left like that all the time. In that case, she had to burn the book or throw it out.
"Lenalee, dinner's ready!"
"Coming!"
She closed the notebook, turned off her lamp, and descended the stairs. She would worry about it later.
~X~
"I can't believe it," Allen said as the bell rang. "One more day."
She smiled at him. The week seemed to vanish within the blink of an eye. Finals were over, and tomorrow it was graduation. "How do you think you did, Allen? On the final, I mean. I think that last question was difficult."
"Really? I thought the second-to-last one was awful." He rummaged through his backpack and pulled out two lunchboxes. "I need a snack. That test really drained me of all my energy. What're you doing tonight, Lenalee? Are you working at the convenience store, and if not, are you free at seven tonight?" He had an odd sparkle in his eyes, which made her giggle. "Please say you're free!" he continued. "I wanted to invite you to my graduation party. Idiot-Kanda is coming, even, because I threatened that you'd cry if he didn't come."
"Jeez, way to use me, Allen." She hoisted her bag over her shoulder. "I'll be there, don't worry. I took the next three days off for the recovery period after graduation." She took a bite out of one of his doughnuts and winked. "Gotta go!"
He waved as she exited the classroom, pushing her way by the hordes of students chattering excitably about summer vacation. Seniors hugged classmates goodbye and emptied their lockers of any remaining binders and old soda cans they had locked away for four years. Janitors looked displeased from cleaning all the notepaper off the floor. She put in her headphones and clicked on her iPod to start playing. Kanda waved at her as he ascended the stairwell, and she waved back before he disappeared around the corner.
Rock-n'-roll to leaving the school, then a piano piece for down the sidewalk. She looked over her shoulder to see students mingling about, laughing and grinning. She then turned her attention to her backpack, which had one pocket open. The book's leather binding didn't glint off the sun, but it still transfixed her for a moment. She pulled it out, zipped the bag's pocket closed, and flipped to the page where she was last:
Day: May 22nd
Weather: Rain. Lots of it. Where are the stupid flowers April was supposed to bring?
My clothes are soaked. Literally soaked. I had to wring out my favorite sweatshirt several times during the course of today. Biking with thirty extra pounds clinging to you is not my definition of fun. And the trees here, they still haven't completely bloomed their leaves yet. I know this is practically a boreal ecosystem, but at some point, the stupid trees here should at least have an inkling of green on them, right? No, of course not, 'cause it's not my lucky day today.
Well, that's not true. I did manage to scrape together five dollars from bottle collecting today. This state is one of the few that gives you five cents for returning plastic and glass bottles. It isn't Michigan's ten, like I hoped, but I suppose it'll have to do. The guy at the redemption center looked at me funny when I came in, probably because I was dripping puddles all over his floor. When he handed me the five dollars (counting those things was seriously time-consuming), he asked, "The hell are you doing, being outside in the middle of this storm?" And I only smiled at him. The farther away I get from them, from there, the better, but I didn't tell him that.
I wonder where they are? Are they still trying to hunt me down, gun me down, bleed me to death, and dispose of the body? Or did they forget I exist? I highly doubt that; I did, after all, ruin something incredibly important to them. Breaking the code, as they said, was punishable by death. But isn't constantly being on the run punishment enough? I haven't had an actual shower in two weeks, not a real meal in three, and my sleep schedule no longer exists. I can't recall the last time I slept more than three hours a night, not disturbed by any nightlife (especially mosquitoes, those pesky bastards). And since I will probably die of homelessness by the time I'm twenty-five, they don't need to keep chasing me down. Right?
Wrong. I saw one of them a week ago, but he didn't see me. He stood near the coffee shop I wanted to go to, making the local girls (and some guys) swoon over him. I seriously hope he didn't pick up on my trail and follow me here. Nothing is here, anyways—the whole freakin' state only has a population of 1.7 million, and they are all down south. No, I'm farther north, hoping to throw them off when I go east tomorrow and south from there. The downside is, no one here seems to offer charity to a hopeless loser like me. Hell, even New York, a.k.a. The Capital of the World, had some nice people, but here? Not a single person that I've met today.
That's why I'm sitting under this pine tree for the evening, writing by the light from the streetlamp. If I'm not careful, the pages will get wet. And I don't want that to happen. I keep deflecting rain drops with my back, it seems. It's so cold . . . I wish I didn't have to avoid the homeless shelters, because that's where they will expect me to be.
And they'll wait. Wait until I sleep. Until the world I know disappears into a nightmare, with them surrounding me, beating me, feasting on my blood, pulling my dead body apart limb from limb and tossing the remains to hungry, homeless dogs—
She slipped—an uncommon characteristic about her—and fell forward. The book flew from her hands and landed in front of a pair of feet. The pair stopped, and a hand, half-gloved, reached down and picked it up. She scrambled to her feet. "I'm fine, and can I have that back?" she said quickly, wanting to get lost within Lavi's writing once again. His story captivated her the past week, and when she wasn't studying for finals, she was fingering through the pages, devouring each sentence with her eyes and digesting it with her brain.
And she gasped.
"This is mine, isn't it?" the stranger said. He flipped through the pages and grinned. "Lucky me. I was wondering where it went, so I stayed here for a week. Wait a sec . . ." He inspected her with his eye for a moment before snapping his fingers. "I know you! You're the girl I ran into with my bike last week or so, right? My book fell out then, didn't it? Thanks for holding onto it. I thought whoever found it would throw it away."
The same red hair, the green eye, the stranger who wasn't as much of a stranger as she initially thought, and the same grin, held the journal he kept. "Ah . . . yeah," she mumbled, disappointed she ran into him again. Clearly, he wanted it back, and she only got to the middle, and that was the third book. She wanted all of it, but she knew he wouldn't give the remaining books to her. "I didn't know what to do, so I kept it," she said louder. "Sorry for that. I'll get going now."
She turned, intending to get out of there before the need to read the rest of his journal overwhelmed her. The thought of begging to read his journal, of all things, disgusted her. She never should have started reading it in the first place. It said not to touch, and she broke his privacy with a few flips of pages.
"Hey, hold on a second. Were you reading this?"
Her foot stopped mid-step. Of course he would ask. Swallowing, she turned back to him and gave a shallow nod. "Only a page, though!" she added frantically. "I was curious, so I decided to take a peek, nothing more!" Lying wasn't her strongest suit. She could do little white lies easily, but to lie about reading someone's diary? Her voice sounded oddly squeaky. She felt her face flush as he flipped through the pages.
"Only a page, huh?" He pointed to a page. Old spaghetti sauce she spilled on her desk stained the bottom right-hand corner. "I'd say you read a little more than that." His grin faded into a serious look, with his eyebrows furrowed and his eye narrowing. "Just how far did you get?"
"I, uh, I . . ." She stepped back. His aura radiated hate, and maybe something else. Knees shaking, she bowed her head. "I'm sorry! Please don't be upset! I won't read it ever again, promise!"
A pause. Then Lavi started laughing. She looked up to see him clutching his side and leaning against a building for support. His chuckling didn't subside for another moment as she stood there, flabbergasted. "Oh, man!" he said through small chortles. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to terrify you like that, and then you went all-out with your apology. Heh heh . . . oh, jeez, my stomach hurts. I'm not actually upset with you." He grinned sheepishly as he rubbed the back of his head. "It's just, no one has ever read anything I wrote before, and I get a little self-conscious even thinking about someone reading it."
"Oh." It was the only thing she could say. Her eyes landed on the notebook again.
"Do you wanna keep reading it, then?"
"Hunh?"
He rolled his eye. "I said, did you wanna keep reading it? I have a few others, in case you're interested. I don't exactly . . ." He fumbled for words, then gave another sheepish grin. "I no longer need them," he finished.
She didn't inquire why, but she wanted to know. He rummaged through his old bag, which had numerous holes in it, and handed her three other notebooks. "They're all labeled, too," he said as he slung his bag over his shoulder. "One through four, you have them all. Hold onto them for me, will you? I don't have . . ." Another fumble. "I don't know where to keep them with my, uh, current situation. But don't be concerned with that!" He waved his hands theatrically. "Anyways, I hope you enjoy them, uh . . . ?"
"Lenalee," she said. "Lenalee Lee."
"Lenalee," he repeated with a grin. "Take good care of them, now. They're the only copies, period."
With that, he started to walk away. She looked down at the books in her hands, then back at him as he started to disappear around the corner. "Wait!" she cried, "what if I want to talk to you again about anything that confuses me? Or anything at all, for that matter?"
He turned and grinned while walking backwards. "You'll find me in the park near that bagel shop, always. You could say it's where I live."
And he disappeared. Her gaze returned to the books, which begged for her attention. She shoved them into her bag before she took off in a sprint back home.
~X~
So begins the first day.
The phone rang. She jumped, the notebook nearly flying into the air, but she composed herself before she could do any damage. Yawning, she wandered into the kitchen, where the phone sat, blaring its annoying cry for any form of attention. Komui wasn't around to answer it for her—he was pulling another all-nighter at his lab. She picked it up, recognized the number, then answered it with a smile. "Hello, Allen."
"Hey!" He sounded happy, as always. "Do you want to come over a little early? I need some advice on how to bake this cake, and since you like chocolate cake, I figured you'd know how to cook it better than me."
She walked back into the living room and plopped herself back onto the couch. The book rested on her knees as she yawned again. "Sure, Allen," she said, slightly irritated she lost her spot. "What time did you want me over? I can get there as early as five, if I take the bus."
"Five sounds good. And, uh, Lenalee?"
"Yeah?"
A pause. "Not right now," he said. "I'll tell you when you come over."
"All right, Allen. I'll see you then."
"Okay."
She hung up the phone and glanced at the clock. If she wanted to make it by five, she would have to walk to the bus station now. She shoved on her boots and turned off the lamp in the living room before heading towards the door. The book sat there, opened on the first page. She only got a quick glance before stepping out into the setting sun, heading towards Allen's house:
So begins the first day.
The day I am no longer bound by convention.
The day I can finally become who I am: me.
~X~
Chapter one, done! Did you like it? Hate it? Love it? Destroy it? Hit me with a review, por favor! And I shall see you in chapter two! ~Mr. Ree