UPDATE: July 2, 2014! So I decided to reupload this story, because a few of my readers wanted me to. I'm not expecting any reviews (Unless you're a brand new reader, in which case, you can leave a review if you'd like to!), this story is being reuploaded mostly because it's to tide my readers over since my updates on Finding Hikari and Tears on the Runway are so far apart. Also, I may be putting this story through a bit of a re-write as well. Mostly Xion's character. It needs to undergo some serious strengthening because she is WEAK in this story. She will also be Korean now instead of Japanese, since the story itself is based on a Korean poem. Anyway, enjoy! There's quite a few changes I've made throughout this chapter.
This is for you, AngelsThatFall, since you asked me looooong ago to reupload and I told you no like a poophead~
NOTE – Xion's last name is Hicks because when her mother married Xion's stepfather, they all took his last name lol.
A/N: Welcome to my newest story, a recycling of old ideas and constant goals. Forewarnings: There will be blood, sex, violence, abuse, and more things of that nature in this story. It is rated M. Also, there will be just a tad bit of RikuxXion later in the fic, but don't worry—it won't last long, and you'll hate him by the end of it. Anyway, enjoy.
EDIT: This is the edited version of this first chapter. :)
Chapter One – Shaking Hands and Endless Dreams
Xion's POV
O-neun cheong-i I-sseo-ya ka-neun cheong-i it-tta—"Love must come before it can go".
Once, when I was younger, my mother taught me a Korean saying that at the time had made absolutely no sense to me. Before the events of my Senior year, I had never given a thought to any of the lessons she had taught, as I was just your typical rebellious 13-year-old. I spent my nights drinking soju and dancing with older boys at Korean nightclubs with my friends in Seoul (illegally, of course). Had I known that my time with my mother was to be ripped violently from beneath my feet like an overflowing river, I would have a considerably less amount of regrets.
We never take the time to enjoy our loved ones and our life at age 13, do we? We think we're invincible and that death is a tale for other unfortunates. We believe in silly fantasies and dreams: that love is an endless ocean, and that bad things only happen to bad people. As if getting older isn't hard enough . . . Being forced to grow up, awaken, and smell the roses before you even turn 18 is an adventure worth taking in the long run, but a harder journey to experience on a short-term basis.
Basically, the world was changing more rapidly around me than I had ever been told it would, and I was nowhere near prepared.
My mother died on June 13th, 2011. To say it was devastating would be an understatement. It was as if with the doctor's pronouncement, she took with her my soul and my capability to be happy. Life was just as pointless as it seemed to be, and the regrets it brought were endless. I blamed myself for everything—every missed call, every argument, every rebellion, every lie . . . Maybe if I had just gone to school and gotten straight A's like a good girl, she would be out in her garden right now rather than lying dormant six feet underneath South Korean soil. Maybe she'd be tucking me into bed and kissing my forehead, despite my protests that I was "too old for bedtime kisses." Perhaps if she had lived, my stepfather wouldn't have turned into a totally different person, beating any last ounce of hope out of me, as if it were his sole mission in life to cause me as much physical pain as he felt emotionally. Still, I wished and dreamed and hoped, even if it got me another broken bone or shove into the wall.
When the drunken midnight visits began, I kept my desperate desire for a better life in the off chance that things might change. Though the only thing that could heal the gaping void in my life was my mother's gentle touch, my stepfather seemed to think that his version of a "gentle touch" would fill the void in his own soul as he hid from his demons in my bed. And though he had enough sense not to outright de-virginize me, he tried his damn best to satisfy his sick, twisted hopes and dreams and wishes with his hands down my pants. Just hearing him panting and groaning as he forced me to touch him nightly was enough to make my very heart ill with shame, embarrassment, and self-hatred.
I often forgot to eat in the beginning, becoming so disoriented in the midst of my despair at the loss of my mother, that the thought of food or hunger became as meaningless as a pen without ink. It soon progressed, mingling with my self-hatred and serving only to make me hate the person I saw in the mirror. "I just miss my mommy" became "I'm useless and fat"; "It'll all get better with time to heal" morphed into "I don't deserve to eat. I'm a worthless, obese pig." A girl at a solid, healthy weight of 130 pounds soon became a girl at 125 pounds, then 120, followed by 115 . . . Before I knew it, the scale read 100 pounds, and I was five-foot-three-inches tall. My thoughts of my mother had now become dark, obsessive thoughts of calories, fasting, and incessant hunger.
Still, I hoped . . . And I wished . . . And I dreamed that someday, things would change. Maybe, just maybe, God hadn't completely abandoned me to Satan's maw.
x-x-x
Shimmering rays of golden sunlight filtered in through the gauzy curtains that shielded the sliding glass doors of my balcony, warm rays of California's best asset warming my bony back. A tiny yawn escaped my lips, and I rolled over to greet the dawn. As I sat up, my black as ink hair fell forward around my upper arms, the soft ends lightly caressing my elbows as if to remind me of the gentleness of a morning breeze. My eyes, shaped like bamboo leaves and as blue as the cerulean sky, opened to gaze upon the way the rising sun hailed the interior of my immaculately clean, expensively furnished bedroom.
Gifts given to initiate forgiveness.
I stretched my arms upward, arching my back simultaneously, and then immediately regretted it as the newly-made cuts upon my forearms pulled apart and screamed in protest. I winced, but made no moves to soothe my wounds. I deserved to feel that same pain in my heart for being the worthless human being I was.
With those spirit-dampening thoughts, I dragged myself gingerly out of bed and prepared myself to get ready for the first day of the second week of the worst school year I had ever experienced.
In the shower, I was as careful as possible with my frail, abused body. For it had seen more pain in the past three months than it ever had before, and it was the only thing I had left that was mine and mine alone (though I didn't know for how long). My 17th birthday just a few days past seemed to be the only calm in the storm, my stepfather's gift to me being to leave me in peace for one Godforsaken night. However, every day before and every day after, I tread on tiptoe. Any wrong step earned me a slap, punch, or kick that split my skin as easily as if it were made of paper. And perhaps I was made of paper—strong enough to hold itself together until something stronger comes to rip it in two. So in the shower, the only place where I had sole control over what happened to my body, I treated myself like gold. I washed and cleaned every last cut and gingerly massaged every muscle as if my shaking hands could whisk the pain away to some other dimension.
It was also only in the shower that I gave myself utterly and completely over to my emotions, allowing myself to wallow in my misery and woe as crystalline tears encasing my sadness mingled with the water on my cheeks. I cried bone-wracking, gut-wrenching sobs for many things, including my mother, but the greatest loss I mourned was the loss of my innocence, ignorance, and naïveté to the horror that the world had bestowed upon me. Shower times were the only moments of freedom that I had to cry without being told to do otherwise—without being struck down and told to "quit sniveling."
My shower ran long today, my tears being egged on by the voice in my head that told me how little I was valued. How could anyone ever want to be around me? I was a nuisance, and I imposed on everyone's lives. I was an eyesore. A fat, disgusting, and repulsive eyesore. Why was I the one still alive? Why couldn't it have been me who had died instead? My mother was kind, beautiful, gentle . . . Everything I wasn't. I was a bad, useless thing.
So why had she passed away, and not me?
After my shower, I could barely stand. I was exhausted from crying and weak from the lack of nutrition. I wanted to eat, but I knew I didn't deserve food, and as I turned to gaze upon my naked flesh in the bathroom mirror, that thought process was only confirmed to my sad, sorrowful eyes. I drew my fingertips across collarbones that danced a delicately-defined dance of misery; hipbones that jutted out like anguished cliffs; a concave stomach that cried out at its eternal emptiness—all things that my irrational mind refused to accept. I was fat, plain and simple.
I saw no collarbones, hipbones, or ribs. My stomach fell upon itself in hideous, sagging rolls. My thighs chafed as they rubbed together in the mirror, even though the two inch gap between my bony, near-skeletal legs was clear to see by anyone with a pair of working eyes (maybe my eyes didn't quite work . . . ?). I longed for the day when I no longer wished to rake my nails viciously across my bruised flesh—for a day when I realized that my body was beautiful. That I was beautiful. However, I didn't see that day coming anytime soon, especially not when the mirror screamed at me like a wild animal.
I dressed slowly, unable to find anything that I felt I looked remotely presentable in. Everything accentuated my obesity; everything drew attention to my ugly body and its infinite rolls of fat.
Of course, this was normal. I spent an hour total each day picking out my outfit, and I usually ended up crying on the closet floor and settling for the first thing I had initially chosen. Today was no different. I slowly slid myself into a pair of ankle-length blank leggings and a maroon V-neck, paying no heed to the fact that I wore a size extra small in both. To me, size meant nothing compared to the number on the scale, and this morning, the number had read a disgusting 107.
That's what I got for binging all night on my birthday a few days ago.
After blow-drying and flat ironing my waist-length charcoal-black tresses, I ran my fingers through it to make it look tousled and volumized. As a final touch, I swept a silvery white shimmer stick along the lower lashline of each of my eyes, dabbed some peach lip tiny onto my lips, puffed a rosy pink blush onto my cheeks, and clasped on a simple silver necklace with a diamond star pendant. I stared at myself while I struggled not to punch my reflection in the glass, and then turned and left my bedroom.
I entered the kitchen after pulling on my favorite pair of brown combat boots. They zipped up the insides, and were adorned with four bronze buckles that traveled up the outside for decoration. Flat-soled, they were comfortable and perfect to wear daily to school. I stopped in front of the fridge, my hand poised before the door handle as I fought the daily inner battle I had every morning. There was a note from my stepfather posted there, apologizing for hitting me and promising that it would never happen again. I rolled my eyes. The bastard was the master of lies and empty promises. With every apology came an extra beating; with every empty promise, I was put through Hell tenfold. I shuddered to think about what most likely awaited me that night, and turned resolutely away from the fridge.
I wouldn't eat today, and I would start with a simple glass of water.
I crossed the white linoleum and downed my water in a heartbeat, my cerulean irises fixated on the beautiful acres of land that stretched out past the window.
Our mansion was large and just as beautiful as the land, but it seemed to pale in comparison to the beauty of the bosom of Mother Nature that was our backyard. I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket—an iphone 5s, and my birthday present from my stepfather that I knew he would expect a very grateful thank you for one of these nights—and checked the time. I still had a few minutes before I needed to leave for school. It was plenty of time to fish my writing notebook out of my school bag and jot down a few elegant lines to help me forever capture the beauty of the lush green grass, the vibrant oak trees that stretched up toward the sky, and even the small pond that was home to five or six exotic Koi fish.
My lyrics were a type of prose that was dark, sad, and almost poetic in nature. It made me very sad to delve deep into my heart and write about my pain, yet it was all that had kept me sane these past few months since my mother's recent passing. Even if it was just to write a single sentence, every time I wrote was a type of therapy in and of itself, and it wasn't something I planned to ever give up. My goal was to one day turn my grief-filled words into recorded song, but I saw myself as so useless that I kept convincing myself that dreams like that were futile, and as infinitely meaningless as the grains of sand on all the Earth's beaches.
x-x-x
Roxas's POV
I liked to be left alone, but nobody I was acquainted with ever seemed to respect that aspect of my personality. More often than not, when I told my so-called "friends" that I was going to go outside to smoke by myself, half of them followed me out. They prattled on and on about stupid things I honestly couldn't care less about, for I usually had more pressing matters on my mind than a class project or cute girls, or anything else frivolous. No matter how many times I told them I wanted to have time to myself, they just never seemed to comprehend that "alone" was a word that meant "being completely by oneself."
Perhaps this would be the last time I hung out with them.
Currently, I was stomping out my lunchtime cigarette on the concrete outside the cafeteria, trying my best to tune out my classmates' incessant chatter. I watched the embers glow orange beneath my black Toms shoes, and I felt jealous. At least the glowing ashes disappeared so quickly that they didn't have to listen to the shit coming out of my "friends'" mouths.
"Holy shit, you guys," one friend (some guy I never bothered to remember the name of) cried loudly, absolutely demanding all attention with his tone. "Fucking did you hear?!"
Instantly, there was a loud chorus of "no," followed by silence.
Blessed silence~!
The friend went on to explain about someone who we all knew quite well. A person that I knew even better than anyone else. A person that I despised more than I could ever hope to explain.
Namine Lightle.
"Well, apparently Namine Lightle is up for the solo in the Winter Chorus concert, so she's throwing a huge ass Halloween party to celebrate being chosen," the friend informed us. "She's telling everyone that her parents are so sure she'll be selected for the solo that they're letting her have the whole mansion to herself for the night and they're paying for everything."
I listened quietly, only faintly interested. I was no stranger to Namine's ragers, seeing as we had dated for five years. She'd been my first girlfriend in seventh grade, and her personality had been so controlling that I'd gotten myself stuck in her witchy clutches until I turned eighteen this year and woke the Hell up. I has suddenly seen all of her imperfections: her mean-spirited views, the spiteful things she did to her own friends, the nasty rumors she spread about the people she hated, and the smug, spoiled way she had controlled my feelings for her. Once, I would have killed for that girl. Now . . . Now, I would much rather see her dead, I disliked her that much.
Well . . . Scratch that. I guessed she didn't deserve to die. I supposed I was better off thinking that I'd rather see her go far, far, far away.
"So how's the guest list looking?" another friend asked the first one. "School only just started a few weeks ago. There's still like a month and a half until Halloween . . . Is she inviting people yet?"
"Not yet," the first friend replied, taking a drag off of his cigarette. "I was told she was just getting people excited. She's probably gonna invite the whole Senior class, I would suspect, plus whoever's popular in the other grades."
They continued to talk, but I didn't hear them. There was no way I could have heard them, for all of my attention had been drawn away to someone that I had found myself fixated upon since she'd transferred into my AP English class.
She was wearing a simple outfit and were it not for her height, she could have passed for an Asian supermodel. Her charcoal-black hair hung in silken strands to her lower back, fluttering behind her in the wind as she bustled across the courtyard to the Library. She was from Korea, and nobody seemed to know much else about her. She kept to herself, mostly, and she only spoke when she was asked to in class. I hadn't taken any real interest in a girl since I'd broken up with Namine this Summer, finding the temporary pleasures of the flesh to be an easier way to guard my heart.
Man, did the new girl appeal to me though, much to my puzzlement. Sure, she was ridiculously adorable and had these exotic blue eyes that made me think of the ocean, but there were lots of other girls who were just as gorgeous, if not more so. Perhaps it was something about the way she carried herself—as if she bore the weight of a thousand sorrows upon her back, bearing them with the dignity of an ancient goddess. The prospect of meeting her and one day seeing a smile light up those guarded azure eyes of hers was enough to pique my curiosity.
Before the end of the week, I vowed that I would know her name.
One of my other friends elbowed me in the side, snickering as he did so, and I mentally kicked myself. He'd seen me looking at the new girl, and I was willing to bet I'd never hear the end of this one. Unless I stopped hanging out with these idiots, which I was highly inclined to do.
"Don't think we didn't see you looking at her," the friend who'd elbowed me smirked. "You've got the googly eyes for the fish face, don't you?"
I scowled and leaned back against the brick wall of the school, picking at a loose thread in the leg seam of my black skinny jeans. I hated anyone knowing what I was thinking, let alone any of these assholes knowing who I was interested in. I may have called them my friends, but honestly, it was for lack of a better word. These kids weren't any more my friends than the sky is green.
I mean, fish face? Really? It was September 2014, and this guy was acting like he'd never seen an Asian before. Nevermind the fact that I was Korean. Did he think that I was a fish face? Fuck, I was 1,000% done with these guys.
"Tch," I snorted, gazing off after her as she neared the double doors to the Library. "It's no big deal; I just think she's hot."
My "friends" laughed knowingly.
"Then she'd better watch out," one said conspiratorially. "When you've got your eyes on a girl, she's usually in bed with you by the end of the night. Your reputation is notorious, Roxas."
I couldn't help but smirk at that one. It was true.
"What can I say?" I allowed myself to grin wickedly at them as I spread my arms wide. "I like the ladies."
The bell then rang, signaling that lunch was over. Sighing, I realized that the end of lunch meant the end of what little freedom they gave us during the school day. I was awarded the least amount of freedom, however. Being the troublemaker I was, I had landed myself the punishment of the year mere seconds after the first bell of the second day of the school year. It was my Senior year, and I'd already fucked up.
"Have fun in Choir, Rox," one friend said, lagging behind as students filed from the courtyard and the Library back toward the Cafeteria doors, their happy talking echoing in the air. The friend placed a hand on my shoulder and wiggled his eyebrows. "Use those golden fingers well~!"
I glared at him. He took the hint to get away, and fast. Not only was I notorious for being a bit of a "ladies' man" in school, but I was also known around town as someone you did not want to mess with. Most of the rumors spread about me were due to my past, but I liked to think that my past left me when I ended my relationship with Namine. Though I had severed ties with her and all of my old life, it seemed that some old habits died hard . . . My infamous hot temper wasn't showing any signs of cooling down any time soon. To say that I "liked a good fight" would be an understatement. "I liked to cause pain to those who pissed me off" would be a better definition of how I dealt with my issues.
As for the "golden fingers" comment, my friend had been referring to not only my hidden talent, but also the thing about myself I had taken great pains to obscure until I'd managed to get myself into trouble.
I had been playing piano since I was five years old, as my family was Korean and rather strict about taking up extracurriculars at a young age. I'd always had a passion for it, since I had immediately taken an intense liking to it, and I liked to practice for hours in my living room at home even to this day.
Now, I hadn't planned on ever letting anyone see that I had such a hobby, until I'd gotten myself sent to the Principal's office and had seen my irate mother sitting in a cushioned velvet chair in his office. Amidst their disappointed, angry lecturing, my mother alternated berating me in Korean and apologizing to the Principal for my incompetence and immaturity. I was a Senior this year and eighteen years old—fighting on school campus would not be tolerated, and I was going to need to be properly disciplined for the entire school year. Those were the Principal's judgments, to which my mother whole-heartedly agreed, and things just seemed to go downhill from there. My mother swore she was going to tell my father about the fight I'd started with a rather annoying tenth grader, told the Principal she couldn't understand why I wasn't as passionate about my studies as I was about the piano, and it was done. The Principal made me fill my only free period (right after lunch) with Choir, where I was to play the piano for their practices and concerts.
In short, I was screwed. Choir was an extremely popular class in our school since you had to try out for it, and only the best singers were a part of the group. However, I hated it for another reason. Not only was everyone going to find out I played the piano like Beethoven's son, but guess who the fuck was in that class period?
Namine Lightle.
It was kind of hard to avoid someone who believed they owned you when you were forced to be in a class with them for your entire twelfth grade year.
Anyway, long story short, I'd been going for a few weeks now and it wasn't so bad. The teacher was strict and didn't allow any side conversations during class. There was no time for Namine to make advances on me, and I got to do what I loved to do: play the piano. The teacher, Mrs. Waldemeier, had taken a liking to one of the songs I had composed myself, and had decided to use it for the main solo in the Winter concert. She had written lyrics to it, and was currently doing tryouts for it daily. Hundreds of kids had turned out to audition, some of them not even enrolled in Choir, seeing as the Winter concert was usually the biggest concert of the year. It involved the whole town, and was done on a stage at the Christmas Carnival downtown, by the beach. Whoever got this solo had to be damn good.
I wasn't surprised that Namine thought she'd get the solo. She really did have a pretty voice. It wasn't very powerful, but it was ethereal and soft, and she could carry a tune like nobody's business. She hit all the high notes with perfect clarity, and was the top Soprano in the entire school district. Needless to say, I would definitely believe it if Namine was awarded the solo.
The only problem?
Whoever got the solo would be spending a lot of time practicing the song outside of school with me over the next couple of months. If Namine got the solo, not only would it be her twisted dream come true, but I didn't know how well I could hold up my careful walls around her. I may have broken up with her, but the reasons why I had stayed with her so long were clear: I loved her once and I loved her still, and the only way I was going to get over her was to stay the Hell away from her.
The Principal's punishment certainly wasn't making things any easier at all.
Nevertheless, I had to be on time for class, or else Mrs. Waldemeier was going to paint the keys of her piano with my blood.
x-x-x
Xion's POV
I gazed at the handle to classroom door with my slim hand poised above it, frozen in fear. I had just gotten back from switching classes at the Administration office after finding out that Sculpture just wasn't the right class for me. After lots of thought, I had overcome my initial fears at joining Choir, and had asked to be switched in. I hadn't sung since my mom died. She had always told me that my voice was a gift to her from God, for birthing a child so perfect and lovely to her. Why would I bestow that gift upon other's ears if she was gone now?
But I loved to sing. I loved music. I loved the rhythm, the tune, the beauty . . . I needed music to survive just as much as I needed my writing. My mother had not only believed my voice was a gift to her, but she had also believed that it was a gift for all. She would have wanted me to continue pursuing my dreams, wouldn't she?
I gulped, knowing that Choir was a class for the outgoing. It was extremely hard to get in to, and when I had tried out the night before in front of only the teacher, she had told me just as much. She had also told me that in order for the audition into the Choir to be fair, I had to try out in front of the other students like everybody else had. She'd talked to the Principal and agreed to give me a spot just so long as I promised to play things fair and do it her way. I'd agreed, since Sculpture was really not my cup of tea, and here I was.
I was petrified.
I heard laughter behind me that cut off into an abrupt clearing of someone's throat.
Startled, I turned to look over my shoulder and stifled a gasp. I was staring directly into the baby blue eyes of the most popular girl in school and also the most celebrated singer in the Choir: Namine Lightle. Her silken blonde hair was cut in face-framing layers that fell just past her shoulders, her angelic features twisted into an annoyed sneer as she looked at me.
"You're in my way," she snapped. Her best friends stood to either side of her, giving me glares that could melt icebergs.
"Oh . . ." I said nervously. "S-Sorry . . ." I quickly moved out of her way, trying not to feel ostracized.
This wasn't the first encounter I'd had with Namine Lightle.
On the third day of school, I'd transferred into AP English in order to expand my knowledge (and also to make my transcripts look good). No one had told me that in this school, AP English was a breeding ground for the rich, popular kids. No one had told me that in this school, AP English wasn't a class for students who actually wanted to learn. Apparently, AP English was a place to gloat about your parents' influencein the community, and to boast about the wealth of your family. Namine Lightle may have been the prettiest girl in school, but she definitely wasn't the snobbiest, and she wasn't the richest. There were kids that had so much money, they didn't even know what it was like to have anything smaller than a one hundred dollar bill in their wallets.
Now, my family was obviously one of the wealthiest, my stepfather being a very successful lawyer of the state, but it wasn't something that I liked to put on display for everyone to talk about. In Korea, we didn't talk about private family matters with our peers. We certainly didn't let anyone know about our family's financial status either, so it was understandable why hearing about nothing but money all through class made me feel uncomfortable. I felt completely out of my element, and I knew that living in America was going to take some getting used to.
My first day of being in AP English was, to put it bluntly . . . Weird. Not only was everyone ridiculously prying, trying to find out how much my stepfather's estate was worth, but Namine and a couple of friends had leaned in toward each other at their desks and were making it painfully obvious that they were gossiping about me. My English wasn't so impeccable that I understood everything that they were saying, but I understood the general topic: They absolutely did not like me. I didn't know why, nor did I think they would ever grace me with the answer, but the fact that I was constantly beating myself up for being a waste of space did not make the fact that they disliked me any easier to deal with.
All I wanted was to be accepted; was that so much to ask?
Anyway, the class wasn't entirely just a chat session. The teacher was passionate about English, and she was extremely adamant that everyone pass the class with 85% or higher. She was quiet and somewhat dreamy half of the time, but the things she had to say showed that she loved her job, and she loved learning. She outlined the curriculum for the year with a lot of reading, tests, class discussions, and book reports. I felt a bit panicky knowing that most of the class content would be public speaking-oriented, wondering if all of these snobby kids were the type to make fun of people while they were giving a speech. While I sat there staring at my hands in my lap, I hadn't noticed a certain someone watching me. He was watching me so intently that it was almost creepy—watching me wring my hands, tap my pencil anxiously against the edge of my notebook, awkwardly chew on my bottom lip, and all of the other nervous ticks that came upon me in the face of the things that gave me angst.
I turned my head to look at that certain boy, my brow furrowed in confusion. Why was he staring at me? Was there something wrong with the way that I looked? I felt self-conscious and hyper aware of the rolls of fat that covered my body.
The boy looked away just as quickly as I had turned to look at him, and I blushed. He didn't want me to know he was disgusted by me, I just knew it. I lowered my gaze sadly and stared down at my pudgy legs, wishing more than anything that I could look like Namine or one of her friends. Maybe then I would be as happy as they looked.
Little did I know, AP English was not the only time that I would be in close proximity to the certain someone who had been staring at me oh-so-intently that day.
My thoughts faded away as I came back to the present, completely embarrassed. While I had been lost in thought, Mrs. Waldemeier had caught sight of me outside the class and was now holding the door open for me, saying my name and beckoning me in with a warm smile. Sitting upon the carefully arranged chairs inside the classroom, all of my classmates had leaned forward to stare at me, most likely wondering what the heck I was doing just standing there.
"Come on in, honey!" Mrs. Waldemeier gushed, wrapping a comforting arm around my shoulders and ushering me forward. "Don't be shy . . . There's nothing to be frightened of!"
I immediately stared at my feet, trying my best to catch my breath. I had expected to have to stand in front of everyone when I did my official audition for Choir that day, but I hadn't expected to be thrust out in front of them so soon. Not to mention, Namine and her friend were front row and center, looking at me as if I were the ugliest, most bizarre thing that they had ever seen. Not the most welcoming atmosphere, you see.
I tucked a loose strand of my hair behind my right ear and gazed intently at the teacher as she introduced me, using her kind face as an anchor to keep me from having a panic attack.
"Class, I'd like you all to say hello to the newest member of our Choir, Xion Hicks. She's just transferred over from Sculpture class, and I believe she'll be a solid addition to the tenor section." Mrs. Waldemeier looked beside herself with joy, as if she had struck gold. She hugged me tightly from the side and smiled again. "She's also going to grace us with a little performance this afternoon. Purely for the purposes of fairness, of course." She walked away then, toward the piano that I hadn't seen behind me.
I turned and tried not to gasp aloud.
It was him. The boy. The "certain someone." He was just sitting there on the piano bench, scratching his head behind his ear and yawning as if he were bored. Mrs. Waldemeier was introducing him to me as the Choir pianist, informing me about his role in the Winter concert, but I barely heard her.
He was literally one of the most attractive boys that I had ever laid eyes upon. He was obviously Asian (though I couldn't tell which country he hailed from) and his hair was dyed a glossy dirty-blonde color. It was unruly and messy, pushing up in a spiky way against the left side of his head and falling to his chin, giving the appearance that he had just rolled out of bed. His bangs fell across his dazzling azure eyes, and that fascinated me since there weren't many Asians with blue eyes like me. His intense gaze raked up and down my body in the strangest of ways, realization dawning across his face as he recognized me from AP English. There was that curious look again. He gave me a lazy wave and I saw that he had a small tattoo of a simple black cross on the inside of his wrist. Either side of his bottom lip was pierced with a small silver stud and his ear lobes were stretched about an inch, filled with solid black plugs. When he smiled, I saw a set of perfectly straight, stark white teeth.
Why the Hell was he looking at me like that?
Shyly, I gave him a small wave back and Mrs. Waldemeier came back to my side. Almost regretfully, I had to turn away from the boy (whose name I had missed while I was staring at him) and brought my attentions back to the matter at hand.
I was going to have to suck it up and perform.
"Right, so . . . Shall we get to it?" Mrs. Waldemeier said with a clap. "Why don't you perform the song you sang for me last night?"
"Oh, okay . . ." I said quietly, reaching into my brown leather messenger bag for the CD I had brought for this specific purpose. I walked over and gave it to her, watching her put it into the classroom stereo player and counting down in my mind to keep myself calm. When I turned around, I was going to have to sing.
I didn't realize that I had already missed my cue until snickers spread among Namine and the rest of the class like wildfire. How mortifying . . . !
"No matter," the teacher said sweetly. "We can start over. Just . . . Try to sing this time, dear."
"S-Sorry . . ." I apologized, my face flushing a bright crimson in my embarrassment. I couldn't believe I hadn't noticed that she had already pressed play. I rested my trembling hands at my sides, closed my eyes, and breathed in the music that flowed like liquid gold out of the speakers. I let it fill me to the brim with the memory of my mother and my love for her, my sorrow at her death, my grief . . . She had been everything to me, and I was going to make her proud.
I had chosen a powerful yet eerie song that my mother had loved—Plastic Flower by Lena Park. It made me think of snow, and of the strength of the roses that bloom in the Winter. My mother had always loved Winter roses, and had cultivated a garden of them every single year since I had been born. She'd always admired their strength and their resolve and through that admiration, a love of nature had grown within me. I had chosen this song not only to express my mother's love, but also my love for her. If I couldn't express myself through words without having an anxiety attack, I could certainly express myself through song.
When the song ended, there was silence save for the sound of a couple people clearing their throats. I opened my eyes slowly, and saw that everyone was staring at me with either widened eyes, with open mouths, or a combination of the two. Even Namine looked shocked.
"Are you a gospel singer?!" someone joked, jarring everyone back into reality, and causing a few laughs to sound out. Even I giggled a little.
"Yes, that was wonderful! It's amazing how music transcends language barriers, even when sang in Korean," Mrs. Waldemeier said breathlessly, coming to give me another warm hug. "Wonderful indeed! Now, why don't you find a seat, Xion my dear, and we can get started on learning the songs for the Winter concert?"
I wordlessly nodded, feeling happy that I had nailed the performance and hadn't made a fool of myself too badly. I knew my mother would have been proud, and that was my heart's utmost desire. I just wanted to make her happy.
As I sat down, my gaze locked with the blonde boy's, but I quickly looked away.
After class, while everyone was filing out at the sound of the bell, Mrs. Waldemeier pulled the boy and I aside. I pointedly did not meet the boy's gaze, as something about the way he had looked at me earlier was unsettling. It had made me feel as if he could see every inch of my innermost heart—almost as if he had heard the sorrow in my singing, and knew. Mrs. Waldemeier told us to wait one moment while she talked to one other student about his baritone, and I could feel the boy's eyes on me again. It made me feel uncomfortable. Why was he staring at me? Seriously, why? I wished he would just stop. Just stop staring.
Stop staring.
I rubbed my shoulder and gazed at the carpeted floor of the classroom. Still, he watched me.
Mrs. Waldemeier hustled back over and clapped her hands once in excitement.
"So, I've made an executive decision," she said, looking from me to the boy. I looked up sharply, intent on what she had to say. It had to be serious business if she'd made both of us stay after the bell.
"Hm?" the boy said softly.
Mrs. Waldemeier grinned and spread her arms wide. "I want Xion for the solo!"
My jaw dropped. Mrs. Waldemeier wanted me for the most important solo in the district? I may have been a new student this year, but it was impossible not to have heard about the seriousness and importance of the Winter concert. There were other kids who had cried blood, sweat, and tears for the chance to audition for the solo . . . And she was just giving it to me? I felt flustered, honored, happy, and apprehensive all at the same time.
"Cool," the boy nodded slowly, slipping his hands into the pockets of his black skinny jeans. I noticed that the dark blue v-neck tee that he was wearing brought out every azure hue in his eyes and made his smile even brighter. "So what do you want us to do?"
"Well, Roxas," the teacher started, "I obviously want you two to work together, as she'll need to learn an English song when English is not her first language. Secondly, I will be holding concert practices every Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday after school starting in November, since Xion's isn't the only solo. You will both need to attend every single practice in order to get a passing grade."
"So we are to receive grade on this project?" I asked, speaking up for the first time.
"Yes," she replied with another kind smile. "I grade my class based upon participation, not talent. As long as you attend class and, in the future, the practices, you will pass. Fifty percent of the grade is attendance; the other fifty is participating in the Winter concert. So it's a big portion of your grade! You'll need to take this seriously if you want to pass, you guys."
"Yes, ma'am," Roxas drawled, and judging by his tone, I wouldn't have been surprised if he had rolled his eyes at her.
Mrs. Waldemeier was the one who rolled her eyes though, and she ruffled Roxas's already-messy hair. "Just get it figured out. The only way you will excel is if you try hard. So if that means practicing with each other outside of school, then so be it. I want to see determination, effort, and self-discipline out of you two!" With one more smile, she dismissed us.
Roxas held the door open for me and I nodded my thanks, suddenly unable to speak again. I clutched the strap of my messenger bag as if it were a life vest holding me above deep water. Roxas had decided to fall in-step beside me, walking with me down the now-empty hallway. I could feel him watching me occasionally, but he didn't speak and neither did I. I still didn't feel quite comfortable around him, but I didn't want to seem completely stand-offish so I tried my best to speak.
"U-Um . . ." I immediately began to stammer, as conversation with Americans wasn't my forte. "What class do you attend next?"
Roxas chuckled a little bit, and I blushed—he must be laughing at my horrible English and heavy accent. I knew he was, and there was no point dissuading me on the matter. A dark cloud of judgment hovered over me as we walked, though I was no stranger to this feeling.
"I 'attend' Culinary Arts," he said in a somewhat patronizing way. "Cooking. I think we're making lasagna today."
I nodded, and we kept walking.
"What about you?" he asked me.
I gripped my bag tighter. "Um . . . I will attend Trigonometry." I chanced a glance at him to see that he was looking at me with one eyebrow arched.
"Impressive," he complimented me. "AP English, Trig, Choir . . . You're really padding your transcripts, aren't you?"
"Mm," I agreed, my lips turning upward slightly. "I come to States, and I want to go to college. I need to receive high grades to graduate American school," I told him.
"I hear ya," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "My family is Korean, so graduating is a huge thing in my house. I'm not doing too well right now."
I blinked and immediately said in Korean, "So am I! Small world, huh?"
He looked surprised and shot back in Korean, "Seems like it! You do need to work on your English, though, haha!"
I tittered nervously, because I didn't really know what to say. To be honest, I was taken aback that he was still walking with me. Culinary Arts was in a building separate from the main school, located alongside the other Arts classrooms . . . He was going to complete opposite direction! Was he . . . Walking me to class?
I immediately stamped out whatever hope had threatened to spring to only reason why he was deigning me with his presence was to be polite since we were being partnered up for the concert solo. He probably just wanted to get to know the person who would be performing his composition vocally.
Why did I constantly insist on doing this to myself? Letting myself believe that someone could actually like me? Those fairy tales were for other girls. Pretty girls with perfect, thin bodies like Namine Lightle. Not me.
"When I first come here," I said in my halting English, as if to prove to him that my English wasn't that bad, "I find it hard to . . . To adjust. But then I realized that learning does not have language barriers; learning is for world." I looked down as we walked, not really paying attention to the fact that we were almost ten minutes past the bell, and officially late for class. "I like to learn, so I do well in class."
Roxas smiled at me, and for some reason, I felt special. Somehow . . . I knew he didn't smile like that often.
"That's . . . Cool," he said in a decisive way, nodding appreciatively. "That's cool that you enjoy something most American kids don't, hah. Isn't this your class? Trigonometry with Mr. Melden, right?"
I looked up, surprised that we were already there. "Oh . . ." I answered. "Yes. This is my class."
We faced each other and he gave me another smile; a smile that made me feel as if I should keep it for myself and lock it away in my heart. He was much too pretty of a boy to be talking to me. Why was he talking to me? I didn't deserve his smile.
"So . . ." He said in Korean. "Looks like we each have something the other would like to have."
My face twisted in confusion and I pushed my hair behind my ears. "Mweo?"
He grinned. "You have a knack for learning, and I'm fluent in English."
I looked thoughtful for a moment. Then, comprehending what he was saying, my face lit up at the prospect of what he was offering. If he could do this for me, and I could return the favor in my own way, it would be such a big help. It would help me break down the remaining barriers between me and the American people.
"You would do that?" I asked quietly, grateful. "Help me to better my English?"
He nodded. "Sure. If you promise to help me pass the classes I'm failing." He shrugged and slipped his thumbs into the front pockets of his skinny jeans. "It would make my oma really happy if I graduated this year. No rush, of course."
I smiled slightly and nodded abruptly. "Yes. Okay. I could tutor you." And then, in English I said, "It would make me very happy to learn English!"
He reached out as if to chuck me under the chin, but then stopped himself at the last minute and retracted his hand. He smiled one last time. "Sweet. So . . . I guess I'll see you in AP English tomorrow morning?"
"Ne," I said, a little too excitedly. Embarrassed, I lowered my gaze and attempted to stop my blush from creeping into my cheeks. He laughed a little bit again, and walked away.
"Um . . . Kamsahamnida!" I called after him.
He turned around and walked backward, giving me a little wave and a small half-smile.
"No problem," he called back. "See you later!"
"Annyeong~!" I replied, turning and walking into class late. I immediately stopped dead in my tracks just inside the classroom. Mr. Melden was frozen at the front of the full class, his chalk-filled hand poised on the forest-green chalkboard. His mouth was half-open, and there was indignation in his eyes.
I had forgotten that the one thing that my American teachers hated most, more than any other offense a student could give . . . Was tardiness.
x-x-x
A/N: And there you have it! Lots of changes! I especially like that Xion is Korean now because this way, she can speak more freely with Roxas in the future chapters and she won't seem so helpless, haha. Anyway, I'll have chapter two up in the next couple of days, after I go through and edit! Until then, see ya!