Four

There was a fly on Mr. Thompson's head. It had been circulating the class for the entire period, and now chose to take care of its business on top of my Health and Life teacher's head. Whenever a fly lands, it either vomits or shits. I think that's gross. Imagine all the times a fly has landed on you; it's left fully satisfied and ready to go off again. What if humans were like that? Just living their lives with the only problem of deciding where to poop.

So simple.

Mr. Thompson walked behind his desk and the fly left his head. I saw it wander up towards the light and disappear. It never came back down. Maybe it died up there, got zapped by some electrical cord. If so, Mr. Thompson's head would be the last that fly ever did business on. Kind of sad if you thought about it.

"Annaleigh?"

My eyes focused on Mr. Thompson.

"Yes?"

"Were you listening to a word I just said?"

"No."

In any other class, I wouldn't respond at all, figuring the question was rhetorical. If the teacher was asking, it probably meant he knew I wasn't paying attention. But in Health and Life, Mr. Thompson right away taught us two things on the first day of school: Nothing is rhetorical. And two; lying is not an option. If we told the truth, we would never be punished.

"This is not an English class," he'd said that first day. "There are no right answers to life, just opinions you believe are right. If you want to space out and not listen, that's okay with me. That may just be your lifestyle. I only request that if I ask a direct question, that I get a direct answer in return. Every question and every answer has meaning, not matter how wacko or ironic they seem to be."

The class had laughed, happy they had such a laid back teacher. I had just stared at him, trying to figure out what exactly he meant. Did he not care if we learned anything? Or was this his way of teaching us what we needed to know?

"What were you thinking of?" he asked, presently.

"There was a fly on your head."

He smiled. "Is it still there?"

"No, it died."

"That's too bad," he said sympathetically. "But I'm actually talking about something relatively interesting, so it'd great for you not to befriend any more flies 'til next period, 'kay?"

I nodded, trying to smile.

"So I was talking about an upcoming project."

Normally, this was where the class would groan about doing work. But of course, everything is different in Mr. Thompson's class.

"In this hat are a couple of expressions that I have thought mean something to me. Of course, they could mean something completely different to you, which is the beauty of life. I have assigned you all partners and for the project you will share this expression — everything that relates to it. Your life, your experiences, things you want to happen… You two will keep a journal and then turn it in by the end."

"When's it due?" someone asked.

Scott snorted. He always made fun of anyone who asked that question. Maybe it's because he's so afraid of deadlines himself.

"There is no deadline," Mr. Thompson replied. "At least no deadline written in stone. When I feel it's time I'll ask for you to turn it in. In life, when things are really important, you don't want them to end. But more importantly, you don't know when they'll end."

He let that sink in, though I was not surprised. I learned not to be surprised anymore in Mr. Thompson's class.

"First I will pass out the name of your partner, who I have picked. Then once you all have read it and gone over the oohs and ahhs of 'oh my god he's your partner?' you can come up as a team and pick your expression from the hat. 'kay?"

He took our silence as a consent and started walking around, placing a folded piece of paper on each desk.

I unfolded mine and read the inside.

Scott Fields.

I looked over at him. Mr. Thompson had just handed him his piece. Scott opened his and read the inside. He held it there for a while, then looked up to meet my gaze, a slow grin creeping onto his face.

Shit.

Scott got up from his desk and walked over to me.

"Hello partner."

"Hi," I said, keeping it simple.

"So we're partners," he said, stating the obvious.

"Guess so."

"You know what this means, right?"

I raised my eyebrows.

"This means," he said slowly, "that not only do I get to be an ass in drama, but now I get to be an ass in Health and Life."

"You were already an ass in Health and Life," I told him.

His grin widened. "At a closer distance," he answered.

"Scott? Annaleigh?" Mr. Thompson called over to us. "Come pick your expression!"

Scott looked at me with a teasing face. "Come on, Annaleigh."

I sighed and got up.

Mr. Thompson looked at my pissed expression and Scott's teasing one, and laughed. "This should be fun."

I groaned. It was like he'd planned this. I reached in and grabbed a slip of paper from the very bottom.

Love changes…fear changes.

"What does it say?" Scott asked.

I handed it to him.

"What the hell does that mean?"

I shrugged, since I didn't know either. Actually, that was a lie. I knew what it meant, but I didn't know what it meant to me. And after a few months in Mr. T's class, I knew that's what really mattered.

Mr. Thompson laughed. "That's the point of the project. Figure out what it means."

"Whatever, dude," Scott said.

I looked at Mr. Thompson and pleaded him with my eyes to switch my partner.

He just smiled. "'kay dude," he replied back.

And then the bell rang.

"What do you want to do, Annaleigh?" my mother had asked me one time.

We were in my bedroom, not really talking. Just sitting there, enjoying each other's company.

I remember shrugging my shoulders, not completely understanding the question. I was probably around four or five.

"You don't know?" she exclaimed, incredulously.

I don't remember what or how exactly I responded to this. Looking back, it was probably rhetorical. All I remember is her dragging me to the full length mirror in my bedroom, forcing me to look at myself. I saw what I always saw and would forever see — blonde hair, brown eyes, and pink cheeks.

"What do you see yourself doing?" she wondered, looking down at me.

I had closed my eyes, wondering what was supposed to come of this. What my mother was even asking me about.

And then I saw it. I got it.

Suddenly, I saw a curtain. I saw a stage. I saw an audience, sitting on the edge of their seats waiting for my next word. I saw bright blinding lights. I saw myself pretending to be someone I was not, but not getting called fake for it. And I had never witnessed any sort of performance that was similar to the image in my head, but somehow I just knew.

It's all it was and all it would ever be — acting.

But for some reason that day, I didn't know what to say. I didn't know what to tell my mom, because I wasn't sure of what I had just imagined. Instead, I walked out of the room. I went down the stairs and into the kitchen, leaving my mother there, wondering.

We stayed there, in our respective areas of the house, both of us wondering. That's where it all began. But not the acting.

It's where the wondering began.

"S'how d'you wanna do this?" Scott asked me after school that day. I paused only for a second. It always took me a couple moments to decipher his sentences; he's not the world's best speaker.

I shrugged.

"Aren't you supposed to be the smart one?" he demanded.

"Am I?"

He nodded.

"Well then," I said, looking down at the pink journal Mr. Thompson gave us. "I think we should both write down what we think it means in general, like, to anyone."

Scott looked down at it. "Why the hell's it pink?"

I tried not to laugh at his disgusted expression, though I was wondering the same thing. "Maybe to add color?"

"Ew."

"Yeah."

He looked at me. "I guess f'r the two've us, Mr. T. shoulda given us a black notebook."

"Guess so," I answered. I thought it was interesting how he said the "the two of us," like he knew me in some way that connected us.

He moved the pink journal over to me. "Why don't you start?"

I smirked, knowing he had nothing to write about.

I flipped over the first page, dated it, and wrote Annaleigh. I could feel Scott hovering over me, though. I sighed and looked up.

"What?" he asked.

"I can't write with you looking at me. It makes me uncomfortable."

He grinned. "Good."

I sighed. "Just go, please?"

"Where should I go?"

"I dunno. Go catch up with one of your girlfriends."

His grin widened. "I know what you mean by catch up. But unfortunately, I'm not with Mary Anne anymore."

"Pity," I said. "Then go find your drug dealer. I'll come get you when I'm done."

This caught him off guard. He stood there, lingering, trying to find out if I was kidding or not. I didn't if this meant he actually did have a drug dealer.

Finally, he just muttered a "fine" and left.

I sighed, getting back to work.

Love changes…fear changes.

I heard Scott's voice in my head. "What the hell does that mean?" And I could hear Mr. Thompson's voice: "It means whatever you want it to mean." What did I want it to mean? What did others want it to mean?

Cynthia Vaughn: maiden name Palmer, alternative name Mom. What had happened to her? What had happened to the people she loved, and loved her? Once they had been so close, almost sisters, and then everything fell apart, like a priceless glass figure smashing to the ground. Irreparable, and completely irreplaceable.

How much of it was her fault, and how much by the influence of others? What events led to the day that changed so many people's lives forever? Does anybody know everything?

So many questions left unanswered. So many hearts left broken. And for what? For nothing. At the end, everything is always nothing.

But could someone love like that again? Is it possible to open yourself up like that, only to be wondering if someone will come along with that damn bottle of addiction and ruin everything in your life? Why love someone if it only leads to brokenness, and most of all: fear?

Love leads to fear. But does it change? The love is still there, just fear has been added to it. But is both of them together more dangerous than love never existing?

I put my pencil down and called for Scott. He came running in, putting his cell phone away in his pocket.

"Done?"

"Done," I replied.

"Awesome, man."

I raised my eyebrows. Man?

He laughed. "Sorry, Annaleigh."

I sighed. "Just write please.

"Okay," he said, picking up the journal and turning to leave.

"Wait, where are you going?"

"Home…" he said in that duh voice.

"Why?"

"To write…"

"Why not here?"

"Because I don't like it here."

"Then why did we meet here?"

"Because you said we should."

"You don't have to do whatever I say."

He smiled, a teasing smile but I could tell there was some sincerity. "Have you met yourself?" He just laughed and walked away. "You can have it after the weekend!" he called over his shoulder.

I sat back down at the now-empty table. Have I met myself?

There was only one person in the world who had really met me, had really known me. Only one other time had I thought someone would come close to that proximity. And that had been the hugest mistake of my life.