Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Interlude:  Eye Catch RANMA

       I stared for what must have been twenty minutes at the blank sheet of paper in front of me.  How many times had I dreamed of all the things I that I wished I could change, the events I wished I could alter, the paths I could have chosen.  They fled me now.  I propped an elbow on the desktop and leaned my head against my left fist as I continued to stare, allowing the page to blur in and out of focus.  I could feel myself beginning to doze off again; as my head rolled forward on my fist, my temple met with something small and hard on my pinkie finger.  The pain prodded me to full awareness and I sat up sharply.  I looked at my hand, my eyes falling upon the cause of the temporary stab of pain.

       I regarded the object for several minutes, thinking about its significance and the implications ownership of it had for me.  I looked back at the blank sheet of paper before me, and with pen in hand, began to write.

Background Theme:  You I Love

       The air was filled with a damp chill that accompanied this cold, overcast day in late January.  I began to realize that an unfamiliar anxiety was taking root inside me, threatening my peace of mind.  A heck of a first day at my new school.  I lulled over in my mind the possible sources of my uneasiness.

Being a military brat, most of my primary and secondary schooling had been at schools provided by the Department of Defense for military dependents.  The high school I had transferred from, on the other side of the world, was also a DOD facility.  I had spent my Freshman and half my Sophomore years there.  Now it seemed I would continue, and perhaps finish, my high school career here.

       This new high school that I was now enrolled in was a much older facility than other schools I attended.  I preferred the new look and feel most DOD schools had, most having been built within a decade of me attending them.  This school had probably been around some thirty or forty years at least.  I didn't care for the "lived-in" look.  The place wasn't run down by any means, nor was it a dilapidated dump;  the school simply had a different environment – different from the ones I was accustomed to on a military installation.  Absent was the clean, crisp, orderly look I had grown used to.

       I found myself beginning to suffer from a severe case of Culture Shock.  I was a military brat.  I had grown up around everything that looked, felt, smelt, tasted, and sounded military.  It was familiar.  It felt safe.  I knew my place in its structure.  I knew what to expect in its environment.

       There are a myriad of factors that work together to compose the look and feel of any given place.  Physical appearance is only one of them.  What made me feel even more out-of-place were the people I interacted with.  Civilians.  In my young mind, the term almost seemed like a derogatory slur.  In retrospect, I find that mindset quite ironic, having been raised in an atmosphere that promoted tolerance and equality.  That diametrically opposed ideas could rear their ugly heads and find refuge in my mind was unusual, to say the least.  I really had nothing against civilians or the non-military subculture itself, but I felt like a stranger in a strange land.  This new culture was completely alien to me.  It felt like their modes of thinking were more two-dimensional.  Again, looking back, it wasn't that my mode of thinking was more three-dimensional – the difference lay in the fact that their third dimension of thought and philosophy existed along different lines than my own.  I found that rationale to be especially true when I shed my military roots years later, fully embracing civilian life.

       Yes, this was definitely a bad case of Culture Shock.  I was no stranger to it, though.  I had endured it and survived, admirably in my opinion, when I moved to the Philippines at seven years of age.  I adjusted, I adapted.  Now I began to sense its inverse.

       Knowing the source of the discomfort I felt, as I sat  warming myself against the chill during the school's Lunch period, I sighed in relief.  There would be a saying I would come to know in years ahead that I would apply to situations like these:  Now I know, and knowing is half the battle.  Funny what one can learn from a cartoon.  Knowing the source of my unease, I could now take arms against this invisible enemy that assailed the realm of my mind.

       I leaned back on my seat, a thick metal chain that spanned the gap between two brick columns.  I was careful to maintain my balance as the chain swayed slightly.  Above me was the roof of the covered walkway that led to the school's auditorium.  More chains were suspended between the remaining columns on both sides of the walkway, serving as a slight protective barrier to keep more inept individuals from falling off the concrete walkway and onto the ground some two or three feet below.  A small set of stone steps was inset into the walkway halfway between the main building and the auditorium.  The steps on the far end from me led to another covered sidewalk that ran between the main building and the Library; the steps nearest me led to a triangular-shaped lot where many students hung out in the mornings, between classes, and during lunch.  Two covered walkways formed two sides of the triangle; one ran between the main building and the cafeteria, while the other ran perpendicular to the first, cutting between the cafeteria and the auditorium.  A walled outcropping from the auditorium itself formed the third side.

       I shifted my gaze, taking in further my surroundings.  Students were milling noisily about; some were sitting, hunched over books; some were eating quietly from home-packed lunches (those refusing to brave cafeteria food) or snacks provided by nearby vending machines.  Most sat gathered on the benches that lined the sides of the triangular lot.

       I pulled my schedule out from a spiral-bound notebook and looked it over.  Lunch ran between fourth and fifth periods for about forty-five minutes.  My next class was German I, with a Mrs. Steuermann.  I wondered how different she'd be from my last instructor.  Don Cutler had the rare gift of infusing outrageous humor into his teaching methods.  Looking at my watch, I saw that I had about five minutes before the bell would ring.  Pulling out my Student Handbook, I looked for the classroom on the school map it provided.  It was on the second floor of the building's southwest corner.  I hopped up, adjusting my jacket zipper to shield me further against the cold, then strode silently down the steps, across the triangle lot, approaching the walkway adjacent to the main building and heading toward the double doors on the far end.

       The bell went off with the shrill metal cling-a-ling-a-ling I found to be universal in a dozen different schools around the world.  I figured it would be crazy of me to fight this crowd as they crammed themselves through doors and stairways.  Taking a seat on one of the lot benches, I waited for the crowd to thin.  It was my first day at a new school, and being a military brat meant I had transferred to more than my share of new schools during the school year.  In my experience, I found teachers to be quite lenient with transfer students who were late, especially on their first day.  Besides, I loved nothing more than interrupting a class in full swing, enjoying the attention I knew would be lavished upon me as I joined my new classmates.  There's something enigmatic and charming about a newbie, and I was going to drink it in.  I smiled as I watched the last of the students disappear in the wake of the final strains of the tardy bell.  Waiting just a while longer, enough to be fashionably late, I stood and headed toward class.

Interlude:  Eye Catch RANMA

       Karin Steuermann was a slightly tall and slender woman with short towhead-blonde hair and gray-blue eyes.  Generally a kind, soft-spoken person, she commanded auditory powers that bordered on legendary.  After introducing myself to the teacher and showing her my transfer paperwork, she turned to the class and announced that they had a new student joining them.

       "Please introduce yourself to the class, Vic," she said with a slight smile.

       I looked the class over, then smiled as I introduced myself, using the slightly uncustomary "Ich heiße…" which translates as "I am called…"  I swore I heard a slight gasp of delighted amazement from the front row off to my right.

       "He sounds so real!"

       I looked over to the source of compliment.  A young girl of about fifteen sat there, long dark brown hair with a slight curl spilling along her shoulders and down her back.  Her mouth was alight with a smile that reached her beautiful hazel eyes.  Her hands were folded on the desk in from of her, her fair skin a lovely contrast to the dark hair that framed her face.

       From somewhere inside me, something awoke and took notice. Woah!  She's cute!  I thought as my eyebrows hit the ceiling.

       "Of course, Alisha," Mrs. Steuermann chided gently.  "That's what we all strive for."

       Alisha slunk down in her seat slightly.  I looked over at her and smiled.  I don't know if she noticed it or not.  I marveled at how pretty she was.  I felt something inexplicable at that moment, one of those things one feels when Fate intersects Destiny, only it is rarely recognized the moment it occurs.  It quickly faded but would resurface when I least expected it.

       I turned my attention back to the rest of the class as they introduced themselves, using the form of "Meine Name ist…" or "My name is…"

       Satisfied, Mrs. Steuermann directed me to take a seat.  I walked toward the middle rear of the class and took a seat at an empty desk there.  I glanced over to the dark-haired damsel.  Alisha.

       I pulled out my folder and opened my newly-issued German textbook, turning to the page indicated by the teacher as the class resumed.