Disclaimer: Everything used in the chapter about Finnegan's Wake was read about on Wikipedia and watched on online story reviews...to anyone who has read the book, if you want to correct anything I have written in the chapter, please review or send me a message! I don't like being inaccurate! Basically, everything in this chapter is not mine...well, the place isn't. All the characters are...they're OCs.
Story Arc 1: The Project
April 12th, 2004
Chapter 10
When Drew caught up with me at the end of Physical Education, he was the epitome perfection, not a hair out of place. If anything, his ponytail looked more luscious and full, and his skin might have looked more lively, almost as if he had just come back from a stroll, not performed military drills for the better part of two hours.
I pulled a sticky note from my pocket, writing, "Why didn't you warn me?" A wet imprint of the side of my hand smeared the 'e' of 'me', making an awkward black smudge against the edge of the square blue paper.
Drew cocked his head to the side, his brown braid swaying. "About our Drill Sergeant and Physical Education teacher?" I nodded, wiping sweat from my brow. My hair felt soaked and matted and stuck to my face. My clothes, saturated in sweat, clung coolly to my skin. "It wasn't that bad! It could have been worse."
I sent him a perplexed look, my eyebrows drawn together and the corners of my mouth pulled down. P.E. wasn't this difficult in America. I would have expected a game of dodgeball instead of running miles around the a building for hours. I quickly wrote another note, "Not that bad? P.E. in America is fun! You guys looked like you were being tortured!"
Drew chuckled and pulled his brown hair around his shoulder to the front of him and pinched the ends with his fingers, twisting the strands. "That was fun!" We turned the corner and walked down my hallway. "Come on B, you'll see in a couple of months! When the Sergeant has you whipped into shape, you'll get to join us in the ranks! It's a blast!"
Hearing that made me want to puke. In a couple of months? I'd be running for months? MONTHS? I wanted to scream! I couldn't take months of this torture. My muscle felt as they were being torn in half; I knew my knees were in danger of giving out any moment as we climbed up the stairs. I really didn't want to run at all. Kids in public schools never ran (and if they did, it was not to the extent of what I was made to do). They were definitely never subjected to military drills. Perhaps the orphanage was trying to breed soldiers, rather than educate its brilliant children to cure the world's problems.
Drew walked me to my room, his pace was much slower than normal. "But anyway, you might want to take a warm shower. Get your muscles loose. Stretch a bit, it'll help a lot with the soreness now and later on. You have about thirty minutes before the next period. They always give us time to change and wash up." When we approached my door, I took the key from my pocket and unlocked it. "I'll see you later, B! Don't be late to class!" He waved and walked back down the corridor.
Locking the door behind me, I limped over to the bathroom and turned on the shower. After peeling off my wet clothes, I stepped into the spray, hissing in delight as the warm water caressed my muscles. My joints were weak and aching, as if they would give at any moment. Could my body even handle another day of this? Honestly, I didn't think so. Maybe I could fake an illness or something.
No! I scrunched my eyes closed, clenching my hands into fist and raising my face into the spray. I held my breath as the warm water hit my face. I chose this! I could stick with this! It'd only make me stronger. It was only the first day. No, not even the first day! Only the first class! I could do this. I could.
I turned my head from the spray to breath and turned around to feel the water on my back. I started to stretch out my muscles, wincing at each motion. It felt as if my body was attempting mutiny. Eventually, the limpness in my body lifted, and I felt less sore.
Allowing a few moments of bliss, I managed to gather enough will, and strength, to lather some soap over my body, rinse, and then step out of the shower.
Dripping water over the floor, I walked back into my room and glanced at the little alarm clock next to my bed. I still had ten minutes. Scurrying over to the chest of drawers, I pulled out some undergarments and slipped them on. I slipped the towel around my hair as I walked over to the closet. Rifling through the hanging shirts, hoodies, and jeans, I pulled one of each out and slipped them on. Somehow maneuvering the towel wrapped around my head to fit through the holes of my shirt and hoodie, I flipped my head over and used the towel to dry up any of the remaining water from my hair.
I remembered when I didn't have to do this myself. My mother was quite fond of towel drying my hair, especially before I went to bed. We'd sit in front of the television, her on the couch, and I hunkered on the floor between her legs. She'd change it to the news, more often Fox than ABC, lay my hair on the towel that was on her legs, and brush out the tangles. Every so often she'd comment on something that the anchorman said. I never really paid any attention to what it was. Rather, I was lulled by the sound of her voice and caressed by the bristles of the brush, and eventually, I'd feel so tired and content that I would fall asleep against her legs.
I was brought back to the present by the pain. My muscles had started to burn after a bit. I really didn't have the strength to completely dry my hair, so I stood up straight and tossed the towel into a basket inside of my closet. My slightly wet, crazy hair laid awkwardly in my face as I crossed my room to the vanity beside my bed. Opening the drawer, I pulled out a hair tie and hair brush and began to brush out my tangles and pull my hair into a ponytail.
I wasn't like my mother. I didn't really care about the end result. She always took pride in her appearance, applying toners and moisturizers and primers and foundation and eyeliner. She tried to instill the same desire for physical care into me, and it had stuck for a while. Often she and I would get ready together, our cosmetics intermingling on the counter of the bathroom every morning. We used the time to talk. And, I mean actually talk, none of this bothersome sign language. It was the only time my father would allow me to talk without reprimanding me. It was my mini escape from reality. The only time I could be completely normal.
I fell out of the habit when we moved away from America. We didn't have the money to spend on frivolities, and my mother wasn't really ever in the mood to talk anymore.
Now, away from it all, I just didn't possess the will or the patience.
I set about gathering my supplies for the next class. I pulled out a couple of notebooks and a pencil. I dug my pad of sticky notes out of the pocket of the running shorts on the floor before tossing the shorts, along with the other dirty clothes on the floor, into the laundry hamper in the closet. Grabbing my key, I stepped out of my room and into the hallway, locking the door behind me.
Kids were already walking down the halls towards the lower level of the mansion. The air was full of chatter. I walked behind a large group of children, paying attention special to the route, wanting to memorize the way. We walked down the left hallway, passed a set of huge, double, dark oak doors labeled 'School Wing'.
Everything passed the doors was blinding. The hallway was lined in glass, the walls clear enough to see through to rooms on the other side. Single rows of desks faced the same direction in every room, towards a milky, white wall. Some children already sat, leaning over their desks, writing on papers. Other children were participating in conversations or staring aimlessly around waiting for the classes to start.
The children around me split up with quick goodbyes and walked through black rimmed doorways. Above each of the entrances were electronic panels; the names of the class and teacher were sprawled across in blue lights. It seemed there was only one classroom per subject, and it was easy to locate the English classroom. I managed to walk passed the threshold just as some kind of chime sounded through the hallway. A black, solid door was released from a metal clasp, and it softly closed.
I stood there with my materials as the teacher moved away from her desk and looked up. Her lavender eyes quickly scanned the class. Her pink lips pulled back into a smile when she saw me, waving her tanned hand for me to approach. As I got closer, I could see the light reflect off her pink hair. It seemed to almost glow with health. Her clothes were a bit more distracting, her cleavage bounced around as she walked from behind her desk. Her outfit left nothing to the imagination, the cut of the neckline was low, accentuating the point where her tanned breasts met with dark colored lapels. Lavender tights ran up her legs into a thin, black mini-skirt. I looked away from the promiscuously dressed English teacher and instead found myself staring at the four people sitting amongst a row of five desks.
"Today, we have a new student!" When I finally approached her, the teacher clapped me on the shoulder and spun me around to introduce me to the small class. "This lovely young thing's name is Beginning! She's from America, and she will be with your pod from now on!" One or two of the kids smiled a bit, another beamed, while the others just nodded, looking bored. "Why don't we introduce ourselves, hm?"
One of the kids jumped up, beaming. Her brown hair had light blue highlights. It fell in ringlets in her face. She was short, her figure wasn't thin, but it wasn't fat, more like muscular. I could see the muscles beneath the tightness of her rolled up jean and figure fitting rainbow tank top. Her skin was rather tan, bringing out her gleaming, golden eyes. She clapped her hands together once, still jumping. "I'm Journey! I came from Canada! We're basically sisters!" She leaned over the desk, stage whispering, "How old are you?"
"Sixteen," I signed, blushing a bit from the attention. She was something. I wasn't used to animated people. They seemed like way more trouble than it was worth to keep up with. But the way Journey was smiling...it was like innocence was wafting off of her in waves, thrumming pure pleasantness. I couldn't help but smile as well.
"She's deaf?" A boy farther to the left leaned back, his arms crossed, his white, button up shirt rolled up onto his forearms. From underneath the desk, I could see pressed, black slack and glossy, dress shoes. It looked more like he was trying to get a job at an office than attend a school. Everyone else seemed to always dress informally, save for the few adults I had encountered.
He was scowling, his thin lips pulled tightly together, pursing, as if everything was an annoyance. Now here was someone I was accustomed too, a hard-ass. My father was one. Or…well…my father pretended to be one. I suppose my father was trying to be a gangster. This young man obviously was much more sophisticated than a gangster, more like a mobster, or a body guard.
"No, Caterax." The teacher's grip tightened on my shoulder, making me squirm. "This smart, young thing is mute." She released her hold of me to cross her forearms across her chest, the light catching the skin of her bosom slightly. "She can still hear and understand words, this poor young thing just can't speak."
Caterax looked away, clicking his tongue and muttering under his breath, "Sounds like an excuse."
The teacher pursed her lips in annoyance, but altogether gave no response. "Anyway," She gestured to the girl right of Caterax. She had long, light brown hair that framed her heart shaped face. Her light skin was flawless, liken to a porcelain texture. Large, honey brown eyes reflected the light from the windows as she smiled, revealing small, white teeth between thin, pink lips. Her cardigan dwarfed her body, covering up any figure or hint of body shape the girl might have had beneath it. "This lovely, young thing is Jelly!" Jelly smiled, waving her sleeve covered hand at me.
"And next to her is Diligence!" She pointed to a tall boy with mousy features. Diligence's most obvious feature was his blindingly orange scarf. The lower half of his head seemed to sink into it's folds, leaving everything, from the tip of his nose downward, impossible to see. His dark, brown hair sat in a curly mess atop his head, gracing the edge of his cheeks and forehead. His face was average, more soft than sharp. His nose was rounded. He wore a brown army jacket, the kind that looked normal on the outside, but had millions of pockets on the inside. I'd seen them worn by hippies and drug dealers. I mentally prayed for him to be neither.
"The cute, young thing next to Diligence, is Journey. Whom you've already met." She gestured to the girl with rainbow hair who bounced in her seat, clapping and smiling. "And with you, this pod has officially reached five of you brilliant things!" The teacher smiled endearingly at us.
Journey whooped, "I think this deserves a party, don't you think Ms. Hat?"
"No." The teacher directed me towards the empty desk at the end of line of desks. "You may sit here. You can put your things in your desk for now!" As I put my things away, the teacher made her way back up to the front of the classroom. "In fact, Beginning, you came in at the most wonderful time!" She smiled and sauntered over to her desk to pick up a book.
"Oh! Are you assigning another book?" Journey seemed to vibrate in her chair with excitement.
Ms. Hat smiled, "Why yes, you smart, little thing! I am!" The teacher held it out for Journey to take. "We will be reading 'Finnegans Wake' for the next couple of days!"
"What the fuck?" Caterax cried out, gripping the sides of his desk with his hands. "Isn't that supposed to be nearly impossible to read?"
"Hm?" Ms. Hat smiled, crossing her own arms across her chest. "Surely you, an intelligent, young thing, can decipher the near dreamlike prose of a dead man?" She walked closer to Caterax's desk and stood above him.
"Sure I could, maybe, if it were half intelligible!"
"Ah," Ms. Hat slammed a thin, tanned hand onto his desk. Caterax scowled up at the teacher smiling down on him. "So you're telling me that James Joyce, the author of Ulysses, willingly wrote a book that he didn't want his readers to decipher?"
The boy narrowed his eyes belligerently, "Yes."
"I see," Ms. Hat moved her face closer, "Prove it." Her tone was dripping with sweetness, so much so that it sounded almost fake. She straightened her posture and walked back to her own desk and leaned against it, facing the class. "Journey, you sweet thing, would you like to read a portion?"
Journey nodded eagerly. "Sir Tristram, violer d'amores," Journey had opened the book and had begun reading from one of the pages; her tone sounded excited but was surprisingly flawless in pronunciation, automatically adopting an accent. "Fr'over the short sea, had passencore rearrived from North Armorica on this side the scraggy isthmus of Europe Minor to wielderfight his penisolate - "
"Do you see what I mean?" Caterax sounded beside himself. Journey seemed a bit put out at being interrupted. "It's just a random stream of nonsense! What are we going to learn about the English language from that?"
"Actually, you terse thing," Ms. Hat smiled at Caterax, her lashes fluttering. "It was originally written in Finnish." She dug through her bag again and pulled out five novels and passed them out, retrieving the one Journey had once held.
"Come now, Caterax." Jelly's voice was just about as soft as she looked, a gentle British accent. She prevented Caterax from responding by continuing. "Perhaps the professor knows what she is doing?"
The boy turned his head to look at Jelly, who smiled. "Whatever," Caterax huffed but backed off. He accepted the book the teacher passed to him with grudging tolerance.
The book passed, that was passed to me, was crisp and new, the binding of the paperback hadn't even been soiled or bent yet. I nodded to my thanks to Diligence. He glanced away as soon as I made eye contact, however.
"Now, let's talk about the author!" Ms. Hat moved up to the glass wall to the right of her desk and pulled out a dry-erase marker. She talked and wrote on the glass for the rest of the period. Twice, she had us flip to random sections of the book in order to find examples. I wrote diligent notes, trying to read the teacher's messy handwriting as best and quickly as I could.
Eventually, the bell rang and the teacher erased the markings from the glass wall and left with a smile. "Have a great day!"
Edited 07/05/2015: InkstainedHands1177 has edited this chapter as well...I'm supper glad. This chapter was grammatically fluencical mess.