According to Marissa
Chapter Two: Part Two

Ashton Abigail Appleton was very pink, very popular and very particular. Unlike what you'd expect, Ashton Abigail Appleton didn't like apples, but in fact loved strawberries; which, even though both fruits are small and red with tiny little green stems, they are not at all related to each other whatsoever. But this is irrelevant. What is relevant is the fact that she loved strawberries and that this was mainly because they were sweet and tart just like her. Ashton Abigail Appleton wore strawberries everywhere: in her straight blonde hair, pink pierced ears and most certainly on the delicate lace two-two she always insisted on wearing, even that cold Friday afternoon.

David stared at her fluffy strawberry infested two-two with a look of stark, unconcealed curiosity. His recess tetherball game was momentarily forgotten as he tried to figure out what the material was. It looked too flimsy to play in and much too light to be warm. The crumpled tulle looked too stiff, too awkward and too ungainly to even sit on. David's eyebrows knotted. He pondered the girl stalking gracefully in his direction. He watched her stunned, inquisitive and a little, if he admitted it, apprehensive.

Ashton tiptoed across the basketball court with a large strawberry topped entourage and her strange little hoop skirt encircled about her waist. David swallowed as she approached. He scrutinized as she smiled, as her sleek black jacket shone brightly in the sun, in the brilliant amber light basking his strange, wonderful dream in whitened glory. When she reached him, she stilled. Ashton softly batted her eyes, looked David up and down then immediately tutted. "I see you've taken that spot again, little mouse."

David weakly grinned. He liked her. Her voice was like waterfalls. Its satin tenure seemed to chime when she spoke. It was like the bubbling of his stream at home. And the way her perfect little nose twitched, he liked that too, even as it tilted from him to the tetherball in his hands then over towards his friends. They mutely blinked back at her and didn't move. They were like startled sheep. He wanted to frown at that, but instead, he spoke. "What's wrong with where I'm standing?" he asked sheepishly. His smile turned meek, timid[KN1] and unsure.

"Oh, little Marissa, that," she pointed, "is a game for tomboys. Didn't you know? You want to be popular, don't you? To have everyone like you?"

For a moment, David paused. His anointing tugged at his mind. The dream did too, this world that seemed so foreign to his own. Figuring that this question was the dream's main purpose and that the girl its guiding angel, he answered bluntly and honestly. "Yes," David admitted, "of course I want people to like me. It would make me a good king."

Absently Ashton nodded, grace inclining her head. "Precisely! That's exactly how you become a good king. You are a girl, and I only tell you this, because I enjoy you." She eyed his friends with something akin to disgust, disgust thickly veiled by a painted, condescending sneer. "I want to enjoy your company, but for you to come spend time with me, you have to be popular and to be popular you have to be what everyone likes. For example, I am a ballerina. Everyone likes ballerinas, because they are slim and pretty and graceful and the like. Maybe, you should be a ballerina. Maybe, you could ask your mom to become one. And maybe, you could forsake your current social circle and those clothes you are wearing and most definitely stop playing that tetherball game. For a lack of a better term, that game is grotesquely beneath you."

Grasping his hand, Ashton tried to lead him away when one of David's newfound friends interrupted. He was short with black things he called glasses over his eyes. He said he wore them because his eyes were so horrible that he was nearly blind and that the thickened glass helped him see. He also had black hair that seemed to rise higher and higher and become more and more spikey the longer Ashton continued to speak. The boy's name was Samson, Samson Michaels.

Samson huffed as Ashton turned away. "Tetherball isn't for tomboys," he bellowed. "It's for everyone. And Marissa is our friend, not yours! You don't need to have anything or be anything to have people like you and she doesn't need to do anything or be anything to cause us to like her, either. We like her for who she is!"

David, who was tired of being called a girl, winced as the boy refused to budge, not even when Ashton turned back to glare at him. In spite her beauty, the glare was sharper than any sword he ever wielded and craggier than the mountain before whom his flock regularly grazed. That look said everything. It proved everything, that Samson had said the most precise most obtuse most erroneous thing to say EVER!

David swallowed and Ashton slowly retrieved her hand.

She stepped, no danced, no tiptoed (for she tiptoed everywhere) to confront the stubborn little boy standing up to her. Although he was extremely short, to David it seemed like he stood as tall as any grown man. In truth, he was practically a giant. Still, tactfully, David stepped between them.

At this, the ballerina stopped short. She glowered prettily. "Choosing sides, Marissa?"

David glowered back and stepped away, one step, two steps, three steps, four. He sighed tiredly. "My name is David," he said.

Immediately, Ashton laughed. Their friends rolled their eyes. Some even snickered into their shirtsleeves. "That's your name today, is it? You are so creative, little mouse." Her voice chimed, even through clenched teeth. They were small and white and pearly. Perfect in every way. He liked that. He still liked her.

Ashton saw the admiration in his eyes and pouted. "You've got to be a ballerina, little mouse. You're the perfect little actor, you know? You would be perfect to play the Mouse King this Christmas. What do you say?"

"She doesn't say! That's not her!" Samson yelled.

"How do you know?" Ashton crossed her arms and frowned, "You can't speak for her. Let Marissa speak for herself.

She looked to David. Samson did too, but David baulked. He sighed. He didn't tip toe, he didn't bellow, he didn't do any of that. Instead, he did precisely what he always did when he was confronted, confused and uncertain.

He prayed. David prayed quietly, silent and alone.

- Calla