Her eyes shot open, and she groggily rolled her head to the side. It was ten thousand o'clock. No, that wasn't right. She blinked once, and squinted. Ten o'clock. That also wasn't right. Or at least she hoped as she hurled herself out of bed with a curse. Her sheets had snaked around her ankle as she stumbled to the bathroom.
She caught her reflection in the dingy mirror before her. Her hair was a ruin of auburn on top of her head. There was heavy pink eyeliner smeared messily around her eyes. They themselves were bloodshot. I look like a battered wife, she thought bitterly. Alcohol sucks, she repeated. It had become her catch-phrase during a hangover.
The water beat down on her aching muscles, and she narrowly escaped falling over in complete bliss. It was already third period at school. She had missed math class for a third time. There was a slim chance she might have gotten away with it, but odds were she was in for another in-school suspension. Why did she always get sucked into a party on a school night? Although, she remembered, it had been worth it. Adam had asked her out. She had a boyfriend today.
"Ariana!" a voice from behind the door smashed her back into reality.
"What?!" she hollered back.
"What are you doing home?"
"I overslept." she muttered. She was met with a barrage of swearing and put-downs. Thankfully, the water drowned most of them out. She missed her mother. The ranting beast outside the bathroom door wasn't her. It was product of too many pills and too many bad feelings. She recalled the days, before her father died, when her mother was her best friend. There was nothing they didn't or wouldn't talk about. She was her mother's "kitten", as she used to call her. Ariana used to hate that. Now, there was nothing on earth she wouldn't give to hear her call her that one more time.
After slamming her bedroom door in her mother's face, she quickly slithered into a pair of faded blue jeans. She threw on a pink tee shirt that exposed her midriff, and slipped on a pair of matching sneakers. It was cold in New York today, and her hair was still wet. Hopefully she could put it up before it frizzed. Grabbing her bag, she made her escape out her window, when she noticed a strange looking object floating just outside her room. It's ruby center gleamed for a moment, as if to greet her, and she was engulfed in a wave of light.
*****************************************************
"That'll be all for today," the older gentleman hopped off his desk, and clapped his hands. "Be sure to read the next five chapters. Your thesis papers on pre-adolescent psychological disorders are due on Thursday, and don't be shocked if a test pops up on Friday. Good day." He bid them farewell, and the lecture hall quickly emptied, save for a few students who approached the professor with their questions.
The last student left made the professor hold his breath. She stood five foot seven, with icy blue eyes behind sophisticated glasses, and short strawberry blond hair. Her expression was blank, save for a faint flicker of polite respect.
"Hello, Professor Galington. I was just curious to know if it was necessary to site specific cases in our papers, and if so, is there a specific source you could recommend? Books, or perhaps a website?" she asked coolly. The professor scratched his silver beard absently, as he always did when he was nervous.
"Yes ... Ms.Paltrow, correct?" he said with surprising confidence.
"Morgan, please," she dismissed his confidence with a casual tuck of her hair behind her ear, and a look at him with those diamond eyes.
"Wha...what disorder are you writing about?" he stammered a bit. He prayed to seven different gods that she didn't notice.
"Obsessive Compulsive Disorder." She smirked.
"I recommend Doctor Thomas Firler. He's written a few books on childhood OCD. Causes and impact in adult life and such," he rambled. She didn't seem to notice, and she fervently jotted down the name in a tiny notebook that was suddenly in her hand. She bit her bottom lip, and Galington almost fell backwards. A single tendril of hair fell over her face, but she hardly noticed. She stared up at him, curiousity shining. Her mouth moved smoothly, like rosy liquid.
"Professor?"
"Hmm?" he snapped back into reality.
"I said how do you spell Firler?" she asked for the second time, apparently. A heart attack was his only wish at that moment as he embarrassedly answered. She tucked away the notepad into her bag, and shook his hand politely. Her hand was soft, but her grip was as strong and secure as her demeanor. She turned, and walked up the steps, out the rear door. He let out a grateful sigh, and rubbed his temples. This was the type of thing that happened to the younger teachers; the ones who barely out of graduate school. Not to fifteen year veterans with grandchildren. He rubbed his temples, and slumped into his chair. A pile of papers in front of him begged to be graded, and he obliged. It would help to take his mind off her for awhile.
He wouldn't have to worry anymore. All that was left of her presence was a small notebook, its scribbled pages fluttering in the wind.
*****************************************************
"Is Deja there, please?" A deep voice on the other end of the receiver asked politely.
"Yeah. Who this?" she answered hesitantly.
"Montell." Deja scrunched up her face.
"Who?"
"Montell. I met you at the club last Saturday," the boy declared, sounding almost offended that anyone could forget him.
"Oh yeah. What's up?" she relaxed a bit. She did remember him. He was cool; he was a little too confident in his game, but they had danced and talked, and hit it off nicely.
"Nothing, just chillin'. How you doin' tonight?"
"Chillin'. I just got my daughter to sleep, and I'm about to paint my toenails," she said, holding the phone under her chain while she put her tight braids into a quick ponytail.
"Oh yeah, you got a daughter. What's her name again?"
"Nikia Diamond," Deja said with a smile. It was impossible for her to talk about her one-year-old without an obvious tone of pride. Her baby was her life. She was only seventeen when she had her, but she had put the stereotypes of a young teenage mother within the first week. Her child was her first priority. Her mother and aunt took care of the little one when she needed to go to work, school, and occasionally when she just needed a break.
"So what you doin' tonight?" Montell asked, disappointed that the conversion wasn't going as well as it had the previous Saturday.
"Nothin', I'm staying in," she answered, getting bored. It was becoming quite clear that all this guy wanted was to get her out.
"Why? It's Friday night. How can you stay home on a Friday night?"
"Easily, man. There ain't nothin' to do," she said, the hint of annoyance creeping into her voice. She finished putting a piece of a cotton in the last space between the toes on her left foot.
"Aight, shit; why you getting stank?" Montell shot back.
"What?!" Deja almost screamed. "No, nigga, you do not call my house and then try to break fly with me. Peace," She hung up the phone without batting an eye. Cursing under her breath, she looked around her bed for the nail polish she had just set down. It frustrated her that she couldn't find someone real where she lived. Most of them had watched too much MTV, and thought they could get away with treating girls like trash because they had a piece of platinum around their neck. She found herself calling at least one boy every day on that, frequently having to be physically restrained because she had let her frustrations get the better of her. All she wanted was George, Nikia's father and the only man she had ever loved. They had separated a month ago, and even though he was still in her life, the distance between them was killing her.
The phone rang again. Deja cursed again, and picked it up.
"Hello?" she asked, not bothering to cover up her aggravation.
"What's up?" a cool voice whispered, setting her immediately at ease.
"Hey baby," Deja smiled. "I was just thinking about you."
"Yeah?" George's voice was deep and comforting. "I miss you too." When he said things like that, it made Deja want to invite him over, and ravage him in the way she was sure only she could. She smiled, and opened her mouth to reply, when the feeling that she was not alone overwhelmed her. At the foot of her bed, it watched her with it's one red eye. She began a cry for her mother, but she vanished before it could the older woman's ears.
George waited for a response at the other end of the line. It never came.
*****************************************************
".......MAMAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!" the girl screamed, the sound echoing throughout the world she now occupied. She was now sitting on emerald grass, her head still cocked slightly to the side, the slight space between her cheek and shoulder devoid of a telephone. She scrambled to her feet, terrified tears spilling down her brown cheeks. She spun around, and did so again, trying to make sense of what had transpired. Please let this be a dream, a coherent thought finally born in her mind. She surveyed this strange, new place; an endless meadow surrounding her. Nothing but grass and clear blue sky as far as the eye could see.
The girl called Deja looked up at the sky and screamed once more, out of pure confusion and fear. She began to walk in some direction, the grass wet and prickly on her bare feet. She cried some more, thoughts of her baby and her mother and George and everything she once knew blazing past her. Through blurry eyes, the sky and grass became one jumbled mass of liquid color, with a single hazy dot in the center. She gasped, wiping her eyes with her knuckle, and looked once again. A figure could be seen in the distance, walking slowly away from her.
"HEY!!" Deja screamed, her voice stinging from strain in her throat. The figure paused and turned. Then it began to run towards her. Deja ran as well, and the figure quickly became a brunette that looked to be about her age. When the two met each-other, they embraced desperately, sobbing with relief.
"Please tell me you know what's going on?" the white girl asked after they had both composed themselves somewhat.
"I don't know," Deja answered hopelessly, pulling away and staring back into the endless field. "I don't know."
"I was just about to step out of my room, when I saw this ..." the brunette cringed a bit before continuing. "...this thing...and then I was here. This can't be happening!" Deja saw that the girl was in worse shape than she was. In fact, she looked about two seconds away from losing it completely.
"Same thing happened to me," the dark skinned girl added softly. "Let's walk, alright? We'll find something." Deja gently pulled the girl's arm in the direction she had been walking. "What's your name?"
"Ariana," the brunette choked on her own name. Her walk was slow and feeble; she looked as though she was ready to collapse.
"I'm Deja." She seemed to be pulling the girl along now. "C'mon, you gotta walk." she chided softly. Ariana whimpered again, and her pace sped up a bit.
They walked towards nothing for what seemed like hours. Their conversation was sporadic at best; Deja would ask the brunette questions about herself when it seemed like she was near unconsciousness.
"So where you from?"
"New ... York..."
"Ah, big NY in the house! I know some people there ... I'm from Atlanta."
"Someone's over there!" Ariana spoke up suddenly as they trudged on. Deja looked up to see what appeared to be someone sitting on top of a knoll ahead of them. They walked as fast as they could, desperateness and fear slowing their legs. They reached a blonde who sat with her knees tucked against her, staring blankly into the void.
"Hey!" Deja yelled loudly to snap the girl out of whatever she was in. The blonde blinked once, and turned to the two girls. A small smile curled around her mouth.
"I was beginning to think you guys would never show," she said.
