II. The Alluring Nature Of Pan

"You're high, aren't you?" I muttered exasperatedly, eyes fluttering briefly in exhaust.

The observation was sure, and I couldn't fathom how anyone could go about their day, through and through, in such a withered state of mind and body… reason. Not even the secure comfort of the warm kitchen was capable of controlling the bitterness lacing through my chilled blood. Slumped against the counter, Collin, my brother, rummaged through the silverware cabinet, once blue orbs glazed over with a lifeless cloud.

"I'm just hyper," he responded, the same slow drawl of his voice not shocking me. "I mean, you know how I…" He paused, seemingly searching for the precise word already lost in the jumble of thoughts. "I get hyper just from anything—anything I can swallow." For further proof, he rubbed his stomach in a circular motion: having previously eaten two large bags of Doritos.

I smirked deviously. "Oh, I'm sure you've swallowed many things."

His lips twitched as he resisted the urge to snort out laughter. "I'm totally fine, dude, so quit… um…"

Ridiculous.

"Worrying?" I raised my eyebrows, supplying a word.

He nodded once, grasped a spoon in his hand, and ambled out of the kitchen, shoulders slouched; blonde tresses disheveled and hanging all around his face, somewhat curly. I couldn't believe how much he resembled the stereotypical version of a surfer: bleached blonde hair with a tinge of brown flakes (also rather long tendrils of hair); slow, unprogressive speech; a vocabulary consisting of words such as "dude", "totally", and "awesome".

"Serena, can you get me some more food?"

He just loves his munchies.

Collin's loud, pathetic voice rang all the way from his bedroom on the second-floor. I scoffed, not in the mood to play maid, as I usually did for the two men in the household who couldn't even wipe their own asses without needing an aid—my father and Collin, of course. I suppose the real blame should be placed on my mother for abandoning us and causing dad and Collin to spiral into complete messes, wilting away as the days flew by.

Richard, my father, spent most hours in his office, sulking over his whorish wife who left for some artist or something—some guy from France, I mean, and I couldn't blame her for falling for his charm. The slut. Then again, dad wasn't exactly the most handsome man you've ever laid eyes on, even I could tell. Oh, and then there's Collin's situation through this who tangle of soap opera-ish drama.

Collin, like many curious teenagers driven solely by pure anguish and "peer pressure" (another term for teenage manipulation and stupidity), became enamored with the world of drugs and beer—sometimes manage to smuggle alcohol into the campus of their old school. He made a load of money selling weed; money our father thought was received from "lawn mowing".

Well, if you look at it closely…

"How was school?" a low voice drawled. I shifted around from my spot on the chair, already knowing the person to be my father: hair slicked back, eyes aging and empty. He paused by the archway, smiling kindly at me, before vanishing again, returning to the loneliness of his office, not caring for an answer. Already, his tie had been loosened; wrinkles forming on his black suit. Just an image of disaster, I'd say.

School, hm?

The students there constantly stared at me with disdain, their rejection evident, and although I'd grown accustom to the idea that high school would suck your soul right from your body and tear it to shreds, I couldn't stop my self-esteem from plummeting. Collin was already making great strides into friendship. You know what they say: "Drugs make the world go 'round."

Or is that what Collin says (well, other than "no fear")?

Anyway, I've only met a few interesting people: Morgan Page, a rather odd girl without a stop button on her mouth. I applauded her bold greeting and genuine smile, especially because she seemed to fit the role of "bitchy Miss Popular" (she was the complete opposite: on the bitchy part, at least). Even her thoughts mirrored her enthusiasm and tender attitude, although hearing her lustful thoughts over my brother wasn't something needed to hear.

I worked up the nerve to speak to other students as well, usually earning many different responses:

"Go bother someone else with your pretty little smile, okay Goth?" In my own response from Jimena Castillo's kind words, I wisely sauntered the other way, leaving the gang-banger to her private smoking time in the girl's restroom. Honestly, I actually attempted to greet her because of her thoughts, riddled with unexpected wisdom and intelligence: one of the few in this slum of a school.

"Oh, my gosh! I just have to tell you everything: the gossip, the scandal—"

Okay, did this crazed-girl just use the word scandal? Isn't this high school?

Well, there weren't many replies. Most people gave me this weird "why the hell are you speaking to me?" look. Quite frankly, I had expected a much kinder greeting from the population of Hollywood. In Long Beach, everyone was nice, all smiles, all Paris Hilton-tanned bodies (not the Oompa Loompa-orange version either). Perhaps all the ear-shattering music from the various clubs caused an unnecessary amount of hostility. Maybe evil spirits hidden within the musicians—especially from Planet Bang—were controlling the La Brea High student body through guitars and drums?

Hey, I have rights to opinions, even if they're just a load of crackpot.

"You going to the party on Saturday?"

Collin leaned against the doorframe, pupils dilated (I noted how he seemed to rub his hands all along his chest: ew). I nodded, knowing of Morgan Page's party. Although the invitation wasn't appealing, I accepted, primarily in order to gain more friends and because it seemed difficult to deny something from someone so heavenly—in kindness, I mean! Not many seemed to like Morgan: I found the majority of reasons were envy (girls, at least), everyone's thoughts sourly devoted to despising the girl that possessed everything they wanted: wealth, looks, personality.

Morgan was too pretty, too gleeful, too rich.

Everyone's a critic.

OOO

The chilled breeze whistled by, a feathery feel that ruffled the hem of my pea coat; hands buried in the deep pockets. The street wasn't overly crowded—mainly for being away from the popular streets such as Hollywood Boulevard. Indeed, it was a quiet, leveled street littered with small, somewhat useless buildings and shops: Mr. Lothario's Magic Shop? Now that's a pedophile or drug-dealer in disguise.

My scarf fluttered about, momentarily blinding me. Agitatedly, I swiped at it, promptly ramming shoulders with someone. "Sorry," I muttered, continuing on, however, halting, body tense. An odd sensation nestled in my brain, as though something sharp was poking at it. Reduced to a headache, I turned around, eyes wary… slowly widening in astonishment.

A teenage boy, probably around seventeen, stood several feet away, now leaning against a bench. Once meeting my eyes, he swiveled around and trudged off, visibly rigid; not before I caught the darkness of his eyes. It was astounding—his handsomeness, I mean: messy black tresses, tanned flesh, dark attire. All of it screamed emo, a term I once loathed but could easily connect with him.

Had he been in my mind…?

No… stupid idea.

Right?

Uh, I need an Advil.

"Hello, darling," someone greeted silkily, a husky voice that stunned me. Eyes traveling upward, I was greeted with the peculiar sight of a boy and girl (two others boys and another girl lingering behind, piercing eyes trained on me). Cringing, I continued onward, especially from the first two I saw: stunning blondes, the boy—blonde hair darkening to brown under the shade of the building—just as handsome as the dark-haired boy just seconds ago.

"Why are you running, Goddess," the one who had first spoken—the blonde girl possessing the voluptuous figure—questioned mockingly. Goddess? Did that hold any intelligent meaning or were they just high as a kite. The girl smirked, turning briefly to gaze at the blonde boy, as if exchanging some hidden information through messages encrypted in their eyes, both startling blue.

"You don't know, do you?"

I halted, staring quizzically at her.

"She's oblivious to her identity, Stanton," the girl snorted, "how about we inform her?"

I don't like how she said inform—as if it wasn't going to be in a kind manner.

Stanton spoke up, voice… drained; emotionless; blank. His eyes were heavily-lidded, lips strewn into a tight line—no cunning smirk, crooked smile, or taunting words: certainly not what the other four were like. "That's not our job, Yvonne."

"Like she would believe us," a maroon-haired girl scoffed, glaring venomously at Yvonne, her equally blue eyes glassy with malice. Stanton remained unfazed. Yvonne scowled; her back turning to me as to hiss at the maroon-haired girl. The two other boys watched on excitedly, as if expecting a cat fight to erupt. It seemed that way. Anyway, at least all focus was away from me.

Chewing on my bottom lip, I ambled hurriedly away, ignoring the stare of Stanton; his eyes continuing to be that same cloud of detached azure. Once turning the corner, I found it a relief that none of them followed my trail. I imagined the maroon-haired girl pummeling Yvonne, fists flying and strands of hair shredded and scattered across the ground.

What a sight that would have been.

But the boy from earlier lingered in my head, especially his glossy black strands of hair (Yeah, I had a love of hair). It seemed insane, absurd, yet possible that he had been fishing around in my mind using telepathy. If I could acquire such a power, than who's to say others couldn't, too? From the young age of five I remember slipping in and out of minds, snooping through thoughts and memories (accidentally hitting a certain memory in my father's mind consisting of a bed… sheets…slut-mother… them playing a "game").

I think we all know how that ends.

Telepathy is freaky.

OOO

"There's a transfer student," the crazy girl pressed, leaning against her desk to gaze at me with dramatically widened eyes. I plastered a faux smile on my face, a mockery of optimism, before turning back to stare at the chalkboard. How poor was this school? "He's like, totally from France. How fucking sweet is that, right? I had him in my first period class, too!"—unnecessary squeal—"I can't wait for him to come, because he's in this class, too, I asked him!" Her eyes traveled to the door, a thin tinge of disappointment coating the hazel-coloring. "He's probably late—"

At that precise moment, the door whizzed open. All bustle and chatter hushed. The oblivious teacher, who had been scrawling her pen across some paper, not bothering to begin class, snapped her head up, fierceness evident in her grey eyes. This coldness vanished under a thick layer of shock at the newcomer. Pushing her reading glass up, for they had slid down her tiny nose, she leapt from her spot on the chair and hurried over to him.

I, however, was too busy trying not to lose conscious. The boy situated in front of the class was—of course—the dark-haired one. He sported the same black clothing: button-up coat, slim black jeans, and sleek black shoes. A thin dark coating covering his jaw, hinting to the makings of a beard, and his hair remained the same disheveled mess as before.

"There he is," the girl—I think her name was Melanie—squeaked, clasping her hands together. "His name is Zahi Girard."

I wouldn't be surprised if she began stalking him.

"There's only one empty seat," Melanie yelled to the teacher, who was attempting to find a proper seat for him. I looked away, cheeks burning, when his gaze zeroed in one me; his perfect lips carving into a half-smile. "Come on over here!"

Zahi, following the teacher's pointed finger, sauntered down the isle, all eyes trained solely on him. I blushed crimson when he sat down, books scattering across the table. He sat diagonal of me, but behind. All in all, I could feel his eyes burning holes into my back. Would I have to suffer under this for the rest of the school year? Melanie didn't seem to mind (why would she?), for she whipped around and instantly began asking random questions.

His father was French, yet his mother was Arabian—an odd pair, according to his grandparents, who scorned his mother for such a bold choice of love. I breathed evenly, not comprehending the flurry of butterflies in my stomach. Zahi's accent remained melodious the entire time. Others, mostly girls, strained to hear it, also; eyes lost in daydreams of marrying him. French: grace and charm, artistic ability, lukewarm and dark eyes.

What a treat!

"You moved here from France?" Melanie pestered, asking the same question again.

He smirked at her.

"Yes."

I observed the various silvery rings on his slender fingers—one peculiar, with the small shape of a reddish-orange bird, tips of its spread wings completely sheathed in black. Something deep within me, an extra sense, rumbled to life. The superficial fear slithered through me, stance and mind alert. Zahi noticed me staring, and the smirk widened into something akin to mischief.

"It's a ring given to me by a friend."

The lie was evident, yet brought another heap of excitement to tumble down on Melanie. She exclaimed, "Wow, cool ring!" Without warning, she gripped his hand and thrust it to her, examining it from every angle. The once patience in his eyes exploded; slowly easing his hand away from her. I rolled my eyes and continued to stare at the chalkboard.

Come on teacher, start the lesson.

"I can't believe you came from France."

'Shocker,' I thought bitingly.

Zahi sent me an amused, mysterious smile. Okay, something was definitely strange about this unbelievably hot guy. Cringing away from his eyes, I continued staring forward, attempting to ignore him.

"Do you, like, play the guitar or something?"

"The piano."

"Oh…" The disappointment rang in her voice. She was probably hoping for something such as the drums or the guitar—or perhaps for him to belong to some band, as Michael Saratoga did, and sing vocals with a "haunting voice" (the description given to me about Michael's singing talents). I, personally, played the cello, fitting perfectly with my stereotype.

Because, you know, all freaky girls covered in make-up, black clothing, fishnets, band patches and such must have to play some hauntingly beautiful instrument like the cello or the violin. I tried the violin… I sucked, oddly, despite the similarities. How weird is that?

"Do you play any instrument…?" Zahi's question was obviously directed toward me.

"The cello."

Don't look at him, don't look at him…

"Aw, it suits you," Zahi continued. "It's a beautiful sound."

Several girls, including Melanie, scoffed.

"Thank… you?"

I continued staring forward—always forward.

"Well, I… played… the… piano, too?" Melanie cut in.

"Really?" His tone was a mockery of curious surprise.

I could hear the smile in Melanie's voice. "Yeah!"

Idiot.