Noah then entered a period of boredom so profound, for the next year or so he argued about everything and anything. If someone said something the slightest bit incorrect, he jumped at the chance, then felt like beating himself over the head for sounding so much like Nathan. He'd read nearly every textbook (which, let's face it, are rather dry) in his school system and a couple from collage, went so far as to hack into the computers to find out future assignments, if only for something to do. When he found that his science/math teacher didn't keep his curriculum on the computer, this intrigued him. It was something he didn't know. And he had a way to find out.

He could pick locks after all.

It was despairingly simple and, after the intense planning he had done, disappointing. A pair of bent wires (in a past life they had been a bobby pin left lying around by Myra, and a pen's little metal clip), a flashlight, an old digital camera, and a good excuse to be around after school. He'd even mapped out several good hiding places in the room and hallway, but it wasn't necessary.

Noah still tried to savor the assignments themselves, but the simplicity left a bad taste in his mouth. His temper got worse than ever, and, with it, his dry sarcasm. The eleven-year-old had for so long been disillusioned from school system's allure (while he had believed in kindergarten—back in the good old days, when the charmed teacher would set aside a little extra time for him and give him books a little harder and a little harder until his entire brain was buzzing—that belief had bowed down to the seething frustration and learned cynicism) that he talked back to teachers, aides, even the principal was not exempt from his sharp tongue. It calmed down a little when eighth grade came along, with new assignments, but it never stopped.

He got a reputation for it. Noah wasn't quite the shortest anymore, neither was he pimply, his eyes weren't set too wide (nor was anything else obviously wrong with his face), and he wasn't what anybody in his grade would call 'fat' or 'string-bean'. The apathy brought on by sheer frustration was mistaken for bravery, earning him high-fives and 'knucks' from the guys. He accepted these gestures with a sort of bemusement, allowing them their petty games. Once again, this was mistaken for the characteristic called 'suave'. The dark-skinned, dark-haired, dark-eyed boy was a little less nerdy now, kind-of-almost -halfway …cool. Girls started whispering about how he looked cute—for once, it was because he was different, as there weren't that many Indians who lived around there, none of him in his grade or the next or the next, and apparently this made him some sort of 'exotic'.

That was the year he really decided girls would never be understood, no matter how many hours of the day he was stuck with them, school or home.

Frankly, the preteen didn't care too much. He saw his sudden popularity like a plant, in need of the occasional bit of watering, yet he wouldn't be particularly heartbroken if it were to up and die on him. He paid a half-moment's attention to what he put on in the morning, let his hair grow out a little shaggier, and switched the 'charm' of his medical alert bracelet onto a little-looser-than-choker leather string, usually hidden behind his shirt collar. It was easy enough to avoid strawberries, penicillin, and buckwheat at school, and his home was purposely free of all three, the running family joke that 'it's the only reason they notice him, by the absence of strawberry jam'. Other than that, he did as he pleased.

This kind of school life suited him well and, sad to say, inflated his ego. Whose head wouldn't inflate? Classmates and teachers alike in slight awe of him (because now, he wasn't dismissed as just the bookworm, he was acknowledged as the cool smart guy), his parents letting him do his own thing.

Rose has had a job as a store clerk ever since Samuel moved out. Like her youngest, sitting around doing nothing drove the veteran chaos-controller insane. She needed to be busy, in the same way many people find retirement so boring they pick up stupid hobbies. Her money contributed to the various collage funds and their little 'nest egg'. She was happy with a hectic life, not having time to discuss with her husband, which was more than talking about so-and-so's grades, or what he/she was asking for now.

While neither really avoided conflict, if they started talking vicious French/Cherokee at (for it was most defiantly not to) each other, there wasn't a whole lot of communication going on. Noah, in his ever encompassing efforts to occupy his mind (and every kid's dream of getting one over on his parents), knew a working amount of each; from just plain learning--like a child would learn to speak from its parents naturally--and the interest in just what his parents wanted to say, but didn't. He'd listen to entire foul monologues, poking at a bit of mashed potato while his siblings would chatter on to each other about whatever topic came up. After saying grace, of course.

Charlie's favorite insult seemed to be comparing his wife to various animals, sometimes a scatter-brained bird or an ornery goat/mule. She, on the other hand, seemed much more imaginative on ways to viciously torture her husband with a chosen set of implements (kitchen knives, beauty products, lawnmowers) as she glared at her plate and stabbed whatever needed stabbing and some things that didn't.

But that was the beauty of knowing a language the other didn't, they could scream insults as vulgar as they wanted from the rooftops, and he/she will never know.

Unless someone decides to translate for them. Noah's considered with every passing contempt-filled moment to tell them he can understand what they're both saying, then launching into how his mom planned out his dad would die, complete with details that would make the old Indian really look at his wife with wide-eyes (so alien an image he almost couldn't picture it) and emotion Noah couldn't quite predict. Some days, he was so sure it would be shock, or anger, but once or twice he might have seen hurt when he imagined these scenarios. After informing his dad of his eventual doom, he'd turn and spit out all the names Charlie called her and watch as her fury coiled tighter and tighter.

They'd be angry at him too, no doubt. That was their one 'safe place', their native tongue. His parents hadn't purposely taught any of them (Rose told them a few useful phrases, "I don't speak French" among them). There were their middle names, because while they got perfectly biblical first names the same could not be said of words that translated into things like 'little singing bird' or 'snarling wolverine'. See, their parents were all about the compromise. Charlie, whose real name was Akaluga-yona (ah-kaw-lew-gah yoh-nuh), understood very well you don't get through modern life with an Indian name. You had to be quietly proud about it, like how he still wore his hair long enough to tie back in a ponytail. And how all his kids' middle names were of his choice.

Samuel supposedly insisted from age five to eight to be called his Cherokee name, Ayasstege-ahssgaya (ah-yaw-sss-tee-gee ah-sss-gah-yaw), or the warrior man. Dad would crack a smile and lament ever giving him such a prestigious name, and Samuel would even blush a little, barely visible on his dark cheeks. Noah was 'Ahsagee-saquuee' (ah-say-gee saw-kwoo-ee), or in English, strange one. Apparently, when he was first born he had a full head of black hair (it had since faded to a dark brown) that 'stuck up so funny, and the way you just kind of blinked at us…' (As put by Gabe) '…your name was kind of obvious to everybody, even Mom agreed with it. Then you started this habit of sucking on your toes…' No more need be said when Charlie 'Watching Bear' Wilson began to chuckle, an odd rare sound made deep in the throat.

But beyond middle names and the odd phrase, he was on his own. French and Cherokee are vastly different languages; one was easy enough to learn from various library books and listening to the French-speaking population.

The other remained elusive.

There was the odd song moaned under Dad's breath, or a decent site, with audio and everything. But Noah didn't enjoy learning this like he did mathematics, reading, computer code, or even gaming. Language was just memorization to him, in anything other than English, anyways. He knew sufficient French to patch together haphazard conversations with half-way decent grammar (above the fresh Mexican immigrant level, anyways), enough Cherokee for most nouns, pronouns, and verbs to be recognized (sadly just barely above said standard, maybe at the two year mark) and, if he were ever in dire need, get an idea across.

And to eavesdrop.

Logic won over anger in the end. For such a scientific mind as his, he didn't want to be in the vicinity if two secret worlds were to explode simultaneously. Something to be added to the 'after I graduate and can move out of the warzone' list.

For now, though, he occupied as much of his time as he could with eighth-grade homework, hacking the odd person (it was amusing beyond belief when the school prick gets suspended for looking at porn with a school computer), and the new books he'd gotten for his birthday. Technically they were old, but he'd even read the mushiest collection of poetry that had ever been forced upon paper (a mildly-sadistic present from Tina, who knew he wouldn't be able to ignore them or throw them away) or the driest of medical textbooks.

As it was his thirteenth birthday, Samuel saw it was his role to present him with the Playboy 'magazines'. He'd flipped through one for curiosity's sake, wrinkled his nose, closed the beyond dubious scrap of trash, and shuddered. He did not need to see that. Before shattering his brain, he'd merely been planning to toss them in some ditch. Noah had to find a way to destroy them now. So he came up with something to do on a Saturday, rode his bike into town to buy a nice big can of lighter fluid and a box of matches (the clerk looked at him weird), then a half-hour ride into the woods.

Before, the brunette could never understand how someone could be entranced by something as destructive as fire, but… On that day, a pyromaniac was born. He spent the entire day until sunset building the fire bigger and hotter, well aware at this point he might start a wildfire. It was an interesting day, and he ended it with the ceremonial burial of the empty can, in the ashes of the bonfire. Sometimes, even he liked pure nonsense.

Noah promised himself to do it more often.

x~o~x

Hi guys. Hope it doesn't suck. Tell me if it does. Seriously, please. I love your nice reviews, they make me feel like I'm not making a fool of myself. I'm really not sure about this chapter.