Night and Day

The good thing about high school is that it's a big change from everything else and most of the people have no idea who you are. You have a chance to start something anew, grow up a little, test yourself. Nobody here knows I'm half-Indian and half-Asian, nobody knows that I have only one parent, and nobody knows that I can kick their asses in combat.

I like it this way. This way nobody can judge me like the others had done in elementary and middle school. I don't understand bullying—how can somebody possibly find pleasure in another's misery? Why can't we all just help each other? I guess it's too hard being nice, and it's "not cool" to be kind to everyone. This realization saddens me, but that's real life.

I've been in high school for half a year now, and I like it better than middle school. The classes seem a little mediocre and easy in my opinion, except for science and writing class, but I don't mind.

The day was almost over, and I stuffed my history textbook into my backpack as I hurried to my last period: art. Setting my bag down, I quickly set up my easel and placed my canvas gently upon it. Pretty soon the raucous seniors and juniors that shared my class quieted as they took up their brushes and swept paint across the white spaces of their canvas. That's what art does to people: it takes you away to that inner corner of your mind, to a place where there is only you and your own thoughts, your own world…the emotions are difficult to explain, but they're there.

Taking up my brush, I added a tiny, tiny tint of red to his eyes, so they seemed to glow a slight scarlet, but look natural at the same time. His crimson eyes would be my focal point since the rest of his body and the painting was black and gray. The man had been created based on a dream I'd had a few months ago, an odd, intriguing dream that my mind had refused to let go of. Usually dreams slip the human mind at the moment of consciousness, or it gradually fades from memory as time goes on. But not this one. He was attractive, pale skin, dark features, and his eyes and mouth had been so sad and gray that I'd woken up on the brink of tears. I didn't understand the dream, and it had come to me only once, two weeks before Ganryu's sudden visit.

Now that I think of it, the dream had come to me at the time of Jun Kazama's death. Uncanny…she's a total stranger. Was there any connection between her death and my dream? Or should I say…vision? The thought sent chills up my arms and back, and I quickly shook my head to focus again on my painting.

I made his hair dark, dark like a moonless night, and the shadows on his skin further brought out the scarlet in his irises. Sometimes, I wished that he were actually a real person somewhere in the world, so that I could destroy that sorrow from his eyes. My man looked haunted, sad, but there was something fierce in him too, feral, secretive, seductive and I jumped slightly when I looked at my painting again from afar: he seemed to be staring straight into my heart.

"Whoa. Sweet painting," a voice said in awe behind me.

Turning around in my seat, I gazed up at the person who'd complimented me. It was a girl, a very pretty one, and her brown eyes shined with mirth. So, one of those naturally happy people huh?

I gave her a quick once over: sleek light brown hair, pink flip flops, faded, short jean skirt, and a white T-shirt so tight I could see every detail on her bra. She had a perfect figure, smooth, tan skin, and I knew that she was one of those naturally beautiful people that all the other ordinary girls loved to hate.

A prep. Either that or a slut (God, I hate that word), what with all that promiscuous clothes she had on. How could she ever dress like that, perfect figure or not? Normally, I would have cringed when face to face with someone like this, but something about her was different. It was like all this revealing, preppy clothing was only a show.

I've always been insightful, and sometimes it gets uncanny and annoying. It's as if I can see right through people, read perfect strangers as if they were open textbooks in front of me, without ever saying a word to them. It's weird. Often I wish I were just some bland, ordinary girl that liked pop music and blue-eyed white boys with Doc Martens. (A/N: No offense to any girl who does) Life would be easier. It would be so much easier to blend in.

"Um, thanks. It's not all that," I finally replied.

The girl rolled her eyes. "Stop being modest. This is amazing. You should see mine; it sucks! Where'd you learn to paint like that?"

I just shrugged in response.

"Nobody taught me. I've been doing art since I was a kid."

"Wow. Well, you're good. I'm Christie by the way, Christie Monteiro."

She extended her hand and, setting down my brush, I shook it. I was impressed. Usually people are so freaking stuck up these days when it comes to greetings, but this random girl boldly introducing herself was definitely different.

"Julia Chang." And the smile she flashed me was so jubilant and bright that it was almost to the point of looking fake. Those artificial smiles that people give you to be polite, you know? But it wasn't the case here. This peculiar girl was real…to some extent, at least. Like I said, I can read people, and there was more to Christie than met the eye, more to her eye-boggling clothing and Herbal Essence hair.

And so began my friendship with Christie Monteiro.

We were an odd sight, a strange mix, because Chris and I were complete opposites. We were like night and day. Christie knew fashion, she knew how to flirt well with the guys, she was popular, boyfriends left and right, and she was attractive. She was confident, (sometimes too confident) and she flaunted her sexuality without fear.

Me? Well, let's just say with my glasses, dull silver and turquoise beads, and frayed sketchbook, I was more the art and science nerd in the corner. However, my being shy didn't lower myself to that of one of Christie's cronies. I was not her shadow.

Unlike most of her girlfriends, I was one of the rare people that Christie treated as her equal. Christie, with all her looks and charisma, could bend anyone to her will—but never me. As much as I valued her and our friendship, I'm independent by nature; nobody rules over me, not even my best friend, and Chris knows that.

We took our friendship seriously, and, seeing how I've never had a sister, I loved her fiercely like one.

It hadn't been until I'd met Christie that I realized how lonely I'd been in high school. I'd been so intent on my studies, so determined to get good grades that I'd unintentionally isolated myself from my peers. My friends from grade school drifted away from me, and I hadn't noticed or minded. When guys so much as stared at me too long I'd always glare at them until they looked away. Either that or blushed fiercely, half because of embarrassment and half because of flatter. No boyfriends for me, I guess.

Then, Christie had noticed, and she hadn't been pleased. She'd insisted that they'd liked me but were just too intimidated to approach.

Huh? A boy liked me, Plain Jane Julia? I'd just always thought that they'd only wanted a piece of ass, nothing more. Don't guys just think with their dicks? Besides, I have no time for guys.

"Come on, Jules, not all guys are sex-crazed assholes. There are good ones out there, hon," she'd said one day.

"Whatever," I'd snorted.

"Have faith, girl! You know Julia, you're one of those rare girls who don't realize just how beautiful they are," she'd said softly, sincerely.

"Now you're going lesbian on me? Why didn't you tell me earlier?"

"Shut up, you sicko."

We'd both been fifteen at the time, young, carefree, and happy. Christie was a great girl, a wonderful friend, but there were times when I worried for her. Although she was perfect in every other way, Christie failed horribly in academics. She skipped classes so many times that sometimes I'd be sick with worry, wondering if she was alright. Everyday she seemed to be with a new guy and her damn skirts kept getting shorter.

Once, while on my way to the bathroom, I'd caught Christie in a corner with some guy, his hand halfway down her shorts, their mouths locked.

"C-Christie?" I'd gasped, surprised yet not too shocked at the same time.

Her mouth separated momentarily from the boy's and she'd smiled sheepishly at me, tugging at her jean skirt.

"Oh, hey Jules."

Without another word, I had dragged her by the arm away from her little make out session and shoved her into the bathroom with me.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" I asked, cornering her in the small bathroom, which reeked of grime and cleaning solution.

"Nothing! Why are you making such a big deal out of this?" Christie protested.

"'Cause you're my friend, and this prancing about with boys isn't doing you any good. Look at your grades, Chris! You're barely passing every class, and I keep seeing you with different guys! Are you ok?" I exclaimed.

Christie's eyes narrowed in fury. "Look, you don't know anything, ok? I'm just having fun!"

"Fun? Your grades are failing, and those guys could hurt you! Don't you know that?"

My mother had not been promiscuous, but that hadn't prevented her from being hurt by a man…and I didn't want Christie to end up like Michelle: alone and sad no matter how many smiles she gave.

"Julia, just leave me alone."

"Never. You need help, Christie."

"Like hell I do. Get out of my way!"

She gave me a violent shove, but instead of losing my balance, I instead shoved her back. It was a reflex, but a fatal mistake.

Christie Monteiro had never told me that she could fight. Before I could comprehend what was happening, she was in a handstand, her legs in the air, and she swung them around in a fighting style I'd never seen before. Her legs swept across the ground and under my feet, and pretty soon I found myself flat on my butt. The air was knocked out of me, and my teeth clenched with the unexpected pain.

But I'm not slow. Recovering quickly with my hands tightened into fists, I attempted to stop her.

"Chris, what the hell are you doing! I don't want to fight you!" I pleaded.

"Will you leave me alone?" she snarled, her brown hair tousled and her body swaying. It looked like some style of dancing—ass-kicking dancing, that is.

"No."

"You asked for it."

Kicking off her high heels, Christie let loose a series of kicks, her whole body swaying like a cobra entranced by the charmer, and I blocked every blow. However, I couldn't keep defending all the time, and once I found an opening, I sent a lethal uppercut into my best friend's nose.

"Haiiii-ya!" I cried as I finished the uppercut.

Christie cried out, staggering back, a look of madness in her eyes.

"Why are you fighting me? We're friends! I just wanna help you!" I protested, tears forming behind my eyes. My bare knuckles ached from hurting her, but I bit back the pain. It was nothing compared to the sadness and disappointment I felt in my heart.

"Stop telling me what to do, Julia. I do what I please, and I don't need you!"

"You don't mean that, Chris."

"Yes I do. All you do is bitch about my grades and my behavior, and I'm sick of it! You aren't me! Live your life and I'll live mine!"

Then, the look of a crazed bull in her brown eyes, Christie rushed towards me. At the last moment, despair in my heart, I sidestepped, sending her reeling into nothingness. I kicked out my leg, striking her midsection with a quick snap kick. I then roved around, attacked her shins, and ended by sending a vicious elbow-palm strike combo into her stomach. Christie fell back, gasping for air, and collapsed in exhaustion across from me, her body spent, knowing she'd been defeated. That didn't erase the look of loathing and resentment on her face however. A thin line of blood trickled from the corner of her mouth, and her nose was bleeding slightly from my uppercut.

I slumped to the ground too, wiping the sweat from my skin. Then, quietly, I let the tears flow free.

I felt like I was six again, kicking that boy in the crotch during recess. That had been nothing, stupid, childish and unimportant. But now I had hurt my friend, one of the most important people in my life. Not many girls like me get to beat up their best friend. I got that special privilege, didn't I?

"It's beautiful."

Sliding the ring onto my middle finger I admired it from a distance. The ring was silver, and as the sunlight struck it, the metal gleamed and its brilliance made my eyes shut momentarily. Carefully pounded within the metal were designs of turquoise, little swirls and rectangles of blue. The jewel fixed in its center was of the deepest amber, and it was the perfect contrast to its silver and turquoise band.

Michelle had crafted this ring herself for my fifteenth birthday. I'd been fifteen for a couple months now, but the ring had taken longer than expected. It didn't matter. With this ring came all of my mother's love and care, and I embraced her yet again.

"Thank you, Ama," I murmured.

"You're welcome. I'm glad you like it," Michelle answered.

Sitting down on a chair, I watched as my mother fixed us sandwiches. She was so beautiful, my mother, so resilient and good. She loved me, and after all of these years, she had refused to let the aching for my father hinder that love for me. No matter how lonely she seemed, Michelle had managed to raise me by herself, and I admired her for it. I would never be her equal, never be as strong as she was, but that's ok. She's my mother after all.

Getting up from my seat, I took the bread from her hands. I was nearly as tall as she was.

"Sit and rest, Mother. I'll make the sandwiches," I said.

Michelle smiled, gave me a soft kiss on the cheek, and took the chair I'd abandoned.

"Another A on your test. Well, I'm not surprised. Good job, honey," she said softly as she looked at my grade report lying on the table.

"Yeah, it was hard, but studying paid off. Mom…thanks for everything."

Michelle looked up at me and smiled. "You're welcome, Julia. Sweetie, is everything alright? You seem awfully quiet and somber today."

Swallowing the tears, I told my mother about Christie and my fight.

"It's just that, she's like a sister to me and I was only trying to protect her, but—no matter what I do to try and help, things always go the wrong way! I can't help caring, Mom. I can't bring myself to just turn away and let her ruin her life!"

Then I was in my mother's embrace, I was six again, and I finally allowed myself release.

Michelle

"Hush, my little bird, it's alright," I soothed as Julia sobbed into my shoulder, "friends get into fights all the time."

"Not like this one, Mom! I drew blood, I drew blood…"

"Sh, sh, it's ok. You were only defending yourself, and you did what you had to. Stop taking the blame."

"I o-only w-wanted to help h-her…"

"I know, Jules. But sometimes you have to let people learn for themselves. Sometimes, no matter how painful it is to watch, we have to let them be and live their own way. I'm glad that you tried to help Christie, but for now all you can do is move on, ok?"

The last of her sobs dissipating, my daughter nodded reluctantly.

"You may have lost a friend, love, but don't ever be afraid to be alone. Sometimes we grow stronger when we're by ourselves…"

And when I said those words, I thought of Han. As Julia's eyes met mine, it was as if my daughter saw straight into me and knew every thought I had.

"Yes. You're right," she murmured.

She is no longer the little child I once held in my arms, playing in the river and making castles from the red dirt of the canyons. Julia will always be my baby girl in my eyes, but now, as the years go by, she changes into a woman.

Intelligent, beautiful, and with a pure heart, Julia is beginning to understand. I love watching her grow, I love her smiles and all those A's she brings home, and I love her happiness and the way she always manages to brighten my life.

But sooner or later, my Julia will have to experience pain all over again, pain much greater than the pain she felt from the fight with her friend.

When she does face it someday, I must be by her side. I must be there to wipe her tears dry, because if I am not, then Julia is lost. Strong as she is, Julia will be lost.

Julia

Christie came to school the next day with bruises on her perfect skin. I didn't see them, nobody did, but unlike everyone else, I knew they were there because of the baggy sweatshirt she wore to school. Christie Monteiro never wears sweatshirts. Also, it was nearly 95 degrees outside, so she was a pretty peculiar sight. Everyone stared and laughed except me.

In art class, I refused to look at her. She kept trying to catch my eye but I pretended as if I didn't notice and continued to paint away at the man from my dream. With each stroke of my brush he looked more and more real…and then my mind began convincing me that yes, he was real. But that's insane.

When art class was over, Christie seized me by the arm before I could make my escape.

"Julia," she said as she pulled me to the back of the room.

"I have to catch my bus—" I began to protest, but the look of pain in her eyes made me stay.

"Jules, I'm sorry for what happened."

In addition to no sweatshirts, Christie Monteiro also never apologizes.

"What?" I asked, shocked.

"I'm-I'm sorry, Julia. I was being stupid and I shouldn't have fought with you. And…"

I waited patiently as Christie looked away.

"And I've joined the after school tutoring classes on Wednesdays and Thursdays…I'm working on my grades," she finally uttered.

I didn't need to hear anything more. Setting down my backpack, I threw my arms around her. We were friends again. We'd be friends for several, several years, but we'd only be together for another two and a half.

When we were seventeen, juniors and almost out of high school, Christie told me her grandfather in Brazil was sick, "really sick," and that she had to leave with her parents to go see him. She was moving back to Brazil, leaving me here in Arizona, all alone all over again. No doubt I was sad and worried (more for Christie's wellbeing than her ill grandfather's) but she had to go. Things were changing for us. We weren't children anymore.

I'd find out later that my best friend, no matter how many tutoring classes she took, never went to college. She graduated from high school with okay grades, but she never did go to college. And for a long time I grieved for her, because if Christie really tried, she could do anything. She wasn't stupid; she was just ignorant and apathetic, and that's too bad. A mind wasted.

But it's not my life. I just hope that whatever Christie does, she's happy with herself.

She wanted to keep training in her martial arts in Brazil (Capoeira, she told me), so she could beat me one day. She said it with that smile of hers, except now it was kind of sad. Christie left in the middle of junior year without a word of good-bye, because, in both of our hearts, we knew we didn't have to say good-bye. One day we'd see each other again.

It was three days after my best friend left that things truly began to go awry. I kept seeing that man from my painting in my dreams. It was so vivid I expected him to be by my bedside when I woke up but all that ever met me was shadows and the whispers of the fading dream.

Mother started acting funny too. She was paranoid all the time; she never left my side, never allowed to me go outside exploring on my own like I used to as a child. I noticed the books stacking up in her room, books on myths and legends—book-marked on pages of the mysterious God of Fighting. What was she up to anyway?

And pictures, pictures of an old Japanese man I'd never seen before with hard, steel-cold eyes and a gray mustache. Pictures of a pretty Japanese woman (Jun?) and numerous article clippings on that forest fire Ganryu had told us about three years ago.

At the time, I was only worried for my mother and her sanity. Later I would realize that I should have also been worrying for myself.

Chapters 4 and 5 are already written (yeah, I was on a writing spree, what can I say) and will be here soon, so don't stop reading! Things DO get interesting. Go Julia! Yeah, so, you know what to do next: click the review button. DO IT. It will make me happy.