"Is everything alright?" I looked up to see watery jade eyes stare upon me with a worrisome mien. The utensils in her right hand remained just below her lips. She'd stopped consuming her Yaki Udon to question my well-being, who was I to ignore her and leave her with lack or nutrition? Only then had I realized the attitude she'd been receiving ever since she found me in the lunchroom.
Buttercup waited patiently, a quiver upon her voluptuous red lips as she began the anxiety, began thinking I would ignore her further.
This whole day, I had been ignoring her. Of course not anything intentional, the rapid and frightening thoughts on my mind kept me from visiting her locker, made me drift by her in the halls without a glance and continue to lunch without informing her. She found me and sat on her own accord, a mere Hi muttered from her side of the table with no response, and the sound of a click and shuffling as she opened her container-sealed meal.
We were eating in total silence up until this point. The soft mush of the bento lunch box, as I dug my chopsticks in white rice and meat, was the only sign of my existence to her.
It made me sick, treating Buttercup in such way.
"I'm sorry, too much on my mind." She looked down at her lunch with a soft humming sound from her throat, my answer wasn't satisfactory enough. I continued to stare at her, unblinking as I chewed instinctively. Upon swallowing, I chose new words.
"I'm sorry," she fell into her mindless curiosity as usual, inquisitive of my repetition. "I haven't been feeling well, today."
"Is everything alright? What about the nurse's office, then?" I disagreed with a shake of the head, tearing my eyes apart from her glistening gaze to continue indulging myself with sustenance. The nurse didn't have enough equipment to cure me of this special illness. In fact, nothing less than therapy and a straitjacket would rid me of this mental disease. Everyone has the contagion. We are born with it, it being just a tiny little speck in the back of our underdeveloped minds. As we grow the illness mimics our every move, growing alongside us until we reach a certain age. Depending on the scenario, it begins shrinking and withering into nothing once more, and only then are we cured, cured of the disease called Memory. Although, not eternally, not indefinitely.
There will always be retentions that we can never forget.
"I don't think a nurse can do much for me…" I corrected her, and wiped away the sauce that dribbled its way onto my fingers. With pursed lips she entered a state of reflection, as if questioning her faith in the words I gave. I straightened out my weary backbones only to slump forward with my elbows resting on the table's edge once more.
We all have a good amount of skeletons in our closet, only a select few bear cemeteries; my percent of the equation, indubitably.
Alas, my mind is not an open book; it is a diary under lock and key. But of all the misfortune, my eyes always have a story to tell. I was never a good liar; a beneficial and tragic feature that constructs my being wholly. I did not wish to share with anyone my past. I tried my hardest to forget about it all.
But during the short time spent with Buttercup, I've been recollecting it all too clearly.
The last-period bell sounded sharply, alerting the people that it was time return to their households, or move on to whatever they had planned next. I fled from my seat with a normal haste as the students around me fluttered spastically, so desperate in their search for timber to initiate the construction of their ladders. I nearly felt sick, seeing how they immediately flocked to their clusters, disregarding anyone who didn't resemble them in a mirror.
As I start thinking about it, there are actually many young beings that resemble me, male and female. Most noticeably, Malachi Ishida, the boy from homeroom 6B. His blonde hair the same puffy style as mine, only a shade darker, his way of dressing in pea coats and dark jeans outside of school —same fashion sense—his shocking green eyes, build and height were the only thing keeping us apart in terms of looks, but it didn't stop people from occasionally asking about our genetic links. As a matter of fact, the first and final time he ever spoke to me was when he caught me at my locker, chuckling lightly and letting me know that people have been connecting us family wise. I just peered at him that day, not even a twitch in my lips as to indicate a smile. He took it as a hint when I stared wordlessly, and the awkward attempt at friendly conversation came to an end.
Another look-alike was Vélo Charlize-Troy, a foreigner attending the school after moving with her family from France. Her hair was also a bit darker than mine; she put in a clear effort to show as much skin as possible outside and inside of the school. Her hazel eyes were different, but we were actually not that far in height, weight and, dare I say, figure. She is tall for a woman of her age, standing mere inches below me without the aid of stilettos. She is the tallest girl of room 2C, the tallest girl of Sugita TH. I am regrettably small in terms of my shoulders and chest; I didn't go to the gym or pump myself full of steroids. I occasionally jog for fresh air, but after the incident of the early morn, I see myself avoiding that routine for a while. I am tiniest boy of room 2B, but the second tiniest boy of Sugita TH.
The smallest high school boy here was young Mike Believe of room 6B, a British foreigner attending the school. No one really knew much about him as he kept to himself, but he's known to mumble to himself quite often than normal. It's always been unsettling to me, but who am I to judge?
Shaking from my irrelevant views, I walked out of the classroom following a group of girls who were too loud compared to the distance they stood from each other. I could feel a scowl forming as they yelled excitedly into each other's faces about hitting the mall after school. With tongues like theirs anyone could follow their conversations, privacy perished in their arms.
I scoffed, annoyed with the high pitched squeals. Had they not seen or heard of a shopping center before? The feigned fun and excitement tore my ears apart; my cheeks began to burn red-hot as I wondered what made it so interesting.
What made shopping so interesting? What made picking out random items from a shelf, and blowing off your parents' hard-earned money on smoothies and other fattening junk so interesting? What made having friends, people to rely on, people to talk to, people to spend good time and make memories worth keeping so interesting?
I don't need it…Any of it.
Before I could begin a downwards spiral into self-pity, a voice from rang out from the crowd, so meek and soft that I almost didn't notice at first. Assuming it was Buttercup, I turned around welcomingly to make up for my isolated demeanor, looking around for the mouth that released the vibrations of my name. Seeing no one, I sighed, releasing along with the air an irritation that I foolishly let build up within me. I spun on my heel only halfway to the right before the voice called out again, louder, livelier. Stopping dead in my tracks, my breath hitched and my blood ran cold. I was unable to prevent my eyes from growing into abnormally large circles.
That was not Buttercup.
Excitedly jumping into my vision, the fair-haired man planted his feet in front of my being with a friendly wave and grin. "Hey," he started and I felt the muscles tense in my now dry throat. He stood for a second longer than the average person, his smile faltered for a split-second before growing even larger than before. Malachi should've known by now that silence awaits anyone who approaches me unexpectedly.
Or unwantedly.
Nonetheless, he continued, shifting his weight from one leg to the other with an arm behind his head, rubbing away at his butternut blonde tresses. "You know the cross-class projects that are assigned every year?" He spoke through my blank stare, still expectant of response. "Ya' wanna be my partner for it?" I almost gagged at his grammar and diction, but held my tongue. It had completely crossed my mind that the assignments were established on the bulletin board in the rotunda. I had failed to check as I spent recent mornings with Buttercup. But unbelievably, I was being asked by a stranger. Ironically a stranger I spent time thinking of just minutes prior. Well, Malachi was no stranger, being a well-known member of the school society.
Or in other words one of the highest rungs on the social ladder.
But why would I accept, after all that I've seen of him? I felt the anger boiling up in my face again. Irritable and shy, I opened my mouth to speak, no longer fond of him who stood before me. I wanted to think of the harshest of words possible. To bring up the past and remind him of how I could see through him. How I knew of all his secrets and flaws and how he's contributed negatively to the community, ruining someone's life most likely than not.
But I didn't.
Unable to take the eyes that would soon stare had I made a scene, I gave him an answer that wiped the beaming grin off of his face.
"I'll consider it."
With zero patience for a reply, I continued right on my heel, carrying on down the crowded hall.
_Names to Remember_
Boomer Johnsteihn (John-Steen)
Malachi Ishida (Maa-Lah-Kai Ee-She-duh)
Vélo Charlize-Troy (Vey-Low Shar-Leez)
*Sugita TH (Sugita Townsville High)
Mike Believe