Look! I published a fourth chapter. I deserve applause (or something).
The reason it took so long was because I wanted to publish it with chapter five. But life got in the way. I've tried to write more description, but I think you'd better specify what type of description. Or since I've set this in my house and school, I could just take pictures or something.
If I do not update between now and Christmas consider this your present.
But here you go, chunkies!
Speech Class is cancelled.
I stare up at the whiteboard in Grand's classroom where Grand is writing something. I can hear the green marker squeak as he moves it across the board. I hope he's just writing notes and not something more sinister. He finishes up with whatever it is and walks over to sit at his desk.
The writing on the board isn't notes, I realize slowly. It's a list of people who haven't presented yet. My name's at the top. I blink and look again, hoping that it's a trick of the light or something. The words EDWARD ELRIC don't vanish. The pale green death sentence remains intact.
That can't be right, I think frantically. I've already gone. I went yesterday. I blew it yesterday and Grand doesn't believe in second chances. I glance around the room, looking for some sort of support. There's nothing. No one's even protesting how unfair my second chance is.
I look over at Grand's desk. He's glaring at me and motioning for me to start. This can't be happening, I think, and frantically glance over at Ling's desk. He's there, but he pretends he doesn't see me.
Oh, come on Ling, I think at him. It was just a joke. I was just playing around. I didn't mean to hurt you.
I walk up to the front of the class. They all look at me, interested; interested like people are interested in animals at the zoo, not like they actually want to hear what I say. A lump forms in the back of my throat. I swallow, but it doesn't help.
I stare back at them. I'm not a circus act! I want to scream at them. But it wouldn't do any good. They'd just laugh harder.
"A crime against—"
"Start from where you left off, Elllric," Grand drawls with a demonic smirk, purposely drawing out the 'l' sound. I gulp. It's not a second chance after all. It's merely a clever way of prolonging my torment. The lump in my throat suddenly feels like a rock.
"The excuse—"
"The exact point, which is, I believe, 'superiors'."
I cringe and shrink into myself. I hate this. He's never gone this far before. It's like he's punishing me for trying to escape his class. It's not my fault! I want to scream. I can't help it! I don't try to do this!
"Sss-sssu-ssss-ss—"
The word catches in my throat and I block. It feels like there's some in my throat that's keeping the word locked inside. My chest heaves as I try to force the word out. It's useless. I can't even breathe. My jaw keeps moving, and my tongue feels like lead. I feel nauseous and want to vomit the word up, but I can't. I curl my shoulders as my stomach tries to come up through my gaping mouth.
I can't get anything out. Not even a whisper. The world feels distant. My heart beats wildly and it's the only thing I hear. Hot tears are streaming down my face and I feel like I'm drowning.
I take a gasping breath and everything snaps into focus. The sounds rush back it, like the ocean after an earthquake. Everyone laughing at me and Grand looks pleased. He's certainly not stopping them.
I choke.
I fight for air as tears run down my face, distorting the scene of everyone laughing at me.
Blackness begins to appear at the edges of my vision.
I don't care.
I wait to pass out, or faint, or die.
I welcome the dark.
The noise of the classroom fades away and I'm somewhere quiet, soft, and cool. I open my eyes (though I don't remember closing them) and see pale arms wrapped around me. Everything else is green.
A quiet humming fills the air and I feel the vibrations in the chest of whoever's holding me. I smile and close my eyes again. The person rests their head on my shoulder and I feel their breath on my neck. A shiver runs through my whole body and I arch my neck into the sensation.
The person chuckles and nuzzles my neck. I melt. Heat runs through my body to pool below my stomach. I mewl and the pale person smiles against my neck.
"You're perfect," a light tenor voice whispers in my ear. I'm not sure if it's male or female or even if it matters. The sound is achingly beautiful, like the frost left on windows in winter. I stop breathing, I don't want to destroy it. No one's ever told me that before.
"Breathe, dear one," the voice whispers again and now I'm sure it's male. How can it be anything else? And then it—he kisses my neck and lightly bites it. White sparks explode behind my eyes and I'm sure I cry out. And now he's licking and kissing his way down, across my jaw bone. Everything he's doing feels delicious and I arch up, exposing my throat to him and his masterful mouth.
His only reaction to my blatant invitation is to hold me tighter. Other than that he seems content to nibble and lick one side of my neck only. I sigh in frustration.
He pulls back suddenly and I turn my head to face him, eyes opening along the way. I stare at him. He's pale, with dark eyes and hair. He looks so familiar it hurts. I can practically feel my mind racing to match a name to his beautiful face. The answer is within inches when—
"ED WAKE UP!"
The dreams fades, the features of his face blur, I forget the color of his eyes—wait, did I ever know it? They were dark, or was that just the shadows? God, he was beautiful though.
"ED, IT'S SEVEN THIRTY!"
I sit straight up. I'm going to be late.
The dreams slips away faster. I want to hold on to it but—
"ARE YOU EVEN UP?" Dad yells, poking his head into my room. His hair, normally kept in freakishly neat ponytail, is in complete disarray. Instead of having a few fly away strands, Dad's entire mane seems bent on taking flight. His glasses are hanging off his left ear, he's missed the first button hole on his shirt, and he's knotted his tie backward. Dad looks like a deranged hippy. The dream flees.
I glare at him. He's wearing that horrible tie again. I think it's the most hideous tie in the world. It's yellow, but you wouldn't know that unless you looked at it for a long time. This is because it's mainly covered in dots and leopard-like spots. The majority of the spots are what Al calls bright dark blue, but PrismaColor refers to it as PC902 or ultramarine. However, there's a couple bright purple spots, as well as some vomit-Avocado colored splotches.
What makes the tie so ugly is the bright red dots. They're not the nice sports-car red either. Nor are they cherry red, or fire-engine red. They're not even the slightly nauseating shape of Gwen Stefani's lipstick. No. They're the inherently evil red that Microsoft Word uses to point out alleged spelling errors, like my last name.
"Yes," I say through gritted teeth. A vein in Dad's forehead throbs dangerously.
"We're out of bread," Dad informs me. Al's shouts filter up from the kitchen. Something about the nuloaf (whatever that is) being frozen to the saw lid.
"And your point is?" I say, glaring at him. He glares back, manically, and his eyebrow twitches. I fight back the urge to laugh hysterically. I'm not suicidal.
"You're going to have to have cereal because we're out of instant oatmeal too," Dad says and shuts the door sharply.
I lay back down with a whump! I hate cereal, not only does it closely resemble cardboard, but it requires milk. And unlike instant oatmeal, water cannot be used instead of milk.
"SHUT UP AL, OF COURSE IT'S MICROWAVE SAFE!" Dad yells from the kitchen. Pause. Then:
"I KNOW WHAT I'M DOING, OKAY!"
I don't want to know. I don't smell anything burning and the smoke detectors aren't going off, but then again I don't think anyone changed the batteries last year. Chances are Dad's wrong, and the thing isn't microwave safe.
I drag myself out of bed and head over to the dresser to hunt for a clean shirt. I pull out a black one with gray stripes and some strange silver design that, according to Russell, is some demonic symbol. I highly doubt it that. There's no way a clothing company would put something like that on their shirts. Russell likes argues that the company may not be aware of what the symbol really means. I normally just roll my eyes at this point, because Russell's inevitably gone off on some rant about various horror movies and vampire shows and how vampires are obviously much cooler than werewolves.
I pull on the shirt and some black leather pants that do not make me look like I "just walked off of the Underworld set." Russell's just far too obsessed with vampires for his own good. I think he's one of the few males who willingly admit to owning all of the Anne Rice novels. I blame Winry for this.
You see, Russell was fine when he could enjoy Halloween (and the preceding weeks) dressed as various vampires from novels and movie. Unfortunately, this ended around eighth grade, when Winry started dressing up as his female counterpart. Russell claims that he stopped because he was too old for it, but I've seen the way he looks at those vampire costumes in the mall. He practically drools over them.
"ED, I FOUND BREAD! BUT IT WAS FROZEN! IT'S IN THE MICROWA—OH CRAP! WHY'S IT ON FIRE?!" Dad shouts from down stairs. My eyes widen and I grab at a random pair of sneakers. I hurriedly slip them on and begin shoving homework and textbooks into my pack, before sprinting down the stairs. Mom's going to kill us if we set the house on fire.
I skid to a stop and stare at the scene in front of me. It's hard not to. Dad's hopping around with the burning bag of bread in his hands with mismatched oven mitts, yelling "PUT IT OUT! PUT IT OUT!" Al's holding the spray nozzle for the sink looking dubiously at Dad.
"DON'T JUST STAND THERE!" Dad yells as one of the oven mitts catch fire. Al turns faucet's joystick up and to the right. He sprays Dad with a blast of near-freezing water. Dad yelps again and jumps. His head hits the pot-rack and he skitters away from that. Al continues to spray him with water.
"Oh, hi Ed," Dad says when he sees me. "Glad to see—WOULD YOU TURN THAT BLASTED THING OFF AL—you're finally up. Thank you."
Al's smirking in a self-satisfied way. I'm pretty sure he meant to use the cold water instead of the hot. Come to think of it, he probably was aiming for Dad's face. I think it's his way of protesting the unfair treatment he as forced to endure. Al doesn't like being ordered to do things against his better judgment. Like putting bread in the microwave when the twister on it is metal coated with paper.
"Here's your bread, Ed," Dad says smiling. I eye it suspiciously and poke at it. It's slightly soggy, but there's no melted plastic on it. Apparently the twister caught fire before the plastic could melt.
"It's not poisoned if that's what you're wondering about," Dad says viciously.
"I think he's checking for bits of plastic," Al says sweetly. Dad glares at him. Al gives him an infuriatingly innocent look. Dad narrows his eyes and points two fingers at his eyes and then Al's. He does this several times before they engage in a staring contest.
I nervously edge around Dad to the toaster. When he's in one of these moods it's best not to set him off. He's not hysterical, but it's close. Dormant-bipolar is a pretty good description. Except instead of switching between elated and depressed, Dad's hovering between manic laughter and mad-axe-murderer.
Dad blinks first.
Al smirks triumphantly.
"I demand a rematch!" Dad yells.
"To what?" Al innocently inquires. I scuttle past them to the refrigerator and grab the jam and butter.
"Nothing," Dad mutters, staring into his coffee. "Nothing at all."
I sigh as I spread the jam on to my toast. Fortunately, Dad only gets like this when he's stressed and suffering from lack of sleep.
"Dad, you're driving us to school right?" Al asks. Dad nods and waits for the shoe to drop. "Well, school starts in 15 minutes and it normally takes Mom about 20 to—"
"I'M NOT MOM!" Dad yells and bolts for the car. Al smiles brightly. I can tell he's enjoying himself. It's not often he gets to run circles around Dad.
"How are you Ed?" Al asks, utterly cheerful.
"Meh," I mutter through the toast. Al shots me a dirty look. He's always been big on manners for some reason. No one can understand how it happened; neither of our parents is big on that kind of stuff.
Dad storms back into the house, breathing viciously.
"We're taking the Corvette," Dad says, glaring at Al, daring him to object. Al wisely says nothing. I muffle a groan. The Corvette is not what you think it is. It is not a sleek, new, red Corvette. It is not a lovingly restored classic model either. It's not even particularly shiny.
No.
It's a beat-up, dented, duct-taped, slightly smushed Corvette, that's only resemblance to the sports car dream (red, fast, and shiny) is a messy coat of red primer. Aside from that, it's the dorkiest Corvette ever made. It also happens to be one of the first Corvettes ever made. 1953, as Dad will tell anyone within a five foot radius of the thing.
Dad doesn't even own the car. It's Grandpa's, Dad's just "refurbishing" it. Of course, he's been "refurbishing" it for over 20 years. Not that there's been any progress. In fact, the car seems to be deteriorating.
It also only seats two.
"But—"
"IN!" Dad shouts, ignoring Al's protest. Al shuffles towards the door.
"Um," I interject. Dad turns around to look at me so fast, I'm surprised he doesn't get whiplash. "We need money."
"For wha—oh, right, lunch," Dad mutters. He searches his pockets for spare change. "Oh, just go get in the car. And keep Al there too. Don't let him escape."
I nod. Al's been known to do anything to avoid riding in the Corvette. Especially when Dad thinks he has less than 10 minutes to get us to school. Dad's never figured out that our school's clocks are about five minutes behind regular time. That and the clock in our kitchen is about five minutes ahead of normal time. Now, none of this would be a problem, if Dad didn't irritate Al into passive non-cooperativeness within five minutes of entering the kitchen.
I open the door to the garage and almost run into a guilty looking Al. His brown eyes dart side to side, before he dives down and to the side, hoping to escape into the house. I drop my backpack on him.
"Ed," he moans. "Please?"
I refuse to make eye contact. He'll just use that puppy-dog face to distract me before kneeing me in the groin to "immobilize" me. I take the backpack off him and sit on him before he can start struggling.
"No," I reply and expertly twist both his arms behind his back so he can't claw me. He's really a dirty fighter. He claws, kicks, pulls hair, and bites. Winry doesn't even fight like that. He'd be teased about it, aside from the fact that he doesn't lose. The most even I can hope for is a stalemate. Fortunately, Al's not a violent person, so he only fights defensively and he normally runs off given the chance. Unfortunately, he only reacts this way because of one of two things. Either we're trying to force him into the Corvette or he's on a sugar high.
"Ow! Ed you're hurting me," Al complains. I have him squashed up against the car door, one hand on his wrists as I shove my backpack into the car. Now comes the tricky part. Opening the door and getting Al in the car.
"Ed! That's my hair! That's not fair!" Al whines when I grab his hair. He's extremely tender headed.
"If you would just cooperate and get in the car, we wouldn't have this problem," I mutter through gritted teeth. Al shut ups. But I'm not fooled. I know from past experience that he's either plotting something or trying to lull me into a false sense of security.
I suddenly wrench the car door open, shove Al inside, and sit on him before he can so much as flail a limb.
"Ed," he whines, "You're being mean."
I blow a raspberry at him. It's his own fault for not staying in the car like a normal person.
"I found a twenty," Dad says slamming the door behind him with unnecessary force. He flicks a button and the garage door opens. Dad jumps into the Corvette without bothering with the door. The seat groans at the sudden weight and Dad gives in a surreptitious kick. He turns on the engine, which reluctantly starts up after a few more kicks. Al moans pathetically from underneath me.
"I think you can get off him now," Dad says letting out the brake.
"I don't think ss-sss-sso," I stutter.
"You're probably right," Dad admits. "Do you think he'll try to escape once the car's moving?"
"I'm right here!" Al yells.
"Probably not, but I'm going t-to wait until we're out of the neighborhood, just in case," I say as Al begins to thrash.
Dad thrusts the gear stick into first and hits the gas pedal. We fly out of the neighborhood like a bullet. The Corvette rattles and vibrates as if it's about to fall to pieces. Al ceases all struggling and I scoot over. He glares at me but doesn't shove me. He's never done that. Not since the time when the door wasn't locked and it flew open and nearly took out the neighbors' dog. The dog moved out of the way. But the hydrangea bush wasn't so lucky.
"Why does this clock say it's 7:50?" Dad asks pointing to the digital watch he duct taped to the dashboard after the original gave out.
"The kitchen clock is a couple minutes ahead," I explain.
"It's got to be more than a couple minutes, at least five," he mutters before accelerating around the minivan. I bite my lip and look down. I know it's five minutes ahead. But 'a couple' is easier to say than 'five'.
Al squeezes my shoulder. I look up and he's smiling at me. I smile in return and lean my head against his shoulder. Sometimes it's nice just to be understood. I stare out the windshield and realize that the light's red, yet Dad's not showing any signs of slowing down.
"DAD THAT'S A RED LLLLLLLIGHT!" I yell. He ignores me.
"DAD! THAT'S AN OLD LLLLLLADY YOU'RE GOING tt-tt-TO HIT!"
Dad slams on the brakes and we (narrowly) avoid skidding into the frightened old lady in the walker. Who flips Dad off.
Al snickers.
A vein throbs in Dad's temple.
A couple of college students pull up in a Hummer. They rev the engine. Al moans quietly. Normally, Dad would be able to quell his inner teenager and would refrain from starting an impromptu drag race. However the combined lacks of coffee, sleep, and patience have eroded his self-control and thus, Dad revs the engine. They rev theirs louder. Dad glances at the other stoplight. It's turned yellow. He shoves the gear stick forward and floors it.
The Corvette is catapulted forward.
Dad laughs manically as he watches the looks of shock on the college kids' faces. He pulls the car into second and we leap forward again. But the Hummer's making up the lost ground fast. Dad frowns and shoves the Corvette into third and pushes the gas pedal to the floor. Al and I stare in horror at the speedometer. We're going already ten miles over the speed limit and Dad's still accelerating.
The stoplight up ahead turns yellow.
"Dad," Al says in a panicky voice.
"There aren't any cops around. There never are," Dad snaps back. Al whimpers.
"Don't worry Al, Dad's installed airbags," I say.
"What! I—"
I glare at him.
"I mean, yes of course I installed the airbags," Dad says, and wrenches the gear stick down and over, putting it in neutral. The car lurches to a sudden halt. We're lucky; there's no one ahead of us. Not so for the Hummer-people. Their lane has two cars in it already by the time the driver slams on the brakes.
Dad smirks and mutters something that sounds suspiciously like 'amateurs'. Al lets out a piteous moan.
"Al, it's okay, you're not going t-tt-to die," I stammer. Al ignores me. Then we're all thrown back against the seats as Dad takes off again.
--Line--
Al's better by the time we get to school. That or he's in shock. Either way, he's quit whimpering.
"Keep the change," Dad says when he hands me the twenty. I pocket the money. He hasn't demanded change back since the time when I refused to restrain Al. We eventually did get to school, but it took over two hours and Al threw up in the car.
"Bye!" Dad shouts. Al and I just stare, stunned, as Dad reverses, nearly hits a black Mustang, and speeds off. The occupants of the Mustang are equally stunned. I gape as one of the passengers vaults over the side of the car.
It's Envy.
My heart stops.
I don't breathe.
He's opens the door for Sloth with a flourish and I breathe again. My heart, as if trying to make up for lost time, beats rapidly. He's dressed completely differently. Instead of the usual skort and impossibly tight shirt, he's wearing black dress pants of some silk-like material. His shirt's a dark charcoal grey, with something glittery woven into it. The cuffs of the shirt are unbuttoned and Envy hasn't bothered to tuck the shirt in either. The last buttons on the collar are open and he's wearing that red tie like a scarf. The shirt's rumpled as well, but it doesn't look like he's slept in it.
No. Instead of looking sloppy, Envy looks like he's just had incredibly good sex with someone and doesn't care who notices. My face heats up at that thought. The thought that he doesn't care if anyone knows what he's done, that is, because I'm not thinking about who Envy may or may not be having mad passionate sex with. Nor am I jealous of this theoretical person, because that would imply that I have urges. And I don't!
Then, as he's helping Sloth out of the car, he turns and looks at me. Our eyes meet. And I remember.
Pale arms wrapped around me. The dream! Every thing else is green. No. No, no, no. "You're perfect," he whispers, lips brushing against my ear. Nonononono. His breath on my neck, then his lips, then tongue, then looking into the almost familiar face of—ENVY?!
No. This can't be right, I think panicky, I'm asexual. These things don't—can't happen to me. Sloth waves at me cheerfully, completely obvious to both my inner turmoil and the driver's wish to pull forward. She looks oddly Victorian today, in her black silk trench coat, complete with silver buttons and large silver bow. Today, the most normal part of her outfit is the black jeans and dark grey turtle neck. Envy looks like he's been hit across the forehead with a two-by-four. Sloth elbows him in the ribs and he turns slightly pink and waves at me.
I smile and nod. Together, the Peccato twins look like teenage vampires or, as someone uninfluenced by Russell's vampirical mania might say, Gothic Victorian with modern influences.
Envy turns away quickly and starts chatting to Sloth. His ears are bright pink. He's not blushing, I think to myself, they're just cold from riding in a convertible. My ears would be freezing too, if I hadn't made sure my pony tail covered them. Besides, why would Envy blush?
"Come on, Ed," Al says, "We're going to be late."
I nod and follow him upstairs. We don't normally walk together. Mainly because I ride with Ling or walk to school. Al likes to be dropped off by Mom or he'll bike to school with Fletcher sometimes. He's one of those insane people who like to come to school early.
There aren't very many people in the halls. I glance at my watch. It's almost 8 o'clock.
Shit.
I wave good-bye to Al and dash off to Math class. Grumman's been known to lock his doors or lurk behind the open door, which he enjoys slamming in late students faces. Aside from his love of practical jokes and slightly sadistic sense of humor, Mr. Grumman's one of the best math teachers. Unfortunately, he's also one of the sanest.
I slide into my seat, just as the bell rings. I hastily pull out my pencil and calculator and start on the warm-up written on the board in Grumman's spiky handwriting.
LogM 2.74 LogN 5.32 LogK8.43 (All logs are base 6)
Expand:
2logM – logN + logK
Simplify:
LogM (LogK/logN2)
Both problems are fairly simple, as long as you know the rules for logarithms. Normally, I'd finish first at my table and help the other three people. But Grumman decided to put me at the table with three Asian girls. Well, technically, Katerine's Russian, but she looks Asian and her grandfather's from Korea. Ketu's dad's Tibetan and her mom's Chinese, and both Molly's parents are from Thailand. One would think that they wouldn't be able to leave me out of entire conversations by talking fast in some Asian language since all they come from different places.
Wrong.
I'm pretty sure they aren't just saying random words to make me paranoid. There might be one language that all of them speak. (Though I'm positive Katerine was speaking Russian yesterday.) The other alternative is that they're all speaking extremely fast and accented English and I can't understand them because I'm American.
"Ooh," Katerine says looking at my paper worriedly, "I think that's wrong."
"Aye," Ketu chimes in. "That's not what I got."
"Isn't it logN raised to the third power?" Molly asks. Ketu and Katerine nod. I look over at the board, just to make sure they aren't trying to trick me. I squint. It is a three. I resist the urge to bang my head against the table. It's not fair.
"Does anyone have an answer for the first problem?" Grumman asks walking around the room.
Seth Coachran nearly leaps out of his seat.
"Oh! Bulletin!" he yells. Grumman shoots him a glare.
"Seth! You get to solve it on the board," Grumman says, clearly on the verge of cackling.
"But—"
"After I read the bulletin," Grumman says with a sigh. He walks over to his extremely messy desk and whisks a bright green paper off the top of a stack.
"The GSA meets for the first time—again—in F2, extreme peer mediation club meets in 126A and they have pizza. You know," Mr. Grumman says, turning to address the class. "I've never gotten what makes Extreme Peer Mediation so extreme. Are they all running around on skate boards or something?"
Few people laugh. A few giggle nervously, while the rest of the class tries in vain to figure out if he's being serious or not.
"You know, like those z-games or whatever you lazy, good for nothing teenagers call them."
No one gets it.
"Fine, Photography Club meets—
"Wasn't that yesterday?" Seth asks. Grumman looks at the green paper again.
"Yes it was. The Fang shoe-ii—"
"Fuh-ng shway," Ketu corrects swiftly. Mr. Grumman gives her a dirty look.
"The FUHn-g Schway Club meets in the choir room and Ms. Armstrong would appreciate it if they would quit rearranging the furniture.
"Now, Seth, go do the first problem on the board," Grumman says handing Seth a piece of chalk.
"Okay," Seth says with an audible gulp.
--line--
After Seth finishes solving both problems on the board, Mr. Grumman hands out a review sheet and says that it, and all the homework for the unit, is due on the day of the test which happens to be some time next week.
I work to the end of the period. I would have finished earlier, except Ketu, who sits next to me, started correcting my answers and I had to redo half a page. This is the most annoying part of math. I'm constantly corrected by Asian girls and whenever I complain about it, Winry goes a feministic rant about how women are just as good at math and science and Ling tells me that I'm just jealous of the inherit sexiness of Asians in general and him in particular. Which is not true, because I don't have urges.
Envy was naked in that dream.
I let out a growl of frustration. Molly looks a me funny before whispering something in Ketu's ear. They both giggle as the bell rings. I hastily shove my calculator and review sheet in to my backpack and pocket the pencil.
--line--
The stairs are completely packed with people coming up and going down. It's completely random and people only get out of the way if someone heavy starts to fall. No one's had the nerve to direct traffic though. The last person who tried spent a few days in the hospital after someone tossed him over the edge and into a group of freshmen. The poor kid wasn't seriously injured, mainly due to the fact that the freshmen didn't scatter.
I pass Winry in the halls as she heads to her math class. I wave at her, she ignores me and walks off.
Damn.
She's still mad about yesterday.
With that thought in my head, I walk across the lawn to the science wing. Sloth's outside talking with Envy, Roy, and a blonde girl in a plain black trench coat and bright red shirt. They all match. Sloth drifts away and heads towards the main building. Roy wraps his arm around the blonde girl and they head inside. Envy follows somewhat reluctantly.
I stare at the door they just entered. S2. Dr. Knox's room. Great. I have physics with Envy and his gang.
--line--
When I finally enter the classroom, I ignore Envy (who's waving and pointing to the seat that he just jerked out from under Roy) and sit as far away from Envy's lab station as possible. I end up next to a pretty dark-haired girl who introduces herself as Noah.
"Are you friends with him?" she asks, looking over at the lab table. Envy's sulking and glaring at Roy, who has reclaimed his seat.
"No," I say. And it's true. I'm not friends with Envy. Sure, he waves at me in the halls and he's nice to me, which is pretty unusual considering his reputation and my situation. We've spoken a few times. In freshmen year, I shared my umbrella with him while we were waiting to be picked up. We talked a bit then. Mainly about the weather (wet), why Sloth was here too (rehearsal for the school play), Wrath's sport (cheerleading and winter guard), and then my mom came.
When I opened the car door to get in, Mom asked me if I wanted to lend the umbrella to my "new friend." I remember glancing backed at Envy and thinking about how lost and alone he looked in the rain. His spiky hair was sticking to his clothes and he looked like he'd lost his only friend in the world. Which was strange, considering he'd been laughing about Wrath's first experience with the saber a minute ago.
I'm convinced that he was just sorry to see the umbrella leave. However, that didn't stop Mom from insisting that he missed me. Ha! Why would Envy miss me? If anything, he probably just missed my body heat.
Aside from that, there've only been a handful of times when we've actually talked. Yesterday was one of them.
"What about Envy?" Noah asks, shaking her head so that her bangs fall away from her face. Evidently she meant Roy, which is just as well because I'm not friends with him either.
"I'm not fff-ff-fff," I begin to say without thinking. I hit the 'f' and freeze up. Noah doesn't know I stutter. I tense up and try to hurry through the word. Which is exactly what I'm not supposed to do.
"Fffff—ff-ff—ff—"
I can't get the word out.
"Ff-ff-ff-f—"
Great. This is going to be so awkward. Unless I manage to choke on the word and die.
"Ed," Noah interrupts gently. She hesitantly places her hand on my arm and I shut up. "I know you probably hate being interrupted, but I just want to let you know that my best friend is a stutterer. So, you don't have to worry about scaring me off or embarrassing yourself in front of me, or anything like that. Just, no pressure."
I stare at her.
"Huh?" escapes my mouth. I'm dumbfounded. Noah, this dark haired girl dressed in shades of gray, knows a stutterer? She's smiling at me and I smile back weakly.
"Yeah, she was my first friend when I moved here," Noah says. I raise my eyebrows, curious. Noah continues easily.
"She was the only person who'd be friends with the new kid," Noah says looking down, a sad look passing across her face. She looks up and continues. "She didn't care about what everyone else thought and she'd sit with me when no one else would."
"What's your fff-fff—ff-ff-friend's name?"
Noah smiles mysteriously before saying:
"I can't tell you that."
"But—" I protest.
"No, she's extremely self-conscious about her stutter. You'd never know she had a stutter unless you got her really nervous or to talk on the phone," Noah tells me with another mysterious smile. "Besides, you'll find out who she is soon enough."
"How?" I demand.
Dr. Knox starts calling off names for roll.
"Julia Avert?"
"Here!"
Noah gives me a look that implies the answer should be obvious and I'd understand if I gave it a bit more thought. I want to stomp my foot in frustration. How am I supposed to figure out who this other stutterer is?
"Well, for one thing," Noah pauses dramatically. "You could wait until fifth period—"
"—Dodson?"
"Here!"
What? That can't be right. Unless she's been in my other Speech classes. But then why wouldn't Noah tell me her name?
"Since she's going to be in your Speech Class this year."
--line--
Mechanical Aspects (1-10, 10 being the highest):
Areas that the Writer did extremely well at:
Areas that need work:
Chapter Question: Was there enough description this time? Do you feel cheated considering that I've managed to write yet another chapter in which Envy only makes cameo appearances? Or does the dream count for anything? Oh, and does anyone want me to post sketches of the characters on my deviant art account? The sketches are mainly just of outfits and sometimes scenes from the chapter.
Oh, and if you haven't figured out who the other stutterer is by now, I'm laughing at you. And so are the people who've figured it out.