Chapter: 2

"Small World."

The window glass was ferociously rebelling against the dim moonlight, emanating a glorious vista. The war it lost, the ray came in, the war it won, the ray went back. The light breeze only added rush to the fight, it was not only the spectator but also the commencer. It wasn't a fire starter, but it was only performing its assigned duty, and more efficiently than one would think. The humid touch it brought with it was what excited the clash the most. As each drop fell, for the shortest of moments, the fog lifted, until it stuck back down with yet more obstinacy.

The wind brought memories, and not just any, but the ones she was desperately trying to forget. It was always the dark, always the dark, that scared her the most, but also, it was home, it was always where, in the end, she had always found herself. When there is no light at the end of the tunnel, the shadow is destiny. Sorrow was where she belonged.

She was yet trying to understand her own state of mind. The clock ticked, imitating each of her beats, but there would always be that on moment when later exceeded the former by a few, and made her capable of defeating that one adversary she had never meant to confront.

Her eyes were wet, just like every night. The sweat drops were cautiously playing, chilling and freezing, and somehow teasing her skin. The thoughts that twisted and played in her mind were the ones that broke and healed the heart at regular skips, just like every night. Even while just reflecting, she couldn't find her voice, it was somehow lost in all the words she had said, but were still, somehow, incomplete and unsaid.

The door slowly opened, following a creek, that was so familiar, yet so unwanted at the same time.

"Will you help me color this?" the little high-pitched, hopeful voice demanded. The owner revealed herself in the only fascio di luce that dominated the central space. The locks of her coal-black hair, revealed shades of blue in the faded light, her similarly shaded, questioning, eyes created a perfect match. Her brows were slightly furrowed. Her feet were coordinated at the perfect plane, separated by a fair enough distance. The little seven-year-old girl looked naive, innocent, just as all the children of her age were supposed to be, yet her gait, her cautious manner, if one could read it, indicated perfectly her mature and adult mentality.

One of her hands slightly held up, supporting the printed and smooth cover of the white-coarse paged book. The other, which she kept straight firm in front of her chest, showed the neatly held and kept set of bright crayons, some with exposed heads between her small fingers and the others with straight-cut ends.

She wiped the tears with the back of her hands and sniffed a few times to assure herself that she had dealt with what she needed to deal. "Get out," she spat.

The little girl's gaze dropped. It had always been this way. Every breath she took, every word she said was reasonlessly detested by her. She was innocent, she had no fault, she was no culprit, yet she was always the one with the stained hands. What she felt for her, couldn't even be considered a grudge, a grudge seemed somehow more meaningful than her emotions for the little girl. "Why won't you play with me?"

"I said get out!"

"Can't we be friends?"

"Get out!" she said standing up.

The little girl took a few steps back. "I don't like you, you're not a good sister."

The words were meant to hurt, but they only brought wrath, not pain. "I hate you," she said flatly. "I hate you. I don't want to be your friend, and I'm not your sister. I loathe you, I absolutely detest you, why won't you leave me alone?"

The hurt in the little girl's eyes began to show, until it materialized into something more real, the glint in her eyes twisted once and the tears appeared prominent on her fair skin. This wasn't the first time, and this was how it always had been. She knew she had no chance of achieving a place in her heart yet she just couldn't bring herself to quit, she just couldn't not hope.

Her pain was nothing to her. The tears were meaningless, worthless, regardless she threw her a glance of pure hate, the most burning spark of the fire, the core to the lava.

The little girl clenched her tiny fists, holding her possessions tightly. "Claire, Claire, she still sleeps with her teddy bear, and she's so mean she's got witches' hair," she stuck her tongue out and ran out of the room.

"Katie! Get lost!" she shouted after her, her hands automatically grabbed the first thing that was in her reach, and with all her force she threw the the first thing that her hand caught at the empty corridor wall.

"I'm gonna tell big brother!" the little girl called from somewhere far away.

"I don't care! Go away!"

And that was the end of a conversation that had no start, it was fuel to a fire that had an unknown source. She shut the door behind her, and went back to the window, to face another, much worse opponent- herself.

The teenage experience really has no second to it. It's like a choose-your-own-adventure novel, except all the options involve existential angst, questionable fashion choices, and a constant battle with yourself. There are several everyday moments where one contemplates just how much they hate themselves. These are followed by moments of such intense narcissism, where one can't help but think the obvious: yes, everyone is always looking at me.

The funny thing is, I've figured, that everyone thinks that. Every single teenager thinks that way. With that knowledge and a mix of basic math, it would be quite reasonable to conclude that no one is really looking at anybody else, really. They're just entertaining the idea of being the center of attention in their head.

This was the narrative that was swimming around in my head as I sat in my Language Arts class looking at the crowd around me. I'd known these people for a handful of years now, and I believed I had broken down the typical high school hierarchy down to a tee.

You had the popular kids, quite predictable with the jocks, the cheerleaders, and the gifted ones that had been handed the rare combination of looks and half a brain. One more uncommon chunk that added itself to these popular kids were the theater geeks, except in our school, which was situated in a very small town, the performing arts were a big deal. If you took the stage, people knew you. Even if that stage was the size of card board box.

Next on the pyramid came the mids— they didn't really stick out, neither in a good way nor a bad way, and this was their saving grace. I liked to think of them as the enablers. Their audience and silent assent were what gave the populars their power and influence.

And, of course, last came the losers. You had your run-of-the-mill nerds, geeks, freaks, the whole selection. Nerds were the least threatened sub-group in this layer, because they were useful and resourceful for the populars. The rest- well, let's say high school wasn't all sunshine and lollipops... there were definitely some wedgie clouds.

The norm was that you were immediately placed in a level of the hierarchy as soon as you stepped foot here for the first time. But in some rare cases, you could escape your fate if the odds were in your favor.

I, my friends, was one such anomaly. I was a nerd through and through my first two, three years here. With my plain looks and boring brown hair and eyes package, I was no one's teenage dream. But something strange, miraculous even, happened.

The start of last year set me free of my painful need for braces. Then, later into the year, my mom convinced me to get a trendy haircut that changed my life. Now with straighter teeth and more hair volume, I started gaining gradual but steady approval across my peers. The deal was really sealed when by this summer, I had really grown into my features.

This entire ordeal catapulted my popularity level from the depths of loserdom, right above the mids, almost touching the populars. I was maybe a grade below the beauty and brains bunch, because let's face it, nobody really forgets your past in high school.

Things were going well for me, I decided, when a group of sophomore boys stopped to ogled at me from the hall.

"Pathetic," said Nora, my friend-I-secretly-hated, from right next to me. The little admiring boys' sequence displeased her, and I lived to see her suffer, so it automatically pleased me ten-fold.

"Your sweater? I agree," I responded in a fake sweet tone, smiling lazily at her furious expression, which she quickly worked to mask.

The thing about Nora and I was that we mutually and equally hated one another. Why were we friends, you may ask. And you'd be right to do so. The answer was that I had a pact going with my mom to sustain at least one friendship throughout my duration at high school. I was too socially weak to go out and work on initiating and then maintaining a new friendship, so I stuck to what I had.

In the case of this pact not being honored, my mother had promised me that she would take it upon herself to find me a friend. This was Noda, everyone's family knew everyone else's. Can you imagine the humiliation of having friend-dates set for you by your mom at the ripe age of seventeen? I shuddered.

Nora took digs at me and I returned the favor, it was sort of a messed-up little tradition at this point. To retain my new-found fame I had to avoid being seen alone like the plague, and Nora enjoyed the attention she got vicariously through me. It was a parasitic relationship, I was aware. But in its own twisted way, it worked.

I may have discovered how to look better, but on the inside, I was still the loser girl whose best friend was her mom. I didn't mind that one bit. I just had to keep the façade going.

I had just successfully tuned out Nora's explanation of her fake sweater's designer origins when I realized I was wrong.

I fully and completed, retracted my previous statement of things going well for me. Because, as soon as turned back towards the classroom door to examine my admirers, I saw someone I possibly hated even more than my current companion— the asshole from the supermarket.

As luck would have it, he made his way into the very classroom I was in. I do not exaggerate when I say that the room fell completely and collectively silent when he materialized, and I couldn't blame them.

This evil man looked the picture of appeal. He had swapped his earlier outfit for a complete black alternative. With his messy silver hair pointing in every direction, his hands in his pockets, and a look of extreme (but sexy) boredom on his face, I called it right then and there— if this boy was to frequent this very school, he would be a grade above the populars.

Standing right at his side was a black spiky-haired boy, his face was comparatively more round and childish. Not did the boy only stand at his side, but he also looked very comfortable there, fast childhood friends, something one could tell at first glance.

The boy's ocean-like blue eyes scanned the area around. Some brave admirers had already made their way to him, and he was just as nice to them as he had been to me the day prior. He didn't even try to pretend he was giving them any attention.

Then, very suddenly, like someone had called him to look particularly at me, he turned and his gaze met mine. His eyes lit up, as if out of amusement, and his stare was jammed for a very long time. I realized I was participating in this creepy staring contest, and as soon as I regained control of my head I quickly looked away. My brain felt weird and fuzzy, like it was sunk in a swarm of buzzing bees.

I didn't look up from my table, not even when the teacher entered. First days are, for lack of a better word, not very productive. The teachers just sit around doing nothing, the class is a complete mess, and when I say mess, I mean the flying paper airplanes and whistle-like mess.

I could feel that my perpetrator staring a hole into my face. Eventually, I would end up holding my breath for what seemed like a very long time without realizing it. Things were not going well for me.

I wondered what the odds of something like this happening. Was the phrase small world really that spot-on? Eventually, I calmed myself down by rationalizing that there was no reason we couldn't cordially ignore one another; the school had a fairly big student body. That set me at ease.

But that theory went straight out of the window when I found him looming over my seat as soon as the class scattered. "Well, isn't this serendipity," he mused, standing like he was the king of the fucking world.

I made sure to address him with the full force of my glare. "If by serendipity you mean cosmic mistake, then yes."

He looked at me silently for a few seconds, and for a moment I thought I'd finally outsmarted him. The next instant, he threw his head back and laughed. The picture of breezy and cool.

I stared incredulously. I was aware of the gazes on us, more so on him than me. His criminal looks already had an audience set on us, but his old money laugh had attracted an even bigger one now.

"You're feisty," he noted after submitting his audition for laugh of the year.

"And you're an asshole," I responded quietly, moving to quickly stuff my thing in my backpack and get the hell away from him.

He didn't get the hint because he was walking alongside me as I made my way into the hallway.

"Do you want something?" I demanded meanly, hoping he'd catch on. The thing was that not only was this guy absolutely obnoxious, the attention that he drew was uncomfortable. I was still getting used to the attention I had recently secured.

"I absolutely cannot place your name, hard as I try," he confessed, still walking with me, looking as if it really was a curious case or an unexplained mystery of sorts.

"That's because I never told you, and you never asked," I informed him. I had reached my locker now and maneuvered the dial to get it open. I was hoping to create a barrier between us with the locker door.

"I'm Killua," he informed unsolicited, but his tone just compelled one to focus on whatever he said.

"I didn't ask," I managed to retort after a few seconds, but really, that didn't make the impact it was supposed to.

"This is the part where you say your name," he prompted, and I actually managed to open the locker and hold the door between us.

"I don't give my name to grocery store terrorists." He had moved to my other side now, the barrier rendered useless. His musky, rich scent hit me in its full force. Gosh, he even smelled good.

"It's Amy, isn't it? You look like an Amy," he figured, cocking his head slightly. The performance was meant to infuriate me, and that it did well.

"Not an Amy," I clarified, shutting my locker door, and moving away.

The young man presumably named Killua followed, again. "A Penny then," he attempted, and then progressed to "A Rachel?"

"You're just saying names off of TV shows now, how exceptionally creative," I congratulated him, making my way into the cafeteria. Not only did he not stop pursuing me, but he also made me realize I lost my appetite completely.

"Just working with what I have," he justified, sitting at my table, uninvited. Lacing his fingers with each other and placing them under his chin, he regarded me silently.

"It's Claire," I finally gave up, feeling incredibly self-conscious by the intense way he was looking at me.

"Claire," he repeated like he was weighing it on his tongue. "If anything, you're the one who assaulted me yesterday."

I gawked at him. "I assaulted you? Really?"

He nodded. "You gave up the box of candy willingly, yes?"

"Well- yes, but-" I began, flustered.

"And then you rounded up on me," he described, setting the scene as if it was obvious that I was the one at fault.

"I was being polite, I expected you to offer it back to me."

"Why?"

His to-the-point question confused me. Firstly because I didn't know which part of my answer he was asking that of. And secondly, I had no response either way.

"Because it's the nice thing to do," I answered eventually.

"I'm not nice," he put simply.

"I gathered," I retorted, glaring at me. "Why are you here anyway? Are you stalking me or something?"

"Is seeing me twice really stalking? Seems a little dramatic, don't you think?" he reasoned, still studying me.

I scoffed, rolling my eyes at him. It was just an attempt to hide the fact that I had no comeback to that. "Please tell me you don't go here," I pleaded, moving to touch my hair as an excuse to do something because he was still staring at me.

"I don't go here."

"You just said that because I asked you, didn't you?" I asked with a deadpan look.

He nodded, suppressing an evil smile.

"So you go here?"

He nodded again, silently trying to find ways to bother me, I imagined.

"…and you're new— what idiot transfers into new schools in senior year?"

"Apparently me," he replied casually.

"…and your friend."

"And my friend," he agreed.

I was gradually coming to the realization that despite the length of our conversation, we hadn't really shared anything other than our names.

"Claire," he said my name again- why did it sound so fucking intense coming out of his mouth? Was it the sexy slash husky slash raspy voice that was having that effect?

"Y-yeah?" Was all I could manage. I swallowed, he unnerved me.

"I find you interesting," he confessed unexpectedly, and without a trace of hesitation in his voice. "…and, I have absolutely no idea why."

I had just absorbed the shock of the first part of his sentence when the second one knocked me over. "Is this your idea of flirting?"

"On, no, I don't flirt," he clarified, looking quite revolted by the concept. This was probably the only thing I could respect about this confusing insane man.

His phone started buzzing furiously just then, and just as well, because I had no idea what to add to any of that. "I'll see you," he said vaguely, finally taking those invasive eyes off of me, and left.

I just sat where I was wondering what I was getting myself into.