by Mandi Lynn
“Don’t grow too fond of it. The only way to get up there is with this ladder, and I’m hoping it won’t be sticking around in the hallway too long.” She hands me another box and points to the spare room behind me that we’re making into a home office.
I look over the box, reading aloud, “Work Stuff. You realize that almost every box here has the word ‘stuff’ on it?”
My mom smiles and sends me into the empty office room.
“I’m just saying,” I tell her. “This is more than just ‘stuff.’”
“You know what I mean,” my mom says, taking her own box and following me into the office. We put things into place, and it slowly becomes more like home. The large grand desk my dad uses now has a computer with a printer not too far off. There’s a small bookshelf with large, thick books filled with words and numbers about my dad’s job that I will never understand. I take a mental picture of the room, realizing, as soon as my dad starts his work again, it will never be this organized.
“Have you finished your room yet?” my mom asks while she arranges books on a shelf. She piles those of the same height together and the smaller ones at another end of a shelf, stacking and assorting them to her liking.
“I don’t know.” I go through a box of papers that are for my dad’s job and give up quickly, not wanting to lose anything important. “I don’t think I will feel at home just by unpacking everything,” I tell her, attempting to read a business chart, but putting it to the side when the numbers and words don’t make sense.
“You just need to get used to things here.”
My mom finishes the books and moves on to organizing the desk, arranging notepads, placing pens in a holder.
We continue to unpack, and eventually I realize I haven’t eaten anything, so my mom dismisses me to go downstairs for breakfast while she continues without me.
“What can I make for ya?” my dad greets me as soon as he sees me step off the stairs. He’s at the stove, already cooking his famous scrambled eggs, and I can smell bagels in the toaster, crisping to a perfect golden-brown. I stand at the entrance to the kitchen, taking in the scents. The stove is filled with pans. But only one has eggs nestled inside and ready to eat. I make my way to the breakfast bar, and when I sit down, I feel the sun on my back. Behind me the dining room opens, an entire wall consisting of windows to fill the house with light. In the center of the windows is a pair of French doors which open up to our small back porch to watch over the mountain range that is our backyard.
“Is any of that with jelly?” I ask, leaning over the counter. My dad smiles at me, his hair sticking out in all directions. He’s not an early riser like my mom.
“Comin’ right up!” He turns back to the stove, and flips and mixes the eggs to cook them evenly. I wait eagerly, seeing the eggs are cooked perfectly, the way I always like them—partially brown, but nowhere near burnt.
I turn myself slightly toward the sun that shines through the large deck window. The aroma of food from behind me smells rich, as I stare out through the window into the woods, the mountains peeking atop the trees. For a moment I feel homesick, missing our beach house, but I smile when my dad puts a plate of food in front of me.
“Ready for your first day of school tomorrow?” he asks, leaning on the chair next to me. I tried to beg my parents to hold off enrolling me in school because the year was almost over, but they insisted.
“Hmm…let me think,” I say, taking a bite of food. “The house is a mess of boxes, and I have no idea what this school is going to be like.”
My dad pulls out the chair to sit next me. He eyes me as I savor his freshly made scrambled eggs. “And I suppose you think these boxes will just magically unpack themselves?” My dad laughs, taking a bite of my bagel and getting up again to cook his own meal at the stove.
“It would be nice,” I say, eyeing the pile of large boxes that sits next to our dining room table.
“Keep dreaming, kid.” He cracks more eggs into the pan and begins to make himself an omelet.
The majority of the day is spent unpacking and cleaning. Even with the three of us, we don’t get everything done that we want. After a while my parents tell me that I can stop, since I have school the next day and need to make sure nothing I need for tomorrow is lost in the world of unpacking.
I find my notebooks, and gather some pens and pencils from around the house. I don’t know what else I will need, so I just put the things I have now in my school bag.
After a long, hot shower I spend the last hour of the day drawing. It’s something I’ve done my entire life. Ever since I was little, I’ve drawn everything from plants and animals to more unexpected things, like raindrops and close-ups of leaves, revealing their true texture to the world. My parents were proud of me and even thought it would turn into something bigger.
They sent me to an art school when I was seven, but the teachers made us draw things the way they wanted. I failed out of the class. My parents were upset, because I was young for the class and only got in because they were friends with the owners. After I failed, the school put an age requirement on enrollment, because young students weren’t talented enough to take the classes. That was eight years ago, and since then I’ve stopped publicly drawing. When the rules were changed because of me, I was humiliated and told my parents I didn’t want to draw anymore. They didn’t believe me at first, but when I stopped showcasing my art, they thought I had stopped altogether.
Now I just keep my work private and hide my drawings as soon as I finish them. It wasn’t until recently I realized why I had failed out of the art class. My drawings have a very abstract quality. I take real-life items and draw them, but when I’m done, they look like a hidden picture within scribbles. My parents have always appreciated the drawings I made, but others have a hard time seeing the picture.
Taking out a blank piece of paper, I then lay down on my bed, using a freshly sharpened pencil to aimlessly doodle. I make strokes across the paper and let my mind wonder. The pencil makes light and dark marks against the page. Sometimes I let my hand rub against it to create smudges that leave black spots from the lead on my wrist.
I continue in the trance, until I feel I’m done. When I look down, I’m amazed by my own work. On the paper is a picture of a water hole, surrounded by a tall rock wall in the back. The water is crystal clear with small rocks reflecting through the liquid. I stare at the drawing, still amazed that I had just drawn it. What shocks me the most is the feeling that I know the place; it feels as if it’s somewhere I’ve been multiple times, yet at the same time, it’s somewhere unknown.
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Never assume you are alone, because you never truly are. Only when your life has surely ended and your loved ones have forgotten you is when you are gone. Gone from this world and the next.
Sleep is when you are most vulnerable. It’s a sanctuary and a curse; how you perceive it is up to you.
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That night there’s no whisper of the wind to frighten me awake. It’s just me, sleeping, shifting, but never waking. The night passes on in a dreamless slumber. I’m on edge, muscles never relaxing, even when my mind drifts and finds its slumber.
Chapter 3
First Day
“Emma, time to get up for school!” my mom yells up the stairs.
My skin is moist with a thin layer of sweat. My comforter lies on the floor, having been kicked off during the night. Sheets are twisted around my body, fastening me to the bed. It reveals a night of restlessness I can’t completely remember. Untangling myself, I get out of bed and drag myself down the stairs, already wanting the day to be over. My mom is at the landing of the stairs with a plate of warm waffles in her hands.
“Ready for school?” my mom asks, offering me the food.
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I say, taking the waffles to the table to eat.
I take my time cutting the food into pieces, finding myself staring at the waffles like they have an answer to my p
roblems. I eat slowly, and I feel the full weight of my restless sleep. Lifting my food to my mouth is an effort, my muscles weak with fatigue. My body begs for rest, but my consciousness is anything but tired. With each bite my mind searches for a reasonable explanation for everything.
“I have to leave early to get to work. Can you get on the bus by yourself, Emma?” my mom asks, gathering her things to leave.
My mom’s voice pulls me out of my thoughts, and I’m brought back to reality for a moment. I look at her over my food; she seems concerned about my tired state. “I am fifteen,” I assure my mom, pushing the plate of food away from me. I try to appear more awake.
“I know, it’s just…it’s your first day of school. It feels like I should be there.” She shrugs, acting like a mother who drops off their child for the first day of kindergarten.
“Don’t worry, Mom. It’s high school.” I try again to reassure her, grabbing the plate and dumping the small remains into the trash.
My mom hoists her large bag onto her shoulder and walks to the door, juggling different things in her hands like coffee, notes, and her cell phone. “Bye, Emma. Have a good day at school.”
“Bye, Mom.” I wave as she walks out the door, and I begin to ascend the stairs.
Not knowing when the bus is coming, I get ready as fast as I can and run outside in a hurry. I stand in the freezing cold for almost half an hour—longing for the Florida heat of my old home—before the bus finally comes.
When I step on the only form of transportation the school offers, I see it isn’t very crowded. I can tell I’m one of the initial stops and have some waiting to do, so I sit in the first open seat. The entire way I feel as if I’m on a scenic tour. We drive through the mountainside as trees and greenery pass by the window. I can’t help but stare in awe at the views. The rising mass of rocks loom over us, threatening to tumble down in a rockslide into our path. The sun peeks over a low-centered mountain, illuminating the sky with dullness; I’m disappointed, expecting colors. I look into the thick forest of trees that pass by my vision and imagine being able to see bears or moose pass through, unaware of the civilization just feet away.
The drive lasts about fifteen minutes, before the bus leaves the winding road that roams though the mountains and rides into town. Here the buildings are small; the majority are gift shops or restaurants that entertain the tourists. Eventually the bus stops in front of a small shack of a house that picks up a boy my age. He looks me over once before sitting down a few seats behind me.
Finally, an hour later, the bus arrives at my new school. Far away from any tourist attractions, the structure sits nestled between the mountains.
I step off the steep stairs and come face-to-face with the building I’ll be in six hours a day, five days a week. It’s just like any other school: red bricks, signs announcing events coming up. There aren’t any trees near the school; in their place is a large parking lot students use to commute. My bus is the only one here. Everywhere else students sit in cars, visit friends, and talk among each other. However, no one waits at the entrance to the school. I find my way through the parking lot, and when the first bell rings, the other students finally gather their things and make their way to the doors in a slow, unconcerned manner.
“Hi, my name is Sadie. You must be Amelia,” a girl says, matching her steps with mine as I pass a blue jeep with a dream catcher adorning the rearview mirror. Her blond hair falls in cascades over her shoulders, flowing over the books in her hands. Positive energy reverberates off her, and even though I don’t know the girl, conversation seems to come easily to her.
I lose my bearings for a moment, not expecting to have another student talk to me so quickly. “Yes, and you can call me Emma,” I tell her, hoping all she wants is to say hi to the new girl.
“Okay. Like I said, I’m Sadie, and today I’m your tour guide,” she says, full of enthusiasm, adjusting the books in her hands to a more comfortable position.
She opens the door of the school for me, waving to another girl who passes by in the halls. “Tour guide?” I ask, taking in the halls. The lights give everything a yellow hue, and old posters from dances and fund-raisers coat the walls, even though the dates have passed. One bright sign announces that class dues need to be paid by February in order to go on the class field trip. It’s May.
“Well…not officially. I like to help the new students,” Sadie tells me.
As we walk through the halls, she tells me about all the clubs, events, and teachers at the school. She doesn’t hold back on the good, bad, or boring. I show her my schedule, and Sadie gives me a map of the school and highlights the rooms I need to go to. She helps me find my classes, even when I don’t need the guidance. At first I was hoping she would go away and leave me alone to venture through the school, but by third period, I find myself going out of my way to find her in the halls to ask for directions.
As expected, everyone comes up to say hello to the new girl. They all call me Amelia, and in return, I tell them to call me Emma.
It isn’t as bad as I had thought—although the teachers do make me introduce myself to the class.
I used to be homeschooled until I moved to New Hampshire, so both my parents were worried I hadn’t learned enough, but it turns out my mom was a really good teacher. I already knew what they were learning here, so I allow myself to daydream—which turns out to be a bad idea. Soon I begin to hack my brain for explanations for the dreams and the events in the forest—loss of vision, but filled with smells, many voices; none of it made sense or seemed to have a connection. My head begins to ache, and I quickly decide to pay attention in class—well, to the classroom.
Looking around, I see that the walls are an off-yellow hue, full of projects made by students—most of which looked like they only took minutes; I can guess those didn’t get good grades. The walls must have been painted white at one time but have turned the yellow color. The classroom has a chalkboard that looks as if it has never been washed, and the floors are wooden and old. When someone gets out of a chair, it makes a screeching sound that brings my hands to my ears.
Then comes the last period before lunch: history. Like the other classes, I’m forced to introduce myself.
“Everyone, this is Amelia Barton,” the teacher says, pointing to me. “She will be joining our class.” Her glasses sit at the edge of her nose, just waiting to fall off. Graying hair puffs out in curls around her face, as she stands a small five feet tall.
“Um, Emma,” I say with hesitation, fumbling with a stack of textbooks in my hands.
“Well, that’s odd. On the paper I was given, your name is Amelia,” she says, trying to find the specific one on her desk and then checking the drawers, after my document continues to remain out of sight.
“I know,” I say, interjecting. “I meant call me Emma.” I can already tell this is one of those clueless teachers—the only good thing about them is that you can easily get out of work. I look around at the other students, seeing them shake their heads and roll their eyes at their oblivious teacher. This must be a normal occurrence for them.
“Okay then, Emma.” She enthuses on my name, showing me she knows. “Why don’t you find a seat?” She gestures to an open chair in the back of the class that I take quickly.
When I walk by, a girl with dark red wavy hair looks at me with a scared face. It’s odd, as if she knows me. Throughout class, she looks back at me with that same face. It’s like I’m some relative that has been dead for years and is now standing in front of her. There is something familiar about her, but I can’t find the connection. Everything about her is different; I’m sure if I had known her, I would remember.
When the bell finally rings, the girl gets up and stares at me again, as she passes—this time looking like she has a million questions. Her green eyes bore into me. Self-conscious, I look around me, hoping I may have mistaken her eye contact and she is really looking at someone else. When I look back, she’s still there, her chin-length waves of hair o
bstructing her face. I begin to walk to her, but she dashes off, leaving her back to me, as she runs to her next class.
Sadie is in my history class, so we go to lunch together. There are tables that house ten students each. Everyone crowds around in clusters. The walls are decorated with nutritional facts, as if that will sway our eating habits. I follow Sadie to the lunch line. She smiles and hands me a tray.
“Here’s a tip. If it looks like plastic, it probably tastes the same way.”
I give an unsteady laugh and grab a sandwich that’s in plastic wrap. A sticker on the package says it’s turkey and cheese.
“Good choice,” she says and selects a sandwich also.
She takes a seat at a table that has only two other girls. They engage in their own conversation, and I’m not even sure if they’ve noticed we’ve sat at their table. Sadie unwraps her sandwich and begins to tell me about everyone I will get to know. My mind is elsewhere, thinking about the girl that was staring at me in history class. My gaze darts around the cafeteria to see if she might be here also, but there’s no sign of her. Finally I break down and ask.
“Who was that red-haired girl in history?” Sadie must have seen at least once how she stared at me.
“That was Eliza,” she says, smoothing a long strand of her blond hair before returning to pick at her food. She takes one small bite of what is supposed to be blueberry pie and turns to me again. “Why was she looking at you weird?”
“I was hoping you would know,” I say, looking at the fake wood patterns on the school lunch table. At least I know I wasn’t the only one who had noticed.
“Eliza has always been real quiet,” Sadie says, picking out tomatoes from her sandwich. “She keeps to herself. I invited her to a party once. She didn’t come.”
“Did she say she would come?” I ask, watching her put her sandwich back together, minus the tomatoes.
