FicWad

[i] There’s something wrong with me. I can feel it inside. Even though everyone’s shirts are drenched in the salty water that is been expulsed through their pores, their skin covered in a reddish hue I sit here as normally as if it were any other time of the year. They talk about the weather being ‘hot’ and that’s something I do not understand, regardless of how many times I sit down and close my eyes and wait to ‘feel’ the weather. I don’t do that anymore, though. I used to, when I was small, and those things mattered to me. I resigned to the fact that there are some things that I don’t understand, and I’ve learned not to make a fuss about it because there are things that they don’t understand either, and I think it’s a perfect exchange.
I prefer to be myself over them. [/i]

She felt someone tucking her hair gently. She turned around and stared at a boy with mundane-colored skin, hair the color of burned sugar and big, round, hazel eyes. He had her ringlet of hair near his eyes, absorbed in it. Amarantha was sure he had taken it without thinking, perhaps attracted to the unusual blackness of it, and the way it curled more towards the end. But that didn’t mean this act of popping into her personal bubble was forgivable. She measured him, getting to the conclusion the kid was bound to be a wuss.
“Just what do you think you are doing?”
Amarantha asked in a swift, authoritarian tone. The boy’s eyes glanced up at her instantly and his small fingers released the string of hair, causing it to fall and then slightly bounce into place.
“I asked you a question.”
The boy seemed to consider continuing to close his mouth but thought better about it,
“I was looking at your hair.”
“Well, that was [i] obvious [/i]. I’m not obtuse, and I’m pretty sure that’s clear.”
She conveyed, talking slowly and stressing every syllable.
The boy snorted and looked out the window.
[i]Big mistake[/i]
“Are you an animal? Animals snort, humans do not. Unless this is a new language I’m unaware of, I’d suggest you start using real words, Tyrell Willowitz, perhaps that way you’ll pass English.”
And with that, she turned around. Tyrell looked shocked for a few seconds, and then a small, almost invisible smile appeared on his lips: she had talked to him; she had shouted at him, she knew his name.
Amarantha turned around violently, her hair tangled in the way. She rested her chin on the wooden desk and positioned her white fingers on her temples, tracing gentle small circles as she muttered ‘Om’ over and over. A few of her classmates’ heads turned and then shrugged and looked away when they noticed it was Amarantha. But Tyrell continued to look at her, this time in a less obvious way.

[center] * [/center]

“Is my class really this boring, Amarantha?”
The teacher hissed, hand placed over her wooden desk, a look of pure unadulterated loath on her eyes.
“Well, in reality, yes. I’m fed up with photosynthesis, Mrs. Herrera.”
“You think you’re so clever…”
Mrs. Herrera started, her lips quivering slightly, a vein protruding from her naturally tan skin.
“I am.”
Amarantha cut her off, a look of determination on her eyes.
“Test me.”
She said in a defiant tone, her arms crossed over her small, almost fragile looking frame, her ancient eyes locked with the teacher about forty years older than she was.
The teacher grimaced and fumbled over her pile of paper, gleefully extending a photocopy and motioning Amarantha to take it. Amarantha walked towards her, a triumphant expectation in her odd eyes.
“Class, answer the questions at the end of the reading.”
The teacher ordered out of habit, but nevertheless making sure the kids started working. Then she focused her attention to the smaller student, her face buried on her paper, the pencil moving furiously from one place to another, as if in a convulsive state.
“Done.”
Amarantha announced as she placed the paper delicately in front of the teacher, a victorious look about her. She stood there, her chin high up and her arms crossed in front of her still flat chest, her uniform’s skirt pleated and perfect, her school t-shirt without a wrinkle. Mrs. Herrera angered by the second, and her eyes started running down the neatly scribbled lines just beside the typed-in questions. Her eyes grew wide, her rather small hand wrapped around Amarantha’s and she hurried out of the room with her pupil in tow.
Tyrell looked up from question number four, the one he had been pondering for several seconds and noticed his classmates were chattering, some with annoyed and others with expectant eyes.
“What’s wrong? What happened?”
Tyrell asked Michael, the boy with the plump frame that sat beside him who found a way of always having crumbs of something on his cheeks.
“Mrs. Herrera ran with wiz kid after she handed her the test.”
He explained. Tyrell shrugged and rested his chin on his desk, sighing heavily. He knew something wouldn’t be the same anymore. His teeth sank on his lower lip causing a warm, thick fluid to stain them before it was whipped away by his tongue.
“Just when I gathered the guts to talk to her…”
He muttered, forgetting all about question number four and more about what would happen with his dear Amarantha.

[center] * [/center]

Amarantha sat on the uncomfortable green chair in her principal’s assistant’s office, in front of her desk with her legs together and her fingers in a fritz. She heard pieces of the conversation that Mrs. Herrera was having with Mrs. Ruiz that filtered through the space in between the door and the floor.
“She’s always been smart but-“
“…answered a complete twelve grade-“
“There’s a school…”
“….a myth?”
“run some tests…”
“You what?!”
“…make some calls…”
“…call her in.”

Then the door opened and Amarantha jumped to her feet instantly, eager to hear whatever her teacher had to tell her. Mrs. Herrera’s tough features had softened and she gave her pupil a small smile before turning to the assistant.
“Mrs. Priscilla wants to talk with Mrs Amarantha’s parents. Connect her please.”
She was about to turn around when Amarantha coughed lightly.
“Oh yes, fetch your stuff dear. Odds are, you won’t return here.”