Thinking back on it, Axel and I weren't exactly the type of people you'd pair as friends, let alone best friends.
Everyone adored Axel, and it was easy to see why. He was the embodiment of perfection: a straight A student and the football captain. Cheerleaders drooled over him and fought for him. I mean, who could resist someone who looks like him? But Axel was anything but your stereotypical student. He possessed an effortless charm that extended beyond the football field. Axel was just PERFECT.
On the other hand, there was me, Amber Alphares. My ancestors seemed to have been distinguished in their different aspects. However, I inherited neither their grace nor their intellect. My grades were decent, with only a couple of Ds here and there, but I was an average student. As for sports, I was a complete disaster. In my early years, during preschool, I was always the solitary figure, lost in my world. Demnesse (elementary school) painted a different picture. I was the target, the Ren in Thren, a dodgeball-like game with monsters. My role meant dodging for dear life. Running for my life was the only part I could play. Like, literally!
In Darcia (middle school), things took a turn for the worse. Those two Ds I mentioned earlier? They came about because of my turbulent experience in Darcia. Even as shitty as Darcia was, it was still in Darcia that I met Axel.
*****
I met Axel on Monday. It had started like every other day. The relentless sun hung high in the sky, determined to give me a sunburn that would rival a lobster's hue. As I boarded the Reddel bus, the jocks, my tormentors, wasted no time with their crude comments. The 'classy' girls couldn't resist mocking my clothes. But, as usual, I navigated through this daily ordeal with my sanity intact.
The school's hallway was dimly lit with flickering fluorescent lights that emitted a low, persistent buzz. Students flooded the hallways, each performing their own desired form of social interaction. I drifted through the hallway, making my way to the gym for the morning assembly.
School went on as usual, with me feeling grateful for having no one to prey on and torture my emotions. Everything was going well until somewhere between the sixth and seventh periods. As I walked along the corridor, carefully avoiding unfriendly stares, a jock did something unexpected—he waved. I passed by and did something I'd never had to do before in school: I pretended not to see.
Confused, I suspected this uncommon friendliness was a trick of my imagination, which I confirmed when he didn't even turn to see why I didn't wave back. I stopped in my tracks, astonished at my obliviousness. A nervous laugh escaped my lips as I realised I was running late for history class.
The History of the Ancients (Arts) was my sanctuary. The sound of pencils scratching against paper filled the classrooms. We tried to make sense of the mythologies we were being taught about the gods and goddesses of various civilizations. It was a classroom where making a little sense ensured a passing grade—a D or, if luck favoured, a C minus. My vivid imagination made history and the arts my strong suits, occasionally propelling me to the giddy heights of an A or, dare I say, an A+.
After graduation, I'm aiming to be a pure artist. Writing had once intrigued me, but my patience, or lack thereof, had ruled it out. Although arts and crafts weren't exactly as fun as writing, they were still better than anything science-related.
It's not that I was incompetent in earth and mind sciences; it was just that the mere sight of blood and the stench of chemicals turned my stomach. My inexplicable attraction to chaos made my experiments a disaster waiting to happen. My only attempt at mind science had almost driven a fellow student mad. Officially, it wasn't my fault; they claimed the student had pre-existing mental health issues. But my knack for crafting alternative truths convinced me that it was my fault. Sciences were sadly a compulsory subject, so theories were my only saving grace. I conveniently skipped practical classes to avoid further disasters.
History class went on as normally as it could, and after the class, I made my way to the cafeteria. I waited as usual for the busy hall to quiet down before leaving. After shoving my books in my backpack, I exchanged a knowing wink with Miss Berran, our history teacher. She adored my detailed reports on the god-titan war. Once remarking that reading them felt like witnessing the events first-hand.
As I left the classroom, a mix of perfumes and cafeteria food hung in the air. It was an odd but familiar, irritating smell. I then tucked my backpack into my locker and ventured into the cafeteria. The cafeteria buzzed with activity. Students chatted loudly, their voices a chaotic symphony. The scent of various dishes wafted through the air, creating a unique blend of aromas that hung heavily in the room. I walked to my usual sanctuary—a corner table discreetly tucked away from prying eyes, devoid of any attraction whatsoever.
I sat alone, playing with my lunch rather than eating it. Staring at my plate in silence, the inexplicable happened. Someone approached my table, and there was no food, insect, or any strange substances adorning my head. I continued looking down at my plate, expecting the person to finish their business and go, without daring to look up. To my horror, he—as I soon realised—sat down beside me, bringing with him all the unwanted stares I've spent my whole life trying to avoid.
He looked straight at me, definitely expecting me to look up, and I did. He was smiling at me as if he were someone I'd known all my life, and then he blurted, "You know you owe me an apology, right?"
Surprised, I nearly choked on a pea, coughing loudly. I couldn't help but draw attention to myself, a situation I loathed. As annoyed as I was at him for making me do that, all I could manage to mutter was "huh?"
Damn! I am so pathetic.
I turned to face this stranger. I expected mockery or at least a knowing smirk towards his friends to appear, as the sight of him alone almost made me swoon. But to my surprise, there was no reaction, no ridicule. Absolutely nothing! He just sat in front of me, clearly expecting an apology for a crime I had no idea I had committed.
Was I dreaming? It felt surreal—this person standing before me, demanding an apology. Any moment, I thought, I'd wake up, and the voice saying "hello" would be my mother, gently rousing me. But I was fully awake. He was still there, along with the countless pairs of eyes now fixed on us. Blood rushed to my cheeks, and my hands trembled. This was absurd. Was this some new form of torment? If so, it was downright cruel. Why should I apologise for a crime I knew nothing about?
"We—well? —well, how? How do you... what?" I stuttered, my words stumbling out.
"My apology," he replied.
I let out a sigh, still bewildered. "Yes, I know, but what is the apology?"
"The one you owe me," he said.
"H—How—I've never even met you before," I stammered, trying to maintain my composure.
As if on cue, the bell rang, rescuing me from the uncomfortable situation—talk about 'saved by the bell.' I didn't have a class at that time. The person sitting in front of me seemed to, judging by how he called on someone to give him a sheet of paper, then he wrote something on it and passed it to me. Muttering something that sounded like 'damned bell,' he hastily departed the cafeteria, leaving me bewildered.
I crumpled the paper and resumed fiddling with my food, avoiding eye contact with my fellow students, who couldn't seem to avert their gazes from me. It felt like a surreal dream, a product of my imagination. Yet the crumpled paper in my hand, bearing strange handwriting, testified otherwise. Who was this person, and what had I unknowingly done to them? I continued to ponder these questions until the bell's shrill ring jolted me from my mini-trance.
I must have been doing some drawing because my sketchpad was out. I hurriedly packed my belongings and made my way to the library for detention with Mrs. Doris, the librarian. Detention, an unjust punishment for a crime I didn't commit, was my regular fate. My well-rehearsed apologies typically fell on deaf ears, as adults, much like my classmates, deemed them "boring."
Mrs. Doris, with a stern "You're LATE," greeted me upon my arrival. I wore my best innocent expression. I launched into my apology routine, which usually began with "I'm so, so sorry." It always ended early since no one cared for my excuses.
"No time for excuses; get to work," Mrs. Doris interrupted, her exasperation obvious as she sighed. I smiled, rolled my eyes subtly, and headed towards the library's restricted section.
Detention in the library was fun. I had to log students entering a restricted area. I also had to prevent unauthorised students from accessing it. The irony was that it allowed me access. I immersed myself in reading restricted literature, as expected when a nerd is so close to knowledge.
Rows of bookshelves filled the library, lit softly and stretching towards the ceiling. The atmosphere maintained a hushed ambiance, broken only by the occasional student's murmur or the rustling of pages. The restricted section, tucked away in the southwest corner, drew me with its dim lighting and valuable books. Entering, I picked a book from the shelf titled 'The Possibility,' sat at a table near the entrance, and began reading.
After about an hour, detention ended, and it was time for music class. I muttered a silent prayer, seeking the strength to endure through the class without throwing up. Music itself was fun, but my classmates were not. They were the reason jocks mistreated nerds. Thankfully, I made it through the class with my sanity.
The last bell rang, signalling the end of the school day. I hurried to leave, eager to escape the prying eyes of my peers and secure my seat on the Reddel before the 'vultures' emerged from their caves. The bus left promptly after the last bell for refuelling, so I often rode along to avoid further social interaction.
Thankfully, I made it in time. The Reddel driver, sympathetic to my situation, dropped me off near my street before heading to the gas station. My house was just seven blocks away. Seated in the front row of the bus, I gazed out the window, watching buildings and trees blur as we neared my stop.
Upon disembarking, the quiet ambiance of suburban Sands Street greeted me with a cool breeze as I began my walk home. About fifteen minutes later, I arrived at my cosy, two-story house. The familiar creak of the stairs welcomed me as I called out, "I'm home." My mother's sigh, followed by muttered words like "no friends, always alone, abnormal, inhuman," drifted up to me.
Exasperation swelled within me. What did she expect? Why did society treat solitude as if it were a crime? I sighed, continuing up the stairs towards my room at the end of the hallway. From the kitchen below, I could hear my mother bustling around, likely working on another of her concoctions.
I had planned to take a quick shower and grab a snack, but the allure of my bed proved irresistible. I lay down and drifted into a deep slumber.
I woke up to my mother's stern voice, her words initially a jumble. I caught on things like 'lazy', 'jobless', 'nothing d-'. As I was finally being drawn back to reality, I realised it was already dusk, and I must have slept for a good three hours. My mother gazed deeply into my eyes, clearly annoyed.
She lowered her voice and perched on the edge of my bed, studying me closely. She lingered for what felt like an eternity, though it was likely just seconds.
Finally, she said, "Freshen up; dinner's almost ready," and left my room.
I stood up in a daze, proceeding to bathe and brush my hair before descending the stairs to find my family already gathered for dinner. It was obvious Mom had set the dinner table with care, and the aroma of a home-cooked meal filled the room. I took my place to the right of my father, directly facing my eldest brother, with my immediate elder brother beside me. My father smiled gently. He then asked about our days. We each shared stories as we passed the dishes of food. The warm, cosy atmosphere of our home provided a stark contrast to the challenges I faced at school.
After dinner, I went to my room, hearing my mother's reminder, "Bedtime's at twenty-two hundred; I'm serious this time, young lady!"
"Yes, Mom," I replied, making my way sluggishly up the stairs to my room.
My room was, to me, the safest place on earth. It was a haven of cosiness. Posters of my favourite bands adorned the walls, their vibrant colours contrasting with the muted tones of the room. A small desk sat by the window, filled with sketchbooks, pencils, and a laptop perched right at its edge. The soft glow of a bedside lamp bathed the room in a warm, comforting light.
The radio played softly in the background a song by 'The Authors'. I reached for my school bag, picking up my sketchpad, intending to continue what I was working on from lunch. To my horror, I discovered a crumpled piece of paper—as if today couldn't get any worse.
I took out the paper, initially unsure of where it had come from—then I remembered my unfortunate encounter with the jock at lunch. I must have accidentally stuffed it into my bag while rushing off to detention. Finally finding the nerve to read what was written, I was taken aback. It was a strange handwriting in all CAPS, boldly declaring:
"DON'T YOU DARE LEAVE SCHOOL WITH MY APOLOGY?"
"Oops!" chuckling to myself, shaking my head. "Oh well, I'm glad that's over". I smiled, tossing the paper into some corner of my room, and brought out my sketch pad to continue what I was drawing. I sketched until mom came in to turn off the lights while I reluctantly went to sleep.
The next day, everything went back to normal at school. A few awkward stares and hushed conversations about the previous day's cafeteria incident followed, but I could live with that.
Still, despite my efforts to dismiss it, I was curious about the strange person who had confronted me and invaded my space, if only for a moment. There were no jocks being nice to me, just the regular ol' mean jerks I grinned as I walked further down the hallway, proclaiming to myself, 'All was well in the world again.'