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Prologue:

It's just another day like any other. I go to my classes, talk to new people, some I've known for a while, and i try to keep the ever growing danger of boredom away. Life goes on through the tired dregs of our coffee driven existence, but we never see what's truly going on.





Chpt. 1:


Everyday she walks down the same road to the bus stop out of town. She sits on the bench and
watches the people get on--or even more rarely, off--the bus. It never changes. And, everyday I watch her, dropping the faded kitchen curtains after she sits down for the day. Time for--well, school I guess. I sigh, facing the dingy kitchen and grabbing my worn messenger bag from the table. I step out into the cramped hall and glance into the "den", as mother likes to gall it. The television's really loud again. She's crashed on the couch.... typical. I have got to leave before I make myself late.

The crisp autumn air smells like dying leaves and the promise of snow. I like autumn; it reminds me of this town. It's slowly dying by nobody realizes it, or at least they don't acknowledge it. I turn off my street onto Bridge Street (for those of you with wit, yes, it does have a bridge), passed Al's Corner Store and entered the hell known as High School. One year left, and I'm gone--that's basically been my mantra for the past two years. I hate this place. It smells of badly disguised sweat mixed with the vague scent of marijuana and alcohol. The kids that go to St. Anthony's hate me as a rule, but I don't mind them. I ignore their cat calls and antics. I'm almost gone. I never go to my locker--partially because I don't know where it is, but mainly it' so I don't have to go near my classmates. First class of the day: History. Goody.

7:45am and nobody's in the room--just how I like it. I take my usual seat (in the back row by the window) and pull out my notebook. I have fifteen minutes before my book has to come out, fifteen minutes before this school takes a little bit more of my willpower. Fifteen minutes before Mister--

"Hello." My head lifts at the sudden, soft female voice. The lady who apparently is addressing me has short, spiked black hair, of average height...And really, really green eyes.

"...Hi..." Who is she, why is she here, and why in God's name is she talking to me--wait, wait, wait. Mr. Randolf was supposed to retire...this can't be--

"I guess I'm your new teacher." She looked at the room then she settled her gaze back on me. "This is ancient history, right?" I stare at her blankly, she raises her eyebrow and I look away.

"Yeah." She nods and sets her bag next to the dark wooden desk.

RRRRIIIIIINNNNGG

...Son of a bitch. I lean back and glare at her as the rest of the students rush in. The second bell rings and the class quiets down, beginning the mexican standoff between the class and the School's one new teacher. She looked over every person in the class--ending with me--and she smiled a wolfish grin. Uh oh.

"Well, I am the new history teacher, as you can tell, and my name is Miss Roane." She walked around to the front of her desk and leaned against it, still smirking. "Let's get some things straight right now. One: you give me respect and I will respect you. Two: I don't take excuses, so don't bother coming up with any. Three: Do not push me and Four: I am not a pushover." She looked back around the classroom. "Now then, let's begin." The class passed by uneventfully enough. She knows an insane amount of information about ancient history...crazy. My introvert tendencies cause me to really detest talking in class, so of course she made me answer questions...many times. The rest of my morning classes went by until the long-awaited lunch hour. It's my least favorite hour. Why? Because everybody is out and about and there isn't a classroom I can wait in. So where do I go--the band room. Mister Higgins doesn't mind me going in there to play the piano. I slowly shut the door to a small side room with the piano. It is truly a thing of beauty. The dark oak contrasts with the ivory keys and the smooth curves are accentuated by a few straight lines. I reach out my hand as I walk toward it. It's amazing how this instrument can make the world seem right. I sit down on the bench, closing my eyes with a sigh while resting my hands on the keys. then I let myself go.

The beauty of this situation is that I don't have to leave that little room until my 7th hour class--math. My time always passes too quickly, especially because my math class sucks. Like most Englished biased people I spend most of my math hour counting down the minutes before I can leave and writing random bits of poetry. Another ring of the screeching bell and I'm off to my last class of the day--English. This is my specialty, and therefore the only class that I really look forward to. I bask in the only creative freedom that can actually speak in the words and phrases that make language beautiful and ugly in turn.