Scratch. Scratch.

My mechanical pencil on paper. Not at all definable from the rest of my classmates (taking their notes, as I should have been).

Slowly forming on my paper was a figure-first a neck... then a torso... arms... waist... hips... legs... After I had the entire sketchy body, I went back to the head-first an outline... then hair... a nose... mouth...

Couldn't get the eyes.

The face slowly blackened from all of my erasings, but no matter how many times I tried, I couldn't give the eyes that same cold they had seen one hundred wars. The closest I could get was a black blur.

-The eyes she had looked at me with.

"Storm. Number three, please," I could see the slight hint of glee in my language arts teacher's eye as he said it-as if he had finally caught me in a criminal act, like that of which he was sure I committed on a daily basis. Mr. Meisur's never been too fond of me, needless say. Couldn't say why... I don't think he likes the way I often show him up without even a thought. It's not something I've wasted a lot of time pondering.

Whatever it is, I don't care. I'm not going to bother to penetrate the veil which covers his eyes from the rest of the world.

I used to try to help everybody. I used to spend so many precious hours trying to let them see what was truly before them-what I have seen since birth.

My patience fairly quickly ran thin.

I no longer bother with any besides those whom I believe to be an asset-or even, though I hate to think of a human being in such a way, a pawn-to my mission.

Without even looking up at Mr. Meisur's grinning face, I calmly stated, "The sentance requires no commas."

I silently chuckled to myself.

Mr. Meisur really thought that he had had me. -The fool. I'm no idiot. I already knew the answer-I'm not so incompetent as to only be able to do one thing at a time.

Without a word I turned back to my drawing. Unbeknownst to any of my classmates, my little message of triumph floated across my teacher's mind. He stuttered a moment before continuing on with the lesson as if nothing had happened.

Just one more victory for Storm McPherson. I had to remind myself that it was less than important in the big picture. There were still battles to fight. Battles with much more serious consequences than a gloating teacher, if lost.

Mr. Meisur ended the class by announcing that we would have a new student in our class the following day. "So, if you would please all be helpful to Angel..." he droned on in his half-tone voice.


...No need to waste time concentrating on her.

As I left the classroom I noticed that Nicole had gone over to Mr. Meisur's mahogany desk, and was talking to the Evil Decider of Homework-Related Fate as I sometimes jokingly called him. Nicole hated my nicknames for all of our teachers. She thought that a teacher was a person to respect.

I'm not even going to add my opinions on the subject.

I waited for her fairly impatiently (as was in my character) outside the door. It was slightly humid out, which only made my unrest greater. "What was that about?" I inquired as she came through the paint-chipped door and the two of us started our stroll home.

"Stroll" is a bad word for it. "Stroll" makes it sound pleasurable.

We both unconsciencely zig-zagged across the street to stay withen the not-so-refreshing shade of the trees lining the street.

"Oh, I was just offering to be sort of a peer-helper to Angel for the first couple of days, or until she makes some friends," Nicole said off-handedly.


"I'm going to help her around-it's only polite."

We zig-zagged again.

"Oh, come on, Nicole! Her name is Angel for crying out loud! Doesn't that say anything to you? It says 'mindless prep' to me!"

"You're too quick to judge people! All you know is her name, and you're already making assumptions."

Okay, I'll admit it.

...She was right.

The girl didn't even pick her name-her parents did-and I already had a crystal-clear image set in my head of her. ...Of course, then again, I had picked my name.

But, as I've stated to the point of monotonous boredom: I'm different.


Call it a feeling, a vibe. One of those things which characters in fantasy novels are so prone to. Whatever. I just could picture her mentally so perfectly-and refused to think myself wrong. Stubborn me.

...But, stubborness wins the war. Stubborness, never letting up. Always perservere.

"-Damn, Storm, I know you're not listening to me!"

"Oh... Sorry, Nicole."