novel
 12:45 p.m. on 2003-08-29

She walked into the classroom, fully aware that everyone was staring. Pin pricks on her back, toes numb and breath shallow. �Take a seat�. Cold metal on thinly covered legs. No room for feet. So this is what the new High School is like. Black hair shagged into clear eyes. They quickly dart around. Everyone is so alien. To neat and clean. All alike. There are probably many that are considered rebels. Looks aren�t everything, but they help. Clean paper. Blank canvas, that strange feeling of emptiness before the blue lines are filled with grey loops and edges. �What I Want You To Know About Me�. Nothing. I keep secrets. I don�t talk. I don�t want you to be my friend. I don�t want to be here. Throb, throb throb. Blood pumping through my temples. Pain. The sound of scratching fills my ears. Start. �I am Morgan. Nothing more, nothing less. Don�t expect me to fit your miniature mold. It wont work. I am a creator. A destroyer. A performer and writer of music. Controversy is my passion. Where ever I find it, I use it. Abortion, Gay Marriages, War? I have opinions. Im not an idiot. I just don�t talk. I am the girl with no voice. I wear all black because I want to; I�m not stating a point. I listen to many different genres of music. I read many different styles of literature. That doesn�t make me a poser. It makes me human. I don�t fit into one group. I rarely fit into any groups. Don�t force me to make friends, it doesn�t work either. I photograph, paint and sketch. I found my friends in books. I like it this way. I�m not lonely. I�m Morgan.� I don�t think that he�ll like it, but who cares? Everyone has long since finished and is staring at my shaking hands watching to see if I�ll write anymore. I tend to write quickly, and sketchily. I was once told I have a boys hand writing and a woman�s mind. I didn�t like that. Men aren�t allowed creativity, women unkempt handwriting? Homeroom on the first day is always hell. Brightly colored forms. Colored for the soul purpose of trying to look friendly making an attempt at taking away the drab of a dead summer and an early morning. That reminded me of how much I hate secretaries. There�s no actual reason behind, I just don�t like them. An older looking boy raised his hand, and asked about drug testing in football. I�m actually not for drug testing in sports. It would be fun to see an entire football team on acid during a game. What would be better: if they all had bad trips. I�m not a very big fan of organized athletics the way they are, a bit of illegality would really improve them. That�s just my opinion. I think back to my old room. It always smelled like a thrift store, no matter how much papaya/mango Glade my mother sprayed in it. I love the smell of Thrift shoppes. To me, they smell like history, like I�m walking into someone else�s life as soon as I pull on a pair of abused Levis or a seamless shirt. Every stain has a story. Every article of clothing amy hold a pivotal moment in ones life. First Kisses, first cigarette, 16th birthday. Any number of things. First kisses. I often wonder what they feel like. Awkward, most likely, but at the same time magical. Someone cares enough about you to shove their lips between yours and taste your last meal. AND ENJOY IT. It�s beyond me as to why its fun, but I suppose I�ll find out. The bell sounds and I jump. It�s not a normal ring. More of a piercing wail. A keen. I know you must be thinking, keen? Isn�t that good? Well, it�s also an ancient Irish lament for the dead, it usually involves loud wails and sobs. I spend to much time on Dictionary.com. I shuffle out, the last one in, the last one out. My knapsack is heavy and cumbersome. I effortlessly unlock my locker at the first try. I am magic. All hail the Mystical Morgan. I unload all my things except for a sketch book, a composition notebook and a pack of pre-sharpened pencils. I don�t need a lot to be entertained. Lets see what I have now, Joy�Photography 1. even though I told them I knew the functions and procedures of a camera. I had long since developed my own technique and mastered a few others. 5 years of intense boredom and an inherited Cannon, fully manual will have that effect. Maybe I�ll be moved along shortly once they figure out that I wasn�t lying. But then again, I have sensed complete stupidity from most of the people I�ve talked to as of late. Well, Al was right, human stupidity is quite infinite. I�ll deal with it. I have before, I will now. I adapt to situations quite easily. I have a tendency to blend in with my surroundings. Not conform, just melt away into nothingness. Every once in a while a teacher gives me a figurative pat on the head and tells me that Im a smart girl and I could improve on my skills if I were more social. I have my books thank you very much. I don�t really want anyone else at the moment. It would be nice to have a friend, though. I had one back at home. We were the quiet ones. We stayed up late every Friday night talking about everything. And now she's 6 hours away. In the same school. Actually, this school is not to different than any other high school I�ve ever seen. They are all tiny hells manifested into brick or stone. With their only purpose being to alienate the different. But only if they refuse to become what our fascist leaders want use to be. I spend too much time thinking. The little grey thing floating in my skull never stops. That why I don�t talk too much. I say whatever comes to mind and tend to go of on a tangent all the time. I enter the photo class. The third person in. Back row, left hand corner. My face is still concealed behind my raven locks. Locks, how did that become a name for hair? How did the shortened term for automobile become car? The world may never know. The teacher is wearing black pants and a black turtle-necked sweater. Curly hair and a hooked nose add to the image of a �deep photographic genius�. He introduces himself. By that time, everyone else has filed in and have started chatting. I take it upon my self to sketch. He sits down in his desk; ego deflated and shovels through his attach� for the list. He calls out everyone�s name, pauses at mine and wrinkles his brow. �Mor-gane-a?� he asks. �It�s Mor-gone-a. I was named after Arthur�s sister.� Some wise ass corrects me, and says her name was Morgaine, no �A�. I quickly tell him that in the book Mists Of Avalon, it was, but she was known by many names. I wanted to go on, but stopped myself when the teacher looked at me with his head cocked to the side. He then asked if anyone had experience in manual photography. I, along with about 4 other people raised their hands, including the name-corrector. He asks how many years, and points to me. �About five� I respond in a small voice. �Pardon?� �Five years� I say slowly and a bit louder. He gives up. The rest have been doing for maybe a year or so. Except for the name corrector; Shawn. �With a H and W�. Of course Teacher ignores the obvious hostility and pairs us together. He gives each person a roll of film and an old manual. No lens extension. I haven�t worked with something this basic in 4 years. Shawn starts fiddling with it. I insert the roll, and play with the lens and F-Stop and aperture a bit, get bored and continue on my sketch. Everyone else in the room looks puzzled on girls actually asks �Why is the glass thingy moving?� It�s to bad stupidity is painful. Someone said that before, I just cant remember. Shown steals a glance at my drawing. My hands work quickly. Line, line line, line line, sleeve over thumb, circles, erase. Smooth. Repeat. I look up, his eyes are almost black. He says its really good. I thank him quietly and blush a bit. I don�t take complements well. I almost wait for a follow up �but�. BUT you should shade the other side instead. BUT the eyes need to be higher. No such thing escapes his mouth. I smile weakly. �Im sorry if I sound rude, I don�t think I�m better than you, I just don�t take compliments well, or talk much.� He smiles and does a half laugh. �I understand, I was like that when I was a freshman�. �I�m not a freshman, I�m just new here. I�m a junior.� I say. Even when I speak its almost a whisper. Just a bit louder, and not hushed or breathy. �So am I, so how do you like it here?� He asks. He sounds interested in my opinion. So I answer as honestly as possible. �Everyone�s eyes are straight pins, They push them into my back. The florescent lights blind me. I know everyone�s going to want me to talk. Everyone here looks the same to me. Pink shirt, khakis, blue jeans, flip-flops. Plaid button-ups, baggy pants, smashed eyes.� I respond. Louder at the end. A girl looks over her shoulder at me and shrugs. �How are they straight pins?� he inquires. �I can feel them staring at me. I feel pin-pricks in my back. There�s no other way to explain it� I look directly into his eyes this time. �You have a thing for eyes, don�t you? Almost everything you said about the school had to do with eyes.� �Yeah, I guess I do.� Shrug �Its just the first thing I pick up on in a person. A distinguishing personality trait. And finger print for your face, if you will.� �I guess your right.� He ends the conversation there, and lets me get back to work. About 15 minutes later, I am invited to sit with him and a few of his friends at lunch. I accept. He seems decent, and my presence wasn�t promised to anyone else. He looks pleased and returns to his camera. The god damn wail again. I jump again. Will I ever get used to that blare?

. . . . . . . . .

I walked into a small metal room with loud orange carpet, reminesant of that of the seventies. Small posters displaying smoking animals and disgruntled gorillas greeted me, along with a small gnome-like woman. The English teacher looked like a character from the Grimm�s Brothers, I neglected to tell her this. The teachers� frizzy grey hair barley reached me shoulder, but she had an extremely strong handshake which almost pulled me over. I�m going to blame the weight of my shoulder bag. She already knew my name, and told me where to sit. Middle of the classroom. No way to hide. A group of blonde girls came in (from a bottle, no doubt) giggling and talking as most teen girls do. I recognized one of them from my photo class. She whispered something to the one closest to her and that set off a chain. The stopped, stared at me, and warily crossed in front of my seat as if I were a poisonous snake ready to attack. Oh my, how subtle you all are! I slipped a paperback from my bag and began to read. Cold Mountain. I have read it many times before, and it still remains a favorite. Teacher number two scuttled over, rear and bosom quaking, �I love that book! It�s so romantic!� I never really saw it as romantic. In fact, I think that Charles Frazier was trying to avoid romance at all cost, until the end when the editor told him it needed romance or it would be kicked. I always think of ways that it wasn�t the writers fault (as long as I like the writer) that a part in the book was bad, I blame the editor. Because they are always there and needed to be blamed sometimes. They just don�t get enough of it. But back to the romance part...something about farm sluts seducing a murderous pastor and a Confederate deserter just doesn�t stir up my libido and make me go sigh. But that�s just me. �Hmmm, I don�t really see the romance in it� I replied quietly. �Oh! Well, you�ll see soon enough my dear!� She chirped. �I�ve read this five times already� I quipped. And the conversation ended. By then, the rest of the horses galloped in, neighing and prancing as most happy ponies do. Teacher number two squeaked �Seats! Seats children!� and pointed to the blackboard with a piece of paper stating everyone�s name in a small little box, pinned upon it with a smiley face magnet. Ironically, upside down. Most of them groaned and transformed into spoilt teenagers. Within minutes I was surrounded by 4 guys. All wearing tee-shirts advertising crab-shacks and car-washes. Apparently, they were supposed to have a strong sexual undertone. I understood what it was saying; I just couldn�t wrap my head around why someone would ever wear that. I sensed their eyes peering at me. Prick, prick, prick. I sensed them laughing at my extremely long black hair, that was obviously dyed. My ripped black jeans. My shirt from a vintage clothier, black- of course- That said �No Future� in bold white lettering. My soiled classic Taylors. Neigh! Neigh! I gazed at the door, praying for intelligent life. It never came. I got pissed. These people are idiots, I doubt they even know who wrote Wuthering Heights! But thay are here, in an honors calss. Why? Because they memorized the damned text and didn�t bither to try to understand what it meant. I remember last year in an honors course, We read Animal Farm. No one could bet their thick heads around the fact that the characters represented humans. It wasn�t pigs controlling horses! It was the Russian government controlling the citizens! But guess what? Everyone got into the next honors, all because they memorized it. Bleat! Bleat! Little lambs!

Dance for my enjoyment miniature poodle!

Jump! Jump! Brawny Bear! Through the pink candy cane hoops!

Over licking flames!

The clowns erupt in laughter and joyous dance.

Tent quakes as an elephant takes a final lick before being dragged out and exploited for nickels.

The People scream

Chaos! Chaos little girl.

Run run in your Sunday best.

Get out alive in your shiny white mary-janes.

Click click. Like a small blonde pony.

Ringlets glowing red in the embers.

Blue and White plastic bands melt and sizzle

Fumes fumes! Chase the butterflies my dear!

Inhale the invisible noose

Trapped! Trapped! In a circus of glee!

When the children�s screams are heard for miles

And the charred cadavers of once a safe warm haven

The cruelty of chaos over comes.

My pencil was moving violently across the paper. I felt a heav silence and looked up to see 20 faces staring at me. One of the boys tried to grab my notebook. I shook his hand away. Teacher number two stalked over and ordered me to tell her what I wrote. �It�s a poem, and it�s not done yet� I answered haughtily. �Well, finished or not, I think that your talent should be shared with the rest of the class.� I decided it wasn�t worth arguing. I got up from my chair, waltzed to the front of the room. Stood motionless, my voice solid and unchanging. I bowed, stepped lightly over a few bags and landed in my seat. The teacher patted me on the head with an invisible hand and told me to run along and play with my dollies. I heard whispers all around me. Growing at an astonishing rate, but she didn�t seem to notice. They drowned me and bound my lungs and limbs. I couldn�t breathe! �Twisted� �Strange� �Fucked� �freak� �Creepy�. I shouldn�t care, and I don�t really, but their words were suffocating! Lunch was soon and hunger was ebbing away at my body. Back to the photo room in one hour. Until then, I will be left to my own devices. Quietly pondering the meaning of life, and exactly how many drugs (and how much!) The person who invented the Spork was on. I started humming �Starshine� In my head. I am the human jukebox. I subliminally danced to that until I slipped into a waking slumber. Yes, they are real. I slept with my eyes open. The hour went by fast, and I even missed the bell. A pretty pony nuzzled my head with his sturdy hoof, neighed �Morbid, get up� and left. I picked u my belongings meticulously and gracefully exited the room. Holding my binder to my chest as if it were a child hood friend sewed into a small stuffed bear, I shuffled through the labyrinth of tiles and found my classroom again.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

I sat down in my usual seat (well, the one I used the last time) dropped my things and picked up my sketchpad. Before I could even open it, Shawn sauntered in. He fluently shrugged off his Jansport ad slid into his stool. Its beyond me how he slid into the stool, but he did) His hand twitched in my direction, I took that as a wave and nodded an acknowledgment. Hair in eyes, he leaned over the paper and looked straight up at my face. �Why?� I asked. �I never saw your entire face.� He said and lifted his head away and into an upward position. �Why would you want to, besides. I don�t like people seeing my eyes.� It was his turn to be confused and ask why. �Because, I�m a afraid my eyes are also straight pins, and I don�t want to hurt anyone with them.� I answer coolly. �Your certainly a character� he said, shaking his head. �It's to bad there aren�t more of you around� I turned and looked directly into his eyes �But then we would all be the alike. Instead of everyone caring about worthless things like make-up and crushes we would all be solemn and pensive. The people that were once sheep would be individuals. The individuals� sheep. The dancing horses would just try to comprehend what they cannot, and for that it would be worse. They wouldn�t succeed because their minds have already been numbed by video games and MTV.� He looked into my eyes again. I shrank away, but still felt the gaze. �Do you think about that a lot?� he questioned. �No, this is actually the first time it occurred to me. Maybe that�s what I went off on a tangent.� I went back to my work and twenty minutes later, the bell rang. �You eat first lunch, right?� he said. I nodded and we walked to the cafeteria in silence. We arrived at an isolated round table. Most likely white at one time, it was now discolored and yellow. He gestured towards a seat and I sat. �There�s pizza pretty much everyday. But if you want to be healthy, there�s also salad.� He said, pointing to two different lines. �Are there Pop-Tarts�?� �Yeah� and he pointed to the salad line �Over there� I walked over, picked up two strawberry pop-tarts and a bottle of water. The cashier was a bit creepy. I think he served dually as a janitor. That would explain it, janitors make me uncomfortable, too. I came back to see two more people there. I sat down and looked a bit nervous. �Morgana, this is Mullet and Emme� He said. �Mullet?� I asked incredibly confused. This Mullet character had no mullet; in fact it was shoulder length and black. He also showed no signs of being of hick decent. �Yeah, I had a mullet in first and second grade�they never let me forget it. My real name is Aubrey� He said in a deep calm voice. Almost like he had to explain for every new person. Emme was a short thin girl with curly brown hair going down her back and green eyes. She almost looked like she didn�t belong in the group. While Shawn and Aubrey looked gothic and very �tortured artist� Emme was more on the hippie side. She wore baggy hemp pants and a Jimi Hendrix tee shirt. Aubrey had a button down white shirt, with the sleeves rolled and fastened by leather strips, a black tie, black leather pants, and black platforms. He actually looked so much like Marilyn Manson, I almost called him Brian. Shawn simply wore a tight black tee, tight black jeans and beaten combat boots. Emme didn�t fit, at least physically. She was also bubbly and talkative while Shawn and Mullet were quiet and cynical. But somehow they melded and were very tight.Emme asked me where I cam from. �Detroit� I answered. �Wow, big city. How did you come about this place?� Shawn asked. �My mom wanted to get out of the city. And she found a job around here. She told me we were leaving about two weeks before we actually moved.� �But didn�t you have to sell the house?� Emme inquired. �We lived in an apartment. My best friend lived above us, actually� �Oh wow, that�s awesome.� She replied and returned to her cucumber and cheese sandwich. Emme was a vegetarian. I once was, but now I eat organic and cruelty-free meat. As in, the animals were free-ranged or treated properly before slaughter. I opened the pouch of pop-tarts and broke each rectangle into four pieces, ate the insides and wrapped the crust parts in the foil then put the other package in my bag. �So, what do you do for fun, Morgana?� Aubrey asked. �I sketch and write a lot. Also black and white photography and reading� I said with my hair swept into my face. �Shes a really good artist, at least from what I�ve seen� Shawn said. I looked down and blushed furiously. �I�m not that good� I answered. �May I see some of it?� Aubrey asked. �If you must� I replied as I leaned over and pulled the ratty, duct-tape wrapped sketch book out. He flipped through them and handed them back. �Join Art Club� He said tersely. �If you don�t willingly, I�ll make you. We need someone with your talent in it, all we have is preps trying to be creative� he added. �I don�t do clubs, sorry� He growled and went over to me. I was a bit worried. He started poking me mercilessly �Join!join!join!� he chanted. I just sat there drinking my water, glancing over to him now and again. �Do you mind?, I'm trying to drink� I said calmly. They all laughed. �Sorry, guess I'm gonna have to use better tactics, huh?� He said as he went back to his seat. His steps were broad, but very graceful and almost feminine. �Why don�t you like to be in clubs?� Shawn asked. �I don�t like being in this school in the first place. Why would I want to stay here longer than I have to? Besides�as you said, its filled with preps trying to be creative.� Aubrey held a look of defeat (or was it disappointment?) in his eyes and returned to his peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich. I looked very funny, watching a gothic looking kid named mullet eating a PB&J. A few minutes later, the bell rang. I was already used to it. I gingerly picked everything up and searched for a garbage can. I found it and made my way across the way towards it, but promptly tripped over Aubrey�s boot. He held his hand out and with one swift movement lifted me back on to my feet and reached over to pick up my sketchbook. Who said chivalry was dead? �Thanks, I guess im a bit of a klutz today� I mumbled. �Its okay� he walked the rest of the way with me and stopped outside the same room I did. The science room (eerie music begins to play). Now I perceive myself as a relatively intelligent young woman, but I hate science with a passion. I�m incredibly bad at it, and hate the fact that there�s no room for argument. We walked into another cold metal holding room and sat in plastic topped lab stools. Just so you know, I�m getting tremendously fed up with stools. And teachers, this one in particular. This middle aged, sad thing they name call an authority figure. So, I did what came naturally-ignore the teacher and draw. Aubrey looked over at me adding the finishing touches to the sketch I started first block. �Wow, Morgan, that�s astounding� he spoke like he was surprised at my talent.

wish you well