My bubble of idle thought bursts as the electric school bell rings, sharp and metallic like an alarm clock. The rustle of papers and the squeak of metal chair legs against linoleum echo around the little classroom.
“Alright, everyone, please come one by one to my desk to staple your stories and leave them here for me to read. Homework for Monday is to write a short historical character description … I’d say it should be somewhere between 500 and 700 words. I want you to research well—your character should be historically accurate to the time period. Any time period you want. All right? Have a good weekend.”
Obediently, the students stop by my desk, single file, to staple their papers and put them in a neat pile before sprinting out the door in groups of two and three. I look up and am startled to see that the small, pastel classroom is not empty. Towards the middle of the room, an auburn head is bent over a plastic desk, the long curls swaying slightly in the wind from the open window. A pale, slender hand scrawls across a piece of paper with elegant, regular movements.
Her name is Olivia. Other teachers have told me that she doesn't pay attention in class; that she only talks if encouraged repeatedly and even so, gives two-or-three-word answers at best. The latter is most definitely true, but I have to disagree with the former. She may not seem to be focused, but when I read her essays and stories, I always realize that she is acutely gifted and has taken everything that I’ve said into account.
I smile to myself and lean my elbows on my desk. I should probably tell her to go, like her classmates, so that she won’t be late for the bus—but she looks so intent that somehow I can’t bring myself to disturb her.
In the setting sun, she glows like an emerald. She dresses in green; always green. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her wear anything else. Today she wears a fair, delicate shirt with dangling sleeves that flutter in the wind. Her short pants reach her calves in faintly-textured folds of forest green.
She reminds me of a fairy; she is so ethereal and quiet. She flits around the school by herself, unlike the other students who always traverse the halls with friends. Looking at her now, I see her narrow, sandaled feet tapping the legs of her desk as her hand pauses, no doubt in search of the right word. She tucks one of her feet under her other leg and her hand begins to dance once again across the paper.
A few minutes later, she places her pencil on her desk and looks quickly over her work. Seemingly pleased, she folds the papers in half with a neat, decisive crease and places it contentedly on her desk.
“Olivia.” I breathe, my voice barely surpassing a whisper.
She looks up, startled. Her glowing blue-green eyes are the wide, pondering eyes of an innocent observer.
I gesture towards the empty room. She follows my motion with her head and jumps up, slinging her bag over her slender shoulder, before dancing lightly from the room. I chuckle to myself and sit down at my desk to read the pile of stories waiting there.
I haven’t gotten much past the third story when a cool gush of wind blows the piece of paper from my hand to the speckled linoleum. The air is fresh, all drawl of summer devoured by the delicate crispness of autumn. I stand up. Colorful streamers around the room read, I Want to be Able to Shake Hands With Your Character! It’s a lame slogan, and it makes me cringe every time I read it, but it seems relevant considering that this month in creative writing we’re focusing on character development and description. The yellow walls glow and the blue desks cast long shadows in the orange twilight of the setting sun. With a little shiver, I walk over to the open window and close it. I retrieve the paper from the floor and turn on my desk lamp before resuming my reading.
An hour and a half—and eleven stories—later, I relax and slump into my chair, surveying the now-dark classroom through weary eyes. I have finally finished—or so it seems. I look at Olivia’s desk, and see her folded story lying there. I usually save hers for last, as a treat, but I almost forgot about it this time, because she didn’t give it to me at the end of class. I get up and walk over to the desk. The sound of my heels ricochets eerily off the plaster walls with unnatural clarity. I seat myself in her chair and pick up her story. It is almost warm to my touch and seems to shudder as though with a heartbeat—like it’s alive… no, I must be imagining it.
I unfold it and barely notice that the words glow faintly in the dark room. As I read, enchanted, an opalescent aqua mist begins to gather over the neat, cursive letters. It grows and swirls like a tornado. I read on, heart thumping as the gleaming mist rises from the paper. I reach the end and for the first time, I look away from the paper and straight at the gathering mist. It is taking the shape of a little girl, the size of my forearm, with gossamer wings and pointed, elf-like ears. As the wings flutter, the radiant little girl solidifies—and I know her immediately. She is Naraida, the little fairy orphan who is the protagonist from Olivia’s story.
She dances around in the air, flying in circles around my head and singing in a high tinkle of a voice that reminds me of wind chimes. Finally, she alights on the desk in front of me and begins to twitter rapidly in an unintelligible language—Tornill, the language from Olivia’s fantasy world. As she talks, she gesticulates madly with her delicate hands. Ah yes, didn’t Olivia write that gestures are a very important part of Tornill?
The fairy stops her chatter and her hands fall to her sides as she flops down on the desk panting. Only the thought that I might be imagining her helps me suppress a laugh, as I watch the glowing Naraida sit there panting, her wings crumpled and drooping with fatigue from her babbling. She slumps down on her side, holding her head up with a miniature hand, and surveys me with large, insect-like eyes.
Now that she is stationary, I can look more closely at her. She wears a twinkling turquoise jumper that does not seem to have a definite edge, but just fades off into thin air after her knobby knees, like a brush stroke of glittery paint on the schoolroom background. Her green-blonde hair is short and messy from (as Olivia explained in her story) playing rowdy games with the neighborhood rodents.
I try to gulp, but my throat is so dry that the attempt hurts. How could this be happening? I must be going crazy, hallucinating. I look down at the paper in my hand. The letters are runny, unintelligible black smudges across the paper—which does not feel warm or seem to pulse anymore. I never realized how limp and lifeless a piece of paper could be. The words were too powerful for their own good, I suppose.
Looking back up at the classroom, I see the festive banners of I Want to be Able to Shake Hands With Your Character! and my body tenses with the significance of this opportunity.
I look down at Naraida. Her eyes are shut and her thin lips twitch in sleep. I lean down close to the little head.
“Naraida?” I whisper.
The eyes open, one at a time. The wings tremble. The little fairy scrambles to her feet. I reach out a hand, holding my breath in excitement. She looks up at my eyes, her green brows arching and blending with her tousled bangs. She looks down at my hand; up at me; down at my hand again. Her little body bounces once with thrill, before she runs excitedly up to my hand, grasping three of my fingers with both of her hands. Looking into each other’s eyes, we shake hands heartily.
