Chapter 2
“Do you know why I kept you after the bell, Miss Lenhart?”
I sighed. “Because my attention is being diverted by insufficient and ludicrous daydreams that suck me into an unrealistic world that is both unhealthy for the mind and improper for a young lady to dwell on,” I said, almost verbatim minus a few ands or thes to the spiel I heard once a week at the minimum.
I wonder how many classes I’ll be late for this time? I thought sourly, though hiding my irritation behind a one heck of a poker face.
Mr. Crock looked up from my journal in his pudgy hands, cocked his mouth open slightly with disapproval, and stared at me over his undersized reading glasses, frame permanently bent outward due to the wideness of his head.
“Yes,” he said, drawing out the word for exaggeration with a ridged voice weighted by forced composure. “You obviously remember we’ve been over this before.” He leaned back in his chair, which was about ready to collapse, not only because he was fat but because his ego was about the same size in proportion. For simplicity’s sake let’s just say his ego was obese, no beating around the bush here.
“You must also remember that your parents sent you to private school, not with the intent purpose for you to waste you time on silly fantasies, but to get a thorough, secure, education.” Mr. Crock paused a moment, as if his words were sinking into my mind like osmosis because they were just so full of wisdom, and after a few seconds said, “This is starting to become an issue—Ashe.” The last word of his sentence was reluctant and strained.
I bit the inside of my cheek to stop myself from smiling. He hated calling me by my first name because to him it wasn’t a “real” name, with it not being short for anything like Ashley or Ashland and all. And if it were he wouldn’t call me Ashe because it was the abbreviated and incorrect form of the name.
Talk about anal, no wonder he’s not married, I couldn’t help but continue with my silent mocking in my head. I bet he files his toenails.
Mr. Crock stared at me, waiting for some sort of response, but I refused to give him the pleasure. I remained cold and threw a little disinterest into the mix by letting my gaze roam about the room and twisting the ends of hair that barely brushed the top of my shoulders.
After a few seconds of silence, Mr. Crock let out an enormous sigh, and then said, “I’ll be notifying your parents today after school about your inability to cope with the real world.”
I opened my mouth and had to stop the “Are you out of your freaking mind?!” about ready to blare out. Instead, an astonished and high-pitched “WHAT?!” scourged my throat as I gawked at Mr. Crock with amazement and disgust.
He thinks I write my stories because I can’t handle the real world? He’s more pathetic than I thought!
To think someone would go so low as to come up with a diagnosed syndrome for someone just to make themselves look good. It was sickening, a whole new level of low. Mr. Crock went on about what he would tell my parents but I couldn’t make out a single word; the thought of choking him out in the UFC Octagon was blinding my ears.
“Are we clear? Miss Lenhart?”
My jaw was clenched so tightly my ears were ringing.
“Transparently,” I said, making sure to lay the iciness thick. Of course this was a lie because I didn’t hear a thing he said. All I could hear was the Ref. slamming the floor and counting to ten as Mr. Crock tapped out on five.
As I bent down to grab my book bag I had set aside, Mr. Crock surprised me by saying, “I’m rather intrigued to know where you get your inspiration for this, Miss Lenhart. It must be an enormous spring of creativity for you to keep this up as long as you have.”
I contemplated lying, but couldn’t think of a good enough response other than the truth.
“I dream about it,” I answered curtly, not wishing to discuss it any further.
The minute I took a step forward Mr. Crock fired another question. “The same people?” The curiosity was overwhelming his voice. I knew he would use this against me to some how prove I had a disorder. “Every night?”
Why should I have to tell him these things anyway? I thought, shocked slightly from to potency of distain I heard in my own head. It’s none of his business.
“I have to go to my next class, Mr. Crock,” I said, making sure to pronounce my syllables carefully and not let the attitude slip to only cause more grief. I began walking towards the door and wasn’t going to stop no matter what he said. Thankfully he didn’t speak a word and I was free to go to my locker, feeling torn (so I suppose “free” wouldn’t be the best way to put it). I was so distracted I couldn’t remember my combination until I finally tried it with a coherent mind for the sixth time.
The locker opened and the reality hit my head on: I had never told anyone that. No one knew why I wrote the stories that I did, or even that I dreamt practically all of them. But they weren’t just dreams. They felt like memories I had before I—
Tears singed my eyes like salt to a wound. Not that anyone would have noticed me anyways, I leaned closer to my locker just to be certain. That, to me, was precious information that I had just given someone I could have cared less about, someone who didn’t even know me, to someone who thinks I’m crazy. It wasn’t until now that I realized the only people I wanted to share those stories with were the people I dreamt about, the people from my past.
A new, dreadful, feeling washed over me as a voice in the back wastelands of my subconscious whispered the unthinkable: what if those people didn’t really exist?
I had to hold on to the edges of my locker to keep from slamming my head into the top shelf. I shook my head, trying to rid that terrible side of me that always doubted any good I had in my life from my mind, though I failed miserably.
Hoping to get away, I threw my locker shut with a slam though the sound did little to satisfy me as I practically jogged to the nearest girl’s bathroom. In my rush of fury and anguish I jerked the door open a little too quick and nearly plowed into another girl. With no surprise she gave me a small look of dislike and walked out, leaving me alone to idly stew in my thoughts, the ringing school bell faded off in the distance.
I paced over to the sink and splashed cold water on my face till the small amount of mascara I was wearing wore off onto my bottom lid. I cleaned it off with a wad of toilet paper and stared at my reflection. Too afraid to return to my thoughts, I pitifully hoped to find answers staring into my own eyes.
Which I didn’t, of course, that’d be too easy. So I, unintentionally, distracted myself.
Sometimes, I wondered if my birth parents knew what they were doing when they named me Ashe. Ironically, my hair was a light brown, ashy color but there was enough brown evident to counter the color, or lack there of, that it appeared to be more of the light murky brown color of mud when it was too wet.
Way to go self-esteem! Sarcastic bitterness sang more loudly than my actual thoughts. Comparing yourself to dirt! Right on!
I was actually rather fond of my hair, the way the bottom layers curled slightly away from my neck. I amused myself by running my fingers through my hair and watching the layers fall back with the tossed look, my side parted bangs hung loosely above my eye. What was nice about having short hair was that I didn’t really have to work on it in mornings when I woke up.
This was a pleasant thought but it only kept me preoccupied for a few more moments. I sighed, knowing I was stalling, and unwillingly forced myself to mull over what I was scared to venture. How do ADD people do it?
Those people, the ones in my dreams, they were so…tangible, too tangible to be just a dream. On the off nights when I didn’t dream their faces my dreams were fuzzy and vague. But when they showed up during the night, it was like I was watching an old movie I hadn’t seen in awhile. It was only until recently I’d been pondering the possibly I actually knew these people, despite the strange scenarios that occurred when I dreamt about them, like being hunted down by a bounty hunter and his crew.
A small, unconvincing smile cracked the corners of my mouth.
They had to be real, or least there were people like them from my past, maybe not quite as they were portrayed in my dreams.
Without really thinking anything of it, I glanced at my watch and nearly spewed a cuss word. I was fifteen minutes late for biology. Just another dandy little surprise my parents will be hearing about and discussing at the dinner table.
