Saving Kelsea Ch. I

First day at a new school, Warren thought and it was the beginning of October. He grabbed the wheels of his wheelchair and pushed himself forward. He hated being in a wheelchair. "Let's hope I can get through this," he muttered. To darken his mood, it was raining and he didn't have a hand to hold an umbrella.

Scanning the area, he spotted a handicap ramp leading to the front of the building. He sighed in relief; he was desperate to get out of the rain. To make things more challenging, it was beginning to hail. He made his way toward it vigorously while trying to avoid bumping into anyone in the seemingly endless maze of people. When he reached it he groaned.

It was a steep ramp and it wore out his arms after a while. He had not even had much experience going up steeper ramps in bad weather. Also, he had a backpack on the back of his wheelchair which added an uncomfortable amount of weight. He rolled his eyes and took a deep breath as he pushed himself onto the ramp. Push-ups and pull-ups were one thing when it came to working with his arms, but going up a ramp in the middle of a steadily worsening hailstorm was a different story.

He was about halfway up when a hailstone struck his hand, causing him to jerk it from the wheel. He wished he hadn’t. Immediately he lost balance and he rolled down the ramp uncontrollably. When he hit level ground, he toppled backward and he flipped out of the chair, landing on his stomach.

“Ow,” he said more out of annoyance than anything else. He heard a chorus of chuckling around him. He considered asking someone for help, but what was the point? What was the point of pitying the paraplegic?

“Oh, my God, are you okay?” the person asked. Was that person speaking to him?

To answer that mental question, Warren twisted his head in the direction that he heard the voice and his eyes fell on a girl crouching down beside him.

“Haven’t exactly had much practice going up ramps when the weather is as miserable as this,” he said as he pushed himself up.

“Here, let me help you,” she said. She picked up Warren’s wheelchair so that it was on all four wheels again and, much to his annoyance, she picked him up and helped him back onto the chair.

“Thanks,” he said.

The girl shrugged. “No problem. By the way, name’s Patricia,” she said holding out her hand.

Warren had to squint through the rainfall, but he could clearly see the young woman's features under her umbrella. She had long blonde hair and a slightly angled face set with piercing blue catlike eyes. She was also wearing a cheerleading uniform under a leather jacket.

Warren grabbed her hand and shook it. “Warren Kelsea.”

“Now how about we get you inside before this storm gets any worse,” Patricia suggested.

It was more of a statement than a question, really. “That would be much appreciated,” replied Warren.

As Patricia wheeled him towards the building, Warren gave it a critical look. It looked slightly post-Victorian with Gothic revival features such as flying buttresses outlining the better part of the second floor which didn't seem to cover the entire length of the building. Gargoyles, or what Warren guessed were supposed to be gargoyles, that were intricate depictions of angelic figures, outlined the entire perimeter of the slanted roof. What was this place, a cathedral refitted into a educational institution? Suddenly, he felt that he had abandoned the modern-esque style of his old school to the Romanesque style of Southside High.

"Those angel-like gargoyles are supposed to represent our mascot," Patricia explained, seeing where he was gazing. "We're the home of the Southside Archangels." As they stepped through the doors, Warren noticed that the interior was no different than the outside. A high ceiling that covered the lobby depicted ribbed vaults and pointed arches. Whoever built this place had decent sense of architectural style, but it was a school not a church. Whatever next? Teachers that dressed like pastors?

“You’re the new guy aren’t you?” asked Patricia, bringing him out of his reverie. “Do you know where you’re going?”

That caught him off-guard. At the mention of it he realized that he really did have no idea where he was going.

“Where’s your schedule?” asked Patricia. He opened up his coat and pulled out a neatly folded sheet of paper from his coat pocket. She grabbed it and unfolded it. “Hmm, you’ve got yourself a good set of teachers minus the teacher you have for Algebra Two—she’s evil—and I just happen to be going the same place that you’re going for first period—English with Mr. Bailey. I’ll wheel you there.”

“Thanks,” said Warren as he pushed some of his bangs out of his eyes.

Patricia smiled brightly showing ultra-white teeth. She wheeled him through the crowded hallways and stopped only when they reached Warren’s locker. Though Warren felt it redundant, people provided a clear path for him by moving out of the way. When they entered the classroom a few people said,

“Hey, Pat.”

“Who’s the guy in the wheelchair?” one of them asked.

“Hey, guys, this is Warren,” said Patricia. “Warren, this is Rendell, Jessica, and Caitlyn.” As she said their names they each nodded.

Rendell was of tall muscular form that suggested he could have been a wrestler instead of a football player as his blue and black varsity jacket gave away. His auburn hair looked almost like a military haircut, which didn't seem to fit his childlike face set with dark hazel eyes.

Jessica was of slender form with black hair and and she looked to be of Hispanic descent, if not a little distant.

Caitlyn kind of fell out of the picture of varsity jackets and cheer skirts that Warren had seen so far among the people he's been introduced to considering her mostly black attire. She had deep brown hair with thick eyebrows over eyes of green ice.

"You're wet," she said.

Warren looked down at his figure and he was indeed very wet.

"Oh, let me go get you a towel from the locker room while you introduce yourselves," said Patricia and she was off. Warren watched her until she disappeared out the door.

“You must be the new guy,” said Rendell.

“Yeah,” replied Warren, turning his gaze back to them.

“Where’d you transfer from?” asked Jessica.

“G-M-H-S,” he replied. They stared at him blankly. He rolled his eyes. “Garfield-McKinley high school. You might know it as ‘Gar-Mac’.”

They nodded their recognition.

“We played them last year,” said Rendell. “The football team had a short quarterback.”

“I was that quarterback, and actually I’m five-foot-five,” said Warren crossing his arms across his chest.

“Oh, I didn’t mean any offence by it, you’re actually a good football player.” Rendell frowned. “Wait, you weren’t injured in football were you?”

It was Warren’s turn to frown. “No, why?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, for a minute I assumed that you were in the wheelchair due to football.”

Warren chuckled uneasily as he pushed a strand of his damp brown hair out of his eyes. “No, that’s not why I’m in a wheelchair.”

“Why are you?” asked Jessica curiously.

He let out a deep sigh as he looked down at his lap. When he looked back up he opened his mouth to speak, but then the bell rang, not before Patricia came back into the room with a large towel. After drying himself off as best he could, he got himself situated. Warren’s wheelchair didn’t have a tray on it so he used a lap desk. He let out a silent sigh of relief that the bell rang when it did. He wanted to avoid discussing his tragic past that landed him in the wheelchair as seldom as possible.

The class period went easy. Mr. Bailey looked to be in his mid-thirties with neatly combed black hair and looking like someone from a picture in a magazine. He was an interesting teacher mostly due to the fact that he made sure everyone had an enjoyable and exciting learning experience through his use of humor and making sure that everyone had a chance to speak. And most of the class period he did a timeline of Romanticism and at the end of class he divided everybody into groups and gave each of them an author or poet to research. He grouped Warren with Patricia, Rendell, Jessica, and Caitlyn and they were given Edgar Allen Poe.

Next period was Algebra Two and Warren shared that class with Rendell and Jessica so they guided him towards that class. It was okay, though true to Patricia’s words, the teacher, whose name he found out to be Ms. Young, did tend shout a bit and at times she went too fast for Warren to fully catch everything she said. And when he asked for her to slow down she almost made him cry by shouting at him. Even though she was short enough to almost be eye level with him, she was extremely intimidating with her seemingly large eyes and pointed features that reminded him of a crow.

Third period and fourth period went relatively smoother. Third period was History class and fourth period was Spanish class.

Next period was lunch and Warren was glad that he had packed his lunch because the line was long. He scoured the cafeteria helplessly trying to figure out where to sit. At last he found an empty table, but just as he settled himself in, he heard his name.

He looked to where he heard the voice and he saw Patricia with her hand in the air snapping her fingers at him and then pointing downward indicating an empty spot next to her. He smiled and set his lunch in his lap and he wheeled himself over to the table she was sitting at. As he reached the table, Patricia moved the chair that was in the way and let him in.

“Thanks,” said Warren.

Patricia shrugged. “I wasn’t going to let you sit there all by yourself.”

Warren chuckled in spite of himself.

“Who’s Warren?” asked an accented female voice.

“Ah, Sam,” said Patricia, looking beyond Warren, “you’re just in time, we were just getting to know our new friend, Warren here." She held out an introductory hand toward him. “Warren, meet, Sam Grayson.”

Warren twisted around in his wheelchair and what his eyes fell upon caught him off-guard.

Sam, like Jessica and Patricia, was a cheerleader and she had bright brown eyes that had a penetrating look about them, as if they could skewer into his deepest thoughts. Her skin was as smooth and unblemished as paper though her face, as beautiful as it was, did not seem to spell out humbleness.

“Hi,” said Warren politely.

Sam stared down at him as if he was some conjured-up crudity of a person. She looked around at the people sitting at the table. “Who let the mismatching-eyed freak in the wheelchair sit with us?” she demanded with an ill sense of humor.

Why did people have to insult his eyes? So what if his right eye was as brown as his thick hair and his left eye was hazel-green?

“I did,” said Patricia defensively. “And his name is Warren.”

“I never said that you could invite other people to join our circle of friends,” said Sam.

Warren sighed disgustedly and backed himself away, but before he left he turned to Patricia. "I appreciate your effort to help me feel accepted, but I don't want to cause any trouble." Ignoring her protests, Warren left.

The sooner he could get back on his feet the better. Maybe people would be a little nicer to him, maybe not.