I Told the Stars about You

Chapter 1- Daisies & Graves

A/N: To previous readers, I've edited this properly and added some more family dynamic in there :)

I walk inside the pink classroom 5 minutes before the bell is due to ring. The quiet before voices bombard the peaceful and serene air is vivacious. It holds strength. Something I lack.
I recognise the same, ancient blackboard hanging in front of the rows of small desks students sit at, the Welcome back! poster that still has 1989 scribbled in worn-out pencil in the corner, and the fake-enthusiastic look my French teacher, Mr. Harrison, gives me as I sit down at the third row of desks. He gives me a long, assessing glare before returning to his paperwork.

I don't find myself feeling disappointed at the fact that the improvements the school board talked so fondly about over summer break are an extra coat of bright pink paint and a new keyboard to replace the one Jamie broke last year with a baseball bat. I've somehow come to accept that Crowcreak high school is ordinary, simple, and never to impress. It has only what's necessary or what has been joint to the contracts the few sponsors our school received in the past century. Hence the ancient welcome sign, fighting to remain stuck on the wall with scarce fragments of yellowing Sellotape.

The sponsors of the school are mainly old, with more money than they know what to do with, so, every now and then they offer the school funds, as long as it's used for what they want to improve. These people are from what kids here call 'The Mainland'. It's where the capital is with the rich people- or, how they call themselves, 'people with means'- their busy jobs and fast-paced lifestyles. They come to Crowcreak during bank holidays or when demonstrations occur, ruining their weekly visit to the designer shops on Goldsmith Street. They stay in their million-euro lake houses and give charity to the school out of their search of a polished reputation and, while everyone resents them, the school will take their charity. They let them invest it in whatever the Mainlanders covet.

One year, a 96-year-old man from Churchstake Manor said he wanted us to use his donation to get a clown to welcome us into school every Friday. He had a mental disorder that made him confused and forgetful, making him spit out the most random things out of his dried, chapped lips. Of course, money with conditions is still money, and the school decided to fulfil his request. The man died, but the clown remained, giving birth to the tradition of calling 'Friday', 'Clown Friday'.
I quite enjoyed having the clown- whose real name was Peter- welcome us into school once a week, but I would never admit it. Not quite 'manly enough'- as Dad would put it.

I check the clock, clenching my jaw, every second ticking by while I get lost in the nothingness that seems to have surrounded me for longer than I can to understand. The last memories of real laughter have faded away without my consent and now I can't seem to grasp them. They seemed lost in a black space. A void of some sort; gone and to always remain. It makes me think that I'd rather never laugh again if it means having her back.

The simple, constant sound of the clock continues, dragging on as if even the clock is worn out from the end of summer vacation. A couple of seconds loose themselves in the stale classroom air, until the ticking becomes muted by the sound of students rushing into the classroom and taking their seats, making small talk about their holidays, what summer fling they had, how many neurons they killed in the process etcetera. And I didn't even notice her at first.

She isn't a drop-dead gorgeous model from a magazine wearing some hot outfit. She's objectively pretty, but I don't feel any attraction towards her. She brings a sense of comfort with her that catches my breath. She doesn't even seem remotely popular, so I can't quite put my finger on the faint familiarity that my subconscious warns me on. Pushing past the feeling, my eyes catch on a book coated in colourful post-its coming out of its fore-edge. It's a pale blue, the kind that resembles a clear sunny day in Spring, with yellowing pages and a cracked spine. As I look at it, I can easily imagine the smell of worn paper and dusty bookshelves that surround a book re-read many times.