1.1 | Lost & Found

xii. smile

I N D I G O

The morning air is warm, but the moment I step into the near-frigid school, I am grateful for the loose jacket I'd shrugged on, carefully paired with my polo and jeans. Maybe wearing a collared shirt is too much, but I like the way it fits snug around my shoulders and dances at my collar bone. 

From the entrance, everyone spreads out in different directions. Smaller students who were roughly around my height, but are definitely much younger, speed-walked over the red-and-blue 'Home to the Vikings!' painted on the floor, their book bags thumping off their backs as they dodge taller and broader bodies. 

Others walk like zombies, gaits slow and seemingly aimless. I am somewhere in the middle, moving at what appears to be a normal pace, but is actually one I'd practiced. And there are some people who race toward others, hugging and laughing. I guess they were friends who hadn't seen each other over the summer break, or maybe they were just really excitable people. Either way, I stare at them as I walk. Seeing them reminded me of my friend, the one I'd had when life still felt like something wondrous, something with endless possibility. Like me, he'd been homeschooled—still was—but if he wasn't, I imagined we'd belike these kids right now, hopping toward one another, grinning and animated. 

Normal.

The word has lost all it's meaning.

I hear conversations; and trust me there's all sorts. Right from a summer spent under the Tuscan Sun along the Amalfi Coast to a holiday spent with family on the other side of the globe. A girl names Emily has spent her summer tanning along the Californian coast, and her skin looks the most gorgeous shade of golden brown, glowing gloriously under the badly lit school corridors. 

It's not polite to eavesdrop.

I've lost count of how many times my mother used to scold me with some variation of that sentence, but whatever the number, it clearly was not enough, given that I continue to do it, even after she's no longer here to tell me not to. 

It's not like I'm committing a moral or ethical violation when I listen to what's happening around me. In fact, I firmly believe I should be praised for my skills of observation, not damned for them.

And if people don't want to be overheard, why discuss things so openly and in public? Why should I, a mere seventeen-year-old, be the responsible one in every situation? Especially now, when two of my classmates are choosing to talk—very loudly, by the way—about the latest gossip in my town.

A little reluctantly, I do see my mother's point at this moment.

Because it's not like I'm technically hiding in the bushes, but I am completely obscured from their view, giving them the illusion of total privacy.

I remind myself that even if I were in their field of vision, they would probably carry on in precisely the same manner because they likely have no idea who I am. 

"Indigo Clarkson." The blonde sighs happily, and the air that expels from her lungs as she utters those words makes it seem like the weight of that name is a relief to vocalise.

I raise my eyes to see the pink-haired girl gazing at her friend with bored curiosity.

"Isn't she the new girl?"

The fear on my face fixes itself on my face before I even realise it surfaces.

Because I'm not just any new girl—I'm the new target.

"Yeah," she answers, smacking her gum between her teeth. "She's supposed to be new here, like, she's from the city. But apparently she's one of those artist types. You know, always lost kinda looks?"

Her friend is not impressed. "Okay, and?"

Her casual tone is like a stab in the gut—not the clean, neat precision line of a scalpel, either. It's a serrated knife wound, inflicting damage that's nearly impossible to repair, leaving the kind of complications that are tangible with even the slightest movement.

I guess this is what I get for eavesdropping.

I take a mental image of these two girls, I'll have to avoid them. I try to shake off their words by renewing my grip on myself, and snap a mental picture of the two.

Most photographers want their photos to be perfect. Regardless of the subject, the goal seems to be capturing bliss in a single moment of time, as if every single moment in existence is flawless and framed correctly. Every tiny detail must be perfect. Be it photography, cheerleading or the pair of girls in front of me, I try to capture the little details, even though I'm no photographer.

I like to find the little anomalies around us...the flaws that get brushed by or ignored outright in favour of something more normal, more pleasing, more perfect.

I always thought I could spend my whole in the city. Finding beauty in the small things. I'm still trying to convince myself that I just need to get through this school year alive, when someone opens the locker next to mine with a forcefully rusty creak. The force of it makes me jump.

It's a boy. His eyes meet mine and he smiles. He has awfully messy red hair and the electric green eyes that look like someone took a highlighter and coloured it in before he met me. 

My heart gives a big kick.

My heart has never given a kick over a smile. 

Maybe I'll have to avoid my locker partner too. 

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