Muejiza | A Series of MLB fanfictions

Gone, Never Forgotten

The Lahiffe family had always been a mystery to her.

To everyone else, they were the kind of mystery that you tried to stay away from if you knew what was good for you, and in the defense of those who did not like them, they never really tried to fit in. It seemed, from what little she knew about them, the entire family didn't really care to blend. They preferred to do their own thing and while that was great for those who wished to be seen and known and powerful, it did very little in the way of day-to-day school life and that difference was clearly seen by and in their three children.

Nicholas Lahiffe was the first of the siblings that she'd ever had the fortune (others would say misfortune) of meeting, and this made sense considering he was the oldest. She recalled the first day he'd walked through the doors, hunched and hiding behind a dusty, torn baseball cap, dressed from head to toe in a dark gray t-shirt, a black leather jacket, and black jeans with rips near the cuffs. He'd kept his head down and eyes averted from the hoards of kids rushing past him to greet one of their friends across the gym. He'd been nothing more than a shadow, an outcast who was yet to be noticed.

She'd been standing on the floor above him when she'd first caught sight of him, struggling through the ocean of bodies, holding his bookbag close to his chest and looking extremely uncomfortable with all of the students swarming his every movement.

Ah, she'd decided right then and there, he must be the new kid.

They'd been talking about a new arrival in homeroom for a few days now and the best ways to approach a newcomer, but that hadn't been what had interested her. Someone had said something about the kid coming all the way from Africa. Naturally rumors spread, as rumors tended to, questioning what the new boy would be like. Would he be big and strong and ready to jump right in and pulverize them all at sports? What was school like in Morocco? Would he be able to understand French at all?

At first sight, she was easily able to eliminate the first of the rumors. This boy was definitely not built to rough house with the tackling boys, nor did he look like he knew what to do with such a multitude of kids around him. That told her the school he'd come from was much, much smaller. She didn't yet know the answer to the third question, but she suspected she wouldn't have to wait long, as the first of the warning bells belted out a warning from the clocktower overhead.

In an instant, the boy was lost in the sea of scrambling bodies and she was forced to move away from the railing to avoid being trampled by a group of rowdy seniors. Lockers slammed shut on her every side and she took a deep breath to calm her nerves as she carefully pushed past the last bunch of students and slipped quietly into her classroom, thankful that she'd managed to arrive in one piece and with little bruising or blood this time. It was a first.

The onslaught of teenagers was not long behind and she carefully took a seat at the front of the class, waiting as they filed in and went to scope out their seating arrangements for the year, friends fighting and squabbling over who would sit where and who should have what window or what colored chair. It was the same every year and there was simply nothing to do but wait it out until they could get themselves settled. There would be no learning within the halls until that point could be reached.

The new kid slunk in last. His eyes shot briefly upwards as he entered and she could see the momentarily flash of panic and concern before he was hastily drawn back to his scribbled piece of paper where she suspected he had written the homeroom number. Yes, he was in the right place. She'd already looked.

He approached, carefully scanning the highrises for a place to sit, even as a dozen pairs of eyes swiveled toward him and twelve eager classmates waited, anticipating his first words.