International loveship and friendship

Chapter:1

-Darika

I woke up to the shrill ring of my alarm clock, the digital numbers glowing 5:00 a.m. on my bedside table. My eyes were still heavy with sleep as I reached over to silence it. Slipping out from under the blankets, I rubbed my eyes, stretched, and finally coaxed myself out of bed. I had a routine-a quiet way to start my day before the chaos of school life swept me up.

I grabbed my math book from my bag and flipped it open. The early morning silence was my ally; it allowed me to focus completely, working through equations with ease. After an hour, I put the book aside, feeling a sense of accomplishment settle over me. It was a small victory, but it set the tone.

In the shower, the hot water woke me up fully. Wrapping myself in a towel, I opened my closet to find my neatly pressed school uniform waiting-black pants, a crisp white shirt, and my black jacket that lay draped over the hanger. I liked the uniform's formality; it gave me a sense of purpose. I ironed my shirt and pants, taking care to make sure every crease was sharp. In front of the mirror, I combed my hair, noticing with a frown that my black dye had started to wash out, revealing strands of my natural blond hair. I wasn't ready to face questions, so I improvised, using eyeliner to touch up the roots. I then gathered my hair into a ponytail.

I applied a light touch of face powder, drew a delicate line with eyeliner, and put in my black contact lenses, concealing the blue of my eyes. Sliding on my wristwatch and pinning my "First Rank" badge to my shirt as a quiet acknowledgment of my hard work, I was ready.

The smell of breakfast pulled me downstairs. Entering the dining room, I saw my dad and half-sister already seated, while my stepmom arranged dishes on the table. I took a plate, opened the hotbox, and found idly-soft, steamed rice cakes with sambar, a warm, spicy stew. It was a familiar breakfast, comforting in its simplicity. I quietly ate, avoiding eye contact.

As I finished, Dad looked over at me. "Darika, I haven't heard any complaints from your teachers. They say you're a model student. Just keep it that way, all right? This is your final year-focus on what matters. Don't get caught up in anything unnecessary."

I nodded, not trusting my voice to say much. His words hung in the air as I washed my hands, picked up my bag, and stepped out into the quiet street. The familiar sight of young children with their mothers waiting for the school bus greeted me. I watched them, thinking how my dad's wealth might give me every advantage, yet I preferred simplicity. I wanted to be seen as just another student.

You might wonder who I am. Let me introduce myself. My name is Darika Vikram. I'm 17, and my life, as far as I can tell, is one long exercise in blending in. My classmates might call me the quiet girl, a bit of a nerd, but they don't really know me. Not many people do. I've had my share of challenges, and each one has taught me to build walls, to protect myself in ways that few understand.

My life changed forever when I was just eight. My mom-beautiful, blonde, with striking blue eyes-was British, from London, and she loved Dad so much that she moved to India for him. Together they built a life, raising my twin brother and me. But in one horrifying moment, it all slipped away. A truck hit our car on a family outing, and in the aftermath, I woke up in a hospital room, barely able to move. When I asked the nurse about my family, she told me my mother and brother had died.

After that, I became someone else. Dad remarried, and while my stepmom was kind, I never felt that same connection. I could only keep quiet, retreating into myself. At school, things weren't much better. With blond hair and blue eyes, I stood out. The other kids didn't understand, and they bullied me, calling me names. But I didn't just take it-I fought back. By middle school, my reputation was sealed. I once punched a boy hard enough that he fainted. After that, Dad transferred me from school to school, but nothing really changed. I learned that if I wanted a fresh start, I'd need to blend in. So I dyed my hair black, wore contact lenses, and kept my head down.

At the bus stop, I boarded quickly, keeping to myself in the crowded aisles. Soon, we reached my school, and I slipped out, hurrying to my classroom. As the class leader, I had responsibilities, and I liked to be early. Inside the empty room, I erased the chalkboard, replacing yesterday's clutter with a new quote.

Someone snuck up behind me, covering my eyes with their hands. I instantly knew it was Pooja, my best friend since childhood. "Pooja," I said, laughing, "I know it's you."

"Goldy!" she giggled, using the nickname she'd given me because of my hair. "Did you finish the homework? Let me borrow it!"

I handed over my notebook, happy to help her out. Pooja and I had been through a lot together. Her father was an auto driver, and we shared the same neighborhood and after-school tuition classes. She was the only one who knew the real me.

Soon, our new friend Sarah entered, her beauty turning heads, as always. The boys in our class had taken a special interest in her, yet she stayed grounded, with a soft, silent demeanor that balanced Pooja's bubbly energy and my cautious reserve. Together, we made a curious trio: the funny one, the quiet one, and the "nerd"-as some classmates liked to label me. Not that they'd say it to my face.

When the morning assembly bell rang, we filed out to the grounds. After flag hoisting and prayers, we returned to class, where our math teacher had us pull out our homework. Collecting assignments, I noticed that all the boys except Arun-one of my academic rivals-hadn't finished. The teacher disciplined them in the usual way, with rhythmic taps of the wooden stick on their hands. It wasn't unusual; discipline was strict here.

The day flew by, and when classes ended, I packed up quickly. "Bye, Pooja, bye, Sarah!" I said, rushing off to my karate class, a crucial part of my daily routine. Changing into my karate uniform, I felt a familiar strength return. I was a black belt, and my training reminded me that no matter what, I could defend myself.

After an hour, I finished my practice and headed home. The day had begun as always, and yet, somewhere beneath the layers of my routine, I could feel a stirring-a quiet strength, the subtle beginning of something new.