Beyond Words

3. At The End Of The Summer (part 2)

That's how I found myself, standing like a solitary tree in the middle of a desert, in front of a boy who was most likely a spoiled-rotten child, who looked me up-and-down. I felt his eyes lingering on my hair, with its unnatural whiteness.

"Do you speak French or not?" I asked him in a desperate attempt to get a negative reaction from him—and in a vain attempt to make him forget about my hair (and skin) anomaly.

My question seemed to make him blush. Maybe he was offended? Good, only then was I sure to be talking to a human and not to a wall.

"Well, yes, why?" he replied, looking at his bare feet and shrugging.

I sighed, my patience wearing thin.

"So, are you coming to play with me?" I asked, indicating the ball under my arm.

"Uh..." he began hesitantly, tracing abstract waves on the carpet with his left foot.

"You know what?" I interrupted him. "You seem too spoiled to play with a little reject like me." (He put his intrusive black eyes back on me.) "And stop looking at me like I'm some museum artifact!" I spit out as coldly as possible, then turned on my heels.

I felt proud to have ruined my first contact with him and headed for the park, a few meters away. Mom would be proud to know how capable I was of trying everyone's patience. Channeling into  my inner frustration, I ran onto the synthetic field, kicking the ball as hard as my skinny legs would allow, and catching up with it simultanés. I scored several goals and remembered my old school, where I had been part of a team—where my talent had surpassed my undesirable anomaly.

Back then, both my parents would come to see me play, and I always searched for their sunny faces in the crowd. Now, I stood alone on an empty field, too vast, too quiet. It didn't belong to me. However, I remained focused on the ball, my best friend who had never abandoned me. Silly girl, you're the one who left, I reprimanded myself. My vision blurred with tears again, and I slowed my pace. Damn mother who had to go back to school. Damn sister who stole all the maternal love. Damn brother who let me go like I was nothing.

"Damn crappy life!" I shouted at the top of my lungs.

I kicked my ball with all the accumulated rage in me. Out of breath from my own emotional storm, I fell to my knees. Then, through my blurred vision, a fuzzy silhouette approached. A silhouette marked by blue stood out through my haze. Ah, damn Gale. Did he really have to follow me like Dora the Explorer in pursuit of a rare treasure?

I ran up to him — he who had stopped my ball with his foot. I barely looked at him as I freed my precious object with a kick.

"What do you want from me?" I asked him.

"I came to play with you," he replied.

"Get lost, rotten tomato." (I sat on the ground, feeling exhausted.) "Did your father send you?"

"No." (I shot him a furious look from under my long white lashes.) "Okay, yes, he did. Now what?"

"Now, go away," I told him coldly. "I've changed my mind, you can tell him that from me."

"I'm not your messenger. And why are you crying?"

I felt myself freeze into place.

"Why do you care?" I said, outraged that he suddenly deigned to pay attention to me.

"Why are you crying?" he repeated.

"I'm not deaf. It's none of your business, period. Go away," I ordered him again.

I stumbled to my feet and returned to the middle of the field, kicking my ball aimlessly. I furtively wiped my last tears, praying for the spoiled Gale kid to leave. Alas, what a leech, he came to join me in the center of the field.