Who Are You? [Book One of TPIM]

CH1 - Seattle

The snap of wooden ruler on a chalkboard brought me back to my senses. I look around my classroom in a daze, searching for a cue as to what might we be working on. Oh, wait- they're all looking at me. Why?

I see my teacher staring at me with this hard, cold look in her eyes.

"Sylph," she says quietly with a tone as hard as rock. My face begins to burn in fear.

"Y-yes, Miss?" I squeak out. My voice cracks embarrassingly, and the class giggles as I burn up even more.

"You are the only one without her homework, without her proper uniform, and without her textbooks, and you think it's going to help your record if you try to get away with slacking in class?" Slacking? Me? I'm the hardest worker here!

"But, Miss-" I say knitting my eyebrows in worry. I don't want this stain on my perfect record.

"No 'but Miss'-ing me, Sylph. Office. Now." She knits her eyebrows too, but in irritation.

I close my eyes and count to ten silently. A little known - scratch that, well known fact about me is that I have serious anger issues. If things don't go my way, I get angry very, very quickly. I tend to break things when I see red. Vases, jewelery, precious things, people, watches, expensive items - nothing is safe. I take a common form of cool-down, counting, that works very well.

Miss Austere notices such, and quickly changes her mind. "Actually, Sylph, go head down to the counselor. After class." She gives me one final glare, then turns around and continues talking.

"This is Opulus Gilt Private School," she says as she writes verbatim on the board. "We are all extremely lucky and privileged to be here. However, some in other countries are very... well, poor and underprivileged. They don't have the luxury of having fun or all of the things we get to do." She drones on and on for a long time.

I sigh and fish through my backpack for a pencil and a paper.  I stare at the wall behind Miss Austere, barely paying attention to what she was saying.

"...so, today we will write a letter to a commoner somewhere around the world."

My head snapped up.

Commoners were considered the same as trash in today's world. If you weren't rich, you weren't worth a thing. The rich technically weren't even allowed to speak to non-rich people in my neighborhood. So hearing about us writing a freaking letter to a commoner is pretty shocking.

Murmurs rushed across the room, sounding like a stream of whispers.

I look around for Brax, trying to find her dark eyes in the sea of navy. I catch her sight and she narrows her eyes at me, raising an eyebrow, asking me what's going on. I shrug, eyes wide. She rolls her eyes and turns back to the teacher.

Braxtyn Moore is my best friend. She's popular, funny, pretty, and suave. I don't know why she befriended a dork like me, but we hit it off really well back in the seventh grade.

I turn back to my teacher, who has her arms folded, looking at all of us. "Take out a sheet of paper," she says fiercely. "I will come around and give you a slip of paper with the address and name of who you are mailing to."

I pick up my pencil and write Dear ______, and wait for Miss Austere to hand me the slip. As a joke, I quickly scribble "peasant" in the blank. Miss Austere just tosses me a slip without a second glance. I look at the address. 46342 Jeejabai Bhosle Marg, Mumbai, India. I turn the paper over to look at the name.

The slip falls through the wooden panels on the floor and disappears forever.

Fear coils in my stomach. The sinking pit in my intestines continues to fall at an alarming rate. I just freaking lost the PAPER. I open my mouth, but no words come out. A few pathetic whimpers that fade to nothing.

Oh, no. I can't bring myself to speak properly. I know just how screwed I am. No name = inability to properly address letter. That = very, VERY bad.

Now I can't even ask for a new one, I'm too scared to ask for a new one. So I just stick to peasant (what? It's not like whoever is reading it isn't one) and write the letter.

Dear Peasant,

This is my way of communicating to you through very basic means. I could send many, many other things other than this letter, but we shall start with this, just in case.

I am an eleven year old girl studying in northwestern America, in Seattle. I know you live in India. I know a lot about you.

Yes, I know that fibbing is bad, but in this case, it's totally fine. It's poor. What else is there to know?

You must be very poor, where you live. I hope all is fine there in wherever you live in Mumbai. I will send you money as gift! Because you must need it very much. Your very welcome.

I folded the letter without signing it, because who ever it is doesn't need to know my name. It's poor. I then place it inside a crisp, clean envelop, knowing it will get dirty in transit. I also slip a hundred or so dollars in there from my allowance, but then remove it, knowing that in India, they don't have US dollars, but rupees instead. (See, Miss Austere, I DO pay attention in class!)

I don't allow Miss Austere to see it, because she would most likely reprimand me for writing such a short letter to whoever the hell it is.

Since most kids aren't really writing their letters in class, Miss Austere allows us to take it home to work on, but we "must bring it in the next day" otherwise we will "face serious disciplinary action".

Stupid Miss Austere.

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25492 Jeejabai Bhosle Marg, Mumbai, India?

Is that the address?

I scratch my head. Sounds like it.

I spent at least two hours looking up roads in India that were similar to the road I vaguely remember from the slip of paper. Then I wrote down a random number, in hopes that it was the right number. Let's hope.

I added a little bit more to the letter, making it look a bit more presentable. It looked something like this:

Dear Peasant,

This is my way of communicating to you through very basic means. I could send many, many other things other than this letter, but we shall start with this, just in case.

I must send this letter for certain, non-disclosable reasons. But, I hope you enjoy what I've written because I do not have all day to write this. Well, I do. I have as much time as I want.

You must be very poor, where you live. I hope all is fine there in wherever you live in Mumbai. I will send you money as gift! Because you must need it very much. Your very welcome.

"Hm, that isn't the right 'your'...."

You're very welcome.

"Better."

After a couple of calls to banks, Rupa, and more banks, I managed to get my hands on twenty thousand rupees, which is roughly four hundred dollars, give or take a couple fifties.

Once the fat envelope was successfully shoved into the mailbox, which was not an easy process, I tell you, I dash back home, into my room, and take a long, well deserved nap.

Hey, I mean, I gave four hundred dollars to a poor person. In my neighborhood, I'm practically Mother Teresa.

Only the next morning did I realize that I was supposed to bring in the letter, not actually mail it. Damn!