Never Again ON HOLD

Storms

Storms come and storms go.
This particular storm, however, was sticking around.
Had been for five whole days.
Lucy, my little sister, is taking her time washing up. I have to pound on the door of the bathroom. I can't afford to be late to school.
"Ad-rianne," she whines, emphasizing the first part of my name in that annoying way she does. "I need to look perfect today, it's my first day of second grade!"
I roll my eyes and imitate her whine. "And I need to take a shower so I won't be late for school! For the third year in a row! Because of this!" Then I drop it. "Lucyle, you get out of that bathroom right now. Our deal is, and has always been, you get the bathroom for half the time, I get the bathroom for half the time."
"So?" she pouts.
"So, you have been in there for way more than half the time. Now get out, Búrkat help me."
She finally flounces out the door and throws it back behind her, making it bounce off the frame so hard I have to halt it with a hand.
I get changed, spice up my hair with a dainty little flower barrette, and clear off my face. I tilt my head at the bottle of squirt-out good-smelling lotion lying in between the double sinks, wondering if I should use it, but one glance at the pearly blue bathroom clock tells me I can't afford the time.
I race out the door, backpack strap digging into my left shoulder, before I remember I don't have my lunch.
Oh well. Friends will feed me well enough.
I risk a glance at the clouds overhead before ducking my head back down-- along with the darkened sky and freezing wind, rain is pounding down and seems to soak through even the most waterproof ponchos or jackets, and it's not any less harsh when it's falling on your face. Funny how, even though my family's Sacred God is the god of storms, we aren't getting any more relief from this mess of clouds than anyone else. Tucking my head down and letting my hair fall forward and around my face, I do a sort of skip-jog-thing, trying to make it to the bus stop before getting drenched.
It doesn't work.
The bus is twenty minutes late and by that time, I'm completely soaked, my hair is literally dripping wet, and I'm not exactly in the best of moods. I'm guessing the bus driver isn't either, though, because he barely gives me a nod before starting up the chilly bus again, and I have to swing myself into one of the frontmost seats instead of my usual seat 10 so that I'm not falling into the aisle. The bus resumes its jerking, swaying ride through the harsh weather until we reach the next stop. I manage a sympathetic glance at the shivering boy who gets on next before remembering that I have a book, The Hunger Games, in my backpack, and I pull it out and start reading.
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"'What do I have to do?' he shudders, looking up at the twisted man before him. 'Why am I even here?'"
Our teacher finishes the passage and glances up at us. "Now, Adi, how do you think Georga feels?"
We're reading the book Messes of Cupcakes, where the main character, "Georga"(it's pronounced JORE-ga with a hard g and I've never understood why), is taken away from his family to a baker's industry, where everything is made with magic, and run by a seemingly scary (and very scarred) man who is actually quite nice on the inside. I like the book a lot, though I'm not sure why our Understanding teacher is having us read a pure fantasy book. But I'm not complaining.
School is split into literal levels, adding up to twenty-one floors in all. I'm on the twentieth right now, in our Understanding class-- where the teacher teaches us different life lessons and random ideas that can help us have success. I love my ten classes, especially the way everything's taught-- the teacher is not chosen by age or personality, but by how well they can understand the subject. They don't have to actually know everything about their subject, because a class, though made up of student and teacher, is supposed to learn everything together. I don't really know how to explain it well, but that's okay, because I don't really understand it very much either.
I catch up to Gare as he jogs down the hall when our bell rings, heading to our next class. "Hey," I say, settling to a steady pace beside him. "What did you think of that?"
"Of what?" he says, glancing up at me, but his books start sliding and he has to return his attention to the pile of stuff he's carrying.
I giggle and get a mock offended look before I help steady the stack of books, pens, and really thin binders. Gare always says there's a price to being disorganized and the price is losing things, but then again I always say that there's a price to being organized, and that price is having to carry around twenty different things at once, each binder holding two pieces of paper and each notepad only having three notes in it. With literally one place for everything and everything in its place, I say he's too orderly.
"Of the book," I say. "The author was really detailed about the gory scars on his face, think the teacher noticed?"
He laughs. "Yes, I think maybe just a little bit. But Lynn is cool." We all call our teachers by their first names.
Our school is like one big class. The princein(a simplified principal) is at the top. Then, each class has a teacher-- they absorb the material quickly, and they are responsible enough to keep the class running. Of course, each teacher is always older than the class they are teaching-- I'm used to adult teachers, as I'm thirteen turning fourteen soon, but as a kinderkid and up through the grade levels above, all the way until I was eleven as a workerkid, we had teachers ranging from older teens to elders.
Gare's schedule slips out from between two binders, and I set my water bottle down to bend over and pick it up for him with my now free hand. The schedule is the exact same as mine, even the little guide on top to the learning levels-- as if we don't know what grade we're in. I stare at it for a second, noticing the intricate patterns Gare has doodled around the edges of the boxed-in guide.
A Student's Guide to the Learning Levels
Four, five, six years old-- Kinderkid. A kinderkid is stilll taught in the ways of kindness and empathy-- as a young child with a fresh söul, these are the most important things to imprint upon it.
Seven, eight years old-- Milderkid. The child is still young and fresh, and being taught the polite qualities they need to make it around the world.
Nine, ten, eleven years old-- Workerkid. Politeness is still being taught, as well as beginning simplest subjects such as the basic ideas and definitions of science, language, math, and other simplest areas.
Twelve, thirteen, fourteen years old-- Explorerkid. Wrapping up basic ideas of the simplest classes, and diving into art, painting, and other ways to get less stressed out. Optional extras are available, such as dancing, aerial, and strengthening.
Gare pretends to glare at me-- though he could never really be that mean, it's just not who he is. "Mind giving me my schedule back?"
I nod, pointing at his doodles as I hand it back-- or rather, place it on top of his teetering stack. "Nice frame you got there."
"Yeah, well," he responds, blushing. "I do like to doodle."
"Who would've known," I marvel, and off we go.
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The storm is no better on the way home. I take the air home, as the bus is usually late arriving at the school on colder afternoons like this one. Wind swirls me around in the air and I touch my flower barrette for good luck. It's basically a tiny little polished ceramic flower, attached to a golden bobby pin thing. I just only got it from my Uncle on my last Living Day, and I consider it good luck. It's helped me out so far, anyways.
I touch down without a bump-- okay, maybe a little one-- and can barely get my hair out of my face, the wind is so strong. Oh, and then there's the rain, plastering pieces of it to my face before the wind picks it back up again.
Thunder crashes, lightning flashes, and I think I might just try and write a poem about the storm, seeing as it's already rhyming.
I give up with my hair and just try and focus on making it inside. Even though I barely tug the door closed, it slams behind me as the wind pushes.
I carefully(and unsuccessfully) tug out my journal from under a stack of books, and they  topple over. Oh well, I think, leaving the mess there because. . . . well, because I usually don't clean up my messes until I'm reminded by parents or bugged by sisters("My side of the room needs to be undist-urbed, Adi. Clean up your messes, they're spilling over.").
Pencils, pencils, but no purple pen. I sigh and settle for a blue one.
Thunder crashes, lightning flashes, the wind blows strong and fierce.
Rain pounds down, soaking the ground, as clouds hover near.
Hair is soaked, no more hope, shivers of cold run through me.
But right out here, with cloud, rain and sky so queer,
this is still where I want to be.
I finish off by grinding the pen into the paper for the final period. There. No, poems aren't a huge part of my life, but when inspiration strikes, a poem is created.
I read over it one last time, tilt my head in mild satisfaction, and leave my journal lying open on the table before I head down for dinner.
But there, in the dining room, a strange man is standing and I am swept away.