Short Story Collection

Lemniscate (Ongoing)

We're all numbered. Under silky brown hair, the back of my mother's neck whispers "VII" in sky blue. On the arch of my father's left foot lies a small, gray "9", and my siblings Clarisse and Colten both have "four" written out across their opposite pinky fingers in lilac purple. I'm different.

Many people in my school share their numbers, but since I refuse to, I'm an outcast. My number is obvious. No one else has it but me; infinity. I try to hide it behind long sleeves and thick sweaters, but a black lemniscate isn't easy to hide when it stretches across your entire wrist.

"Camilla, come sit by me," screeches my whiny ten year-old neighbor, Gladys. She's the only person who talks to me, and though I'll never admit it aloud, I kind of enjoy her company. On the bus, we sit by each other. She usually braids her unbrushed hair, and I just sit there, gazing out the window.

"Why don't you ever share your number?" she asks. "It looks a lot cooler than everyone else's."

"I don't think I can, Gladys. It's a bad idea." After a weak shoulder nudge, she whispers in my ear, "Someday you should," and proceeds to braid her hair.

Deep thinking takes up a large portion of my day. With no friends my age, I'm left alone a lot. When I walk through the front doors of my school, people turn their heads in constant judgement. I often ignore them, but one day I know I'll break. Murmurs fill my ears on a daily basis. I'm dehumanized, objectified. I'm seen as an emotional punching bag and I can't ever escape. I can't tell anyone about my number, not even my family.

"Camilla, you should jump off a bridge. Maybe your eyes will take the color of the water and you'll be normal," scoffs Grayson. The crowd around him break out into obnoxious laughs, slapping each other's backs and gasping for air. Not only is my number odd, but my appearance is different too. When I look into the mirror, I don't see dark hair or bright, celadon eyes. Instead, my reflection shows mahogany hair and amber eyes that never seem to shine.

"Enough now, class," says Mrs. Durston, gently smiling at me.

"Thank you ma'am." Though my voice is barely audible, she always hears me.

In Hesperia School we have one teacher, one classroom, and the same classmates the entire seven hours. That being said, I'm surprised Mrs. Durston hasn't ever lost her voice... or her sanity. Grayson has the most idiotic jokes and only uses them to get the attention he lacks from his family. His hair is smothered with a repulsive smelling gel and his eyes are always heavy and red from the pot he robs from his older brother. Everyone follows him, he's practically worshipped like a god. I wouldn't be surprised if every girl in my class had a shrine of him. I'll never understand why, though. Him and I were friends many years ago. He hides his number too, but I know it.

"Camilla, would you be willing to speak with me after class?"

"Yes, Mrs. Durston."

The final bell rings and everyone rushes out, most chattering nonstop to their neighbors. Gladys waits outside my classroom, spinning so her countless braids pirouette with her.

"What's going on?" Mrs. Durston asks softly. "This has been happening for far too long."

"Come on, Mrs. Durston, have you seen me?" I throw my hands out in front of me, displaying myself for her to see all my differences. "My hair is the color of uncooked hamburgers and my eyes are like old pennies. I think you know what's going on."

"Sweetie, you may look different but that doesn't give them a right to make fun of you." She pauses and looks at me, celadon eyes full of compassion and empathy. They shine brighter than mine ever will. "I know it may not help much, but you do have the best grades in the school." She must be able to tell that it's not helping because she hands me a stack of passes for guidance. "Camilla, you're free to go to guidance whenever you feel necessary. Don't worry about missing lessons or being marked absent. I'll take care of it."

"Thank you, Mrs. Durston, but I don't think they'll be any more understanding than you are," I say looking down at my sleeves to make sure my number is covered. I give her a small smile before pushing open the doors and leaving. When I do, I hear her whisper "I have amber eyes too."