SAVING TOMORROW: A SUPERHERO STORY

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 2:

As Zachary continues speaking I begin to drift off, I mean, it wasn't my fault he is a boringly pretentious speaker. Finally after 20 more minutes and 23 witty comebacks whispered from Nouri he finishes and we all clap are were free to go to hall for "processing time".

After the gang violence in our area started going up again the staff of Jefferson Hills thought it would be a good idea for us to have time and space to "process things" in a healthy way with guidance counselors.

Now in practice this might sound like a wonderful plan. But after all this is Jefferson Hills High. These "Processing times" is nothing more than students milling about while the guidance counselors sneak out to smoke their marijuana.

As we walk out into the halls, I sigh with relief. At least the Assembly is over, I look to try to find Nouri's dark head of hair, but she is nowhere to be found. We must have lost each other in the throng of teens eager to move on with the day. Before I can turn to try to find her I bump into a hard chest.

"Ohfff" my voice sounds garbled as I look up to see who I ran into. Cold grey cat like eyes narrow down at me. His arms are crossed and his feet are angled toward me. He is a good head taller than everyone else and had a clear exit towards the door. Zachary Devire either doesn't pay attention or wanted to run into me.

"Excuse me, I wasn't paying attention," I say as I attempt to side step him. But he quickly steps in front of me. I step to the left, and he does the same. Darn it! As he smirks down it dawns on me: he wants something from me.

"Hello, My name is Zachary," He extends his hand. He must have never come to east end before, people don't do handshakes here; he is on new turf. I almost laugh but mask my giggle as a cough. Never the less I give him my hand and say.

"Asena,"

"That's a rather interesting name, where is it from?"

Oh No. Here comes the name question which leads to the "where are you from with name like that" question. I always hate when people ask me where I'm from because up until that point they think I'm like them. And then I have to tell them I'm different and then they see me that way. Different. In my 18 years of life I've discovered that different is usually not good.

Ask my Mother who got eggs thrown at her for covering her head. Ask me and my sister when we are constantly asked why we don't cover our heads. Ask my Dad who gets berated for his Muslim beliefs in the office.

I brace for the worst and tell him.

"I'm actually Turkish, so it is from there"

His brow wrinkles the slightest and then he cracks a smile.

"O zaman memnun oldum,"

I gape at him in amazement. "It's nice to meet you too, how do you know Turkish?"

He laughs and scratches the back of his neck,

"I took some classes a few years back."

As interesting as the fact that he speaks Turkish is I'm not surprised, most people in the city speak 2 or more languages due to the diversity of Emerson. I try to make my getaway.

"Very nice, well it was nice talking to you but-"

"THERE YOU ARE!"

I flinch as Melisa screeches in my ear. I immediately know why she is talking to me. Zachary. She struts over to stand right in front of me, blocking my view with her enormous 6 inch heel plus 5'9 height.