Intertwined

Irrelevance

Emalia

2030

    I met Rose Chaplin three days later, after making it through my last day at the CD4 school, during an appointment that Principal Brannigan had arranged upon Mr. Deslauriers's request. I appreciated the effort more once the meeting had come to pass, but until then I found myself too neurotic to function. I had no assistance in setting boundaries for my imagination. I was too busy picturing the worst case scenarios in which Rose Chaplin would turn out to be some kind of authoritarian madwoman and I'd be cooped up in an institution for the rest of my days.

Once word had spread throughout my group home that I wouldn't be staying there much longer, rather few of the other children found it all that necessary to pay me mind. Ms. Arnold was acting as though I'd betrayed her trust and "love." Her definition of that concept, however, has continued to elude me.

    So instead of making the long trek home from school in the scathing rain, I was shipped off to the Public Services Building, a monstrously sized structure located just along the outskirts of the Civilian District, near the Central Square where all Wings of the area met and intersected. Often times when the group home made its mandatory trips outside, in pitiful attempts to keep us active and social in the outside world, I couldn't help but compare the building to a prison. Here cars and people came in and out of the place as they pleased, but their expressions were the same, endless renditions of somber, tired, and very much depressed.

    I don't think anyone can really blame me for being nervous. It wasn't as though I had any sort of knack for adjusting to new situations, and Ms. Arnold had never bothered to teach me the phrase "don't judge a book by its cover," so the front of the Public Services building might as well just have spelled out my future for me: unfortunate and easily ignored.

    We traveled there, a grumpy Ms. Arnold and I, via the public transit, and all I had to occupy my wondering thoughts with was my waspish caregiver cavilling about all the laundry waiting to be folded when we arrived back home. I offered to pitch in, an attempt at leaving on a good note, but she drove away the notion and nearly scoffed. What did I know about laundry and all the right detergents to use? Nothing! I needed to stop being so foolish, so foolish I was no longer. I fell into stillness, broken up only by the bus's vibrational humming.

Anyways, to prevent myself from causing anymore unintentional havoc or irritation, I continued drafting various mental sketches of just what Rose Chaplin was going to look like. I'd spent most of the previous night producing thumbnails and gathering inspiration, and, despite the sleep deprivation evident in my sluggish movements, I'd gathered a lot.

I knew her name was pretty, pleasant and inviting, too. I liked to think that she as a person would be light, carefree, and without much worry. While her job choice, whatever its technical title, seemed odd for a woman of that disposition, perhaps that's why it was such a good fit. She would have blonde hair, airy and bright, and light eyes. Dressed nicely and in vibrant colors, her skin would be clear and unblemished.

    And she'd be happy to see me. She'd make everything I'd been through and everyone I'd cohabited group homes and schools with worth it, nothing but a distant and barely-there memory...

    "Emalia, did you hear me?"

    I hadn't, and I was suddenly upset that I had. Rose Chaplin's figurative likeness promptly dissolved.

    "S-sorry, what?"

    "What floor is Rose Chaplin's office on?"

    I didn't know. With Ms. Arnold's gaze searing into the side of my face, red hot and more irked than her default setting, I dug into the pocket of my school pants and pulled out the slip of paper Mrs. Rosenzweig had handed me that morning with the meeting's information on it. After squinting at the slip's crumpled, pale blue surface, I was able to make out the destination of our meeting, perhaps even the destination of my entire future.