The Misfortune of Distorted Truth

Flowers Bloom

M inhaled deeply, wanting the smell to stay with her forever. She wished she didn't have to leave.
A china plate piled high with pancakes fresh off the stove sat in front of her, taunting her with their gooey delectability. Isaac had drenched them in syrup and melted butter and carved a smile on the top all for her and oh, it smelled so good!
But somehow, it felt wrong to eat. M wasn't sure why, when this looked and smelled like the best breakfast Isaac had made for her yet. "Aren't you going to try them? Or am I that bad a cook?" Isaac teased from the sink, where his hands were deep in suds. The dishes made a ruckus as they clattered together, the silverware scraping on the sides of plates like nails on a chalkboard as Isaac continued to wash them. M cringed at the noise.
"No, you're brilliant," M protested. Isaac looked at her fondly.
"Why, thank you."
"You make better food than my parents, that's for sure," she added under her breath. Her guardian seemed to hear her, his face expressing concern, but he pretended not to notice the comment. Ah, how M remembered without fondness the meals her mother or father would cook when they had been home. They had been completely against takeout but would sometimes take their daughter to eat in a fancy restaurant much too far away, where the food would be just as stiff and dry and cardboard-tasting as how they'd make it in their own kitchen. Cooking was not a gift of M's parents. M sighed at the perfect pancake stack as if only it could understand her.
"Just eat one, baby, please? I don't want you to be hungry during school and have to wait for the lunch hour." Isaac shook his pale hands off and dried them on a towel draping from the counter. He came over to M, where she was still sitting grumpily on one of the ebony chairs, and kissed the top of her head. "Hurry, now. Finish up and I'll do your hair before you go."
M brightened instantly. She loved when Isaac did her hair. He could make much better braids than she could by herself. He had told her about an old friend of his named Audriana who had taught him the art of every style braid that she knew when they were both six in kindergarten. M wished she knew that much about hair when she was that young of a girl. Against her will another memory popped into her mind and she thought of her mother styling her hair when she was younger; it had never ended well. M's mother was quite skilled with hair, that was definite, but it had been rather painful. She liked things simple over them done in a complex, fancy way.
But she was encouraged by Isaac's offer to braid her hair all the same, as she had good reason to, and so M stabbed her fork into the top pancake, right where the nose would be-if smiley faces had noses, that is. The syrupy, buttery goodness brought glory to her taste buds as soon as it entered her mouth.
She was glad she had listened to Isaac.
Three pancakes and a glass of water later, M was ready. T-minus ten minutes till the bus.
Twenty till the Populars; that was what she called them. They weren't anything more special than the most liked kids in the school, but M felt they deserved a name that spoke of eminence. It needed to be capitalized. When M thought of capitalizing something that wasn't usually, it was a reminder of how great of a deal it was.
In this case, it meant the Populars weren't exactly her best friends.
"What'll it be today, ma'am?" Isaac asked nasally from behind her. He did sound as if his nose were being pinched. M giggled. She liked when he did his silly voice best of all the things Isaac did for her entertainment.
"A French braid, s'il vous plaît," M responded, twirling a thick lock of her shiny black hair around her finger. She lifted her nose in the air and sniffed passionately.
"Ah, oui, oui," murmured Isaac, attempting to mimic her in a terrible accent. Unlike M, he had no French ancestry and knew nothing of the language that her own French parents had taught her as she was growing up. M laughed.
Isaac brushed her hair and divided it with the blue brush from the nightstand. After a few minutes, his strong but gentle hands had twisted it into a lovely, simple braid. Sixty seconds till bus... and counting down. Once Isaac finished the look with a striped bow, he gave M a light shove. She squeaked in protest.
"Must I go?" She blinked at him with big, sad eyes and pouted.
"Sorry, baby, it's the law. Believe me, I'd keep you here if I could." Isaac shrugged and gave her a pout back. M stood on her tippy toes to reach his towering height and tousled his reddish blond hair. He ducked away.
"Okay, fine, but tell me the thing, Isaac."
"The thing?"
"You know what thing!"
Isaac's eyes twinkled. "Right, here goes." He bent down so he could lift his head to her, and took her hand in his, squeezing it comfortingly. "Flowers bloom and sun shines bright, moon to keep you safe at night. Danger lurks and he will lie, but blue shan't ever leave the sky. So... No matter where you go, no matter who you are, someone out there in the world will be your shining star."
"Will I be safe?" M spoke quietly, almost inaudibly. She was scared. Scared of the bullies, of the Populars, of getting hurt. Afraid of school because school could be a frightening place.
"Yes."
She trusted him.
Pulling her close with an arm around her shoulder, Isaac walked M to the door. The girl took a deep breath. Through the glass window, she could see the yellow and black bus approaching like a menacing bee. She dug her nails into her palms.
"Nothing is going to happen today," Isaac said. It didn't sound as if he was directing that towards her.
M turned the brass handle and opened the door. The rays of the sun in the cheerful sky hit her face, though they were dimmed slightly, as they were covered by grey and white clouds. Fall was coming in, after all. M couldn't share the feeling of jubilance that the rest of the world seemed to be having this morning. Not when she was about to go to school.
Isaac released her from his grasp after they shared an embrace that M wished had lasted longer. Her Isaac smelled strangely of lilacs, or maybe lavender, but she was pleased by it.
"See you after," M sighed. The boy leaned against the doorway and gave her a salute. She finally, regretfully, turned around and began the walk to her death sentence.
If only weekends lasted forever.
M stared down at her black laced boots, hoisting her backpack onto her shoulders as she went. There were the wheels. There was the fetor that belonged to the heavy smoke trailing behind the vehicle, assaulting her nostrils. To prison, she marched forward.
"Hey, M&M," someone shouted from the back of the bus as M traveled up the few small steps. She didn't recognize the voice. Scanning the area, which was full of scowling children of a variety of fascinating colors in skin and clothing and hair, M picked out a dark brown hand waving desperately at her. The bus driver gave her an irritated look, so she darted away at an urgent pace.
"Uhhh, hi?" M greeted, sliding into the seat next to the boy who had summoned her. She always sat alone. This was very, very new.
He grinned at her broadly. While his skin was darker than hers, his hair was brown. M's was black. He had eyes with a silvery glow about them.
M tilted her head. What a curious child, she pondered to herself. There was just something about him.
"You're the one, aren't you? M? M Desjardins?"
"How do you know my name?" M recoiled instantly.
The boy opened his mouth and closed it again. He repeated this a few times, as if he were a fish, before he answered in a smooth tone, "We knew each other when we were little."
M felt something new wash over her; she didn't know what it was. But she found herself believing the stranger.
"My name, on the other hand, is Asagwara Nenge. I used to live here, a long time ago, then I moved. We would play at your house. Now my mum decided we should come back." Asagwara let the words roll off his tongue like they weren't even his own. M's rapid trust in him, however, did not waver.
"I don't remember you at all," M muttered, "but sure. Will you be in my classes then? Wait, more importantly, can you fight?" She was excited by the prospect of having some sort of bodyguard. When the Populars attacked her, M never knew how to retaliate.
The boy glowered at her. "No. And no."
M turned her head from him, avoiding his penetrating gaze. Those eyes...
"I've never seen a color like that," Asagwara commented suddenly.
"Huh?"
"Your eyes. They're curious. Brilliant, I'd say."
"Oh. They're nothing special. Isaac tells me they are, but they're really not some glorious sight whatsoever." M looked past Asagwara, out the bus window. Beneath her, the bumps and loose branches shook the vehicle. Right in front of her, she could see her reflection in the window. There were her eyes, staring back at her. They were a light lavender, outlined by dark violet and having several highlights of various purple shades and tints. No. Nothing special.
"Mmm."
They both fell silent.
Minutes later, the bus came to a screeching halt in front of the school. M felt dread set into her heart once more. She could see, already, that Populars were gathered in a cluster outside the double metal doors. She wished she didn't know them so well; she just had quite a lot of experience with them.
There were five girls. Then, there were their boyfriends. At M's school, the middle schoolers and high schoolers were combined into one large building, since her hometown and the surrounding communities were fairly small in population. It was a generally cheap place. Well, unless you were rich. On some days, when the older kids were feeling particularly unkindly, they decided to poke fun at M or another unfortunate child who happened to be part of a wealthy family. M wasn't sure why her parents' money was any reason to treat her like dirt, but she assumed it was petty jealousy to make herself feel better. At the same time, she hated to sound snobbish.
Asagwara scooted closer to the window as M continued to watch the Populars. She took no notice.
There was Delu. She was from a part of Africa M had never heard of, and couldn't pronounce if she tried. Delu was the Popular that M disliked the least. She, unlike the rest of her clique, never teased her. She was surprisingly shy and quiet. But of course, she never tried to stand up for anyone her friends bullied. That would go against Popular rules. Delu's boyfriend, Mateo, had a similar personality to her. M couldn't help but fancy him; he was the most attractive boy she knew, besides Isaac. He was still in eighth grade, a year younger than the Populars he hung out with and a lot nicer. M wasn't certain what he saw in those people.
Caoimhe was part Irish, and probably the most beautiful of the group. She had fair, pale skin, and a slender figure. Her hair was brown and straight, but she often had it done up in some frivolous style. Caoimhe, in M's personal opinion, was also the meanest of the girls.
Xiomara had black hair much like M, though it was full of curls. She had plain brown eyes and flesh of an olive tone. Peri, her best friend, was born and raised in New York till she moved to La Cuvette. Peri had strawberry blonde hair with blue and pink highlights. M knew for a fact that she had a mild obsession with cotton candy. She... overheard things.
"Are you still alive?" Asagwara asked.
M looked at him like a deer in headlights. "Uh."
"Don't forget Justice." The boy pointed out the window to the girl that was a bit shorter than the rest of the Populars. She had a noticeably excellent tan.
"Reading my mind or something?" M glared at him, doing her finest imitation of the expression he had given her before.
Asagwara's eyes went blank. "No."
The bus door opened at that moment, and everyone riding got up at once. Children pushed each other to get into the aisle, the constricted area erupting in deafening screams and loud conversation. M covered her ears and winced as a loose backpack strap hit her in the face. The bus wasn't even the worst part of the nightmare.
Once most everyone had exited, M and Asagwara stood simultaneously. The two went down the steps, Asagwara never straying more than a foot from her.
"Come with me," the boy invited. He gestured to M and she obediently followed.
"This isn't the seventh-grade hallway," M pointed out.
"I will agree that it is not."
Asagwara grabbed her wrist and pulled her into the crowd, beginning to speed up as they darted around groups of high-schoolers.
"Let go!" M hissed at him. His hand tightly on her wrist was beginning to make her feel ill. She hated it. She just wanted him to get off her.
Asagwara did not.
"I need to get to homeroom!" she objected.
"We must do something," said Asagwara grimly. The mission he had in mind was not a pleasant one, not that M had to know that to know she didn't want to do it.
M's breathing rate increased. She felt fury build up inside her, bubbling and boiling like hot water. With all her strength, she firmly planted her heels on the tile floor and wrenched her wrist from the boy's grip. Pain shot through her entire arm. "Don't TOUCH me!" she shrieked. M bit her tongue to stop the tears from coming. "GET AWAY FROM ME!" She heard the click-clack of dress shoes nearing and froze. Still beside her, now clutching his head, Asagwara froze too.
"Is everything alright here?" A teacher raised a concerned eyebrow at the two children.
M ran.
She ran, her boots squeaking, until she found the right hallway. The seventh-grade hallway. Here, there was no danger apart from the judgmental aura surrounding each and every angsty teenager.
Here, she was almost safe.
The late bell sounded off just as she slid into her homeroom, the echo resonating in her ears even after it ceased. Mr. Patel grumbled something incoherently.
M went to her desk, sat down in the red plastic chair, and folded her hands neatly on the cool metal surface. A few students around her and on the outskirts of the desk arrangement exchanged whispers. Her face burned from running. Why had she gone with Asagwara at all? Where had he been trying to take her? The only appeal she could find in the situation was that no high-schoolers had been able to bother her.
The teacher took his clipboard from where it leaned against the whiteboard and began calling role. "M Desjardins," Mr. Patel announced a few names later, once again messing up her last name terribly. How many times did she have to remind him it wasn't pronounced how it was spelled?
"Day. Zhah. Du," M corrected calmly in a French accent. She made sure to leave any annoyance and general displeasure she was currently feeling out of her tone. It was a skill she had perfected over the years, mainly so her parents wouldn't fuss over her the rare occasions they came home. When they did that, they just seemed... fake.
"Mmmm, yes." Mr. Patel nonchalantly took a sip of tea from his thermos, as if to block his students' view of his 'I-don't-care' eye roll. M resisted rolling her eyes right back.
M groaned when the bell rang once again. As much as she detested Mr. Patel, she would rather sit in homeroom with him then go to an actual class. She wanted to go home. Home to Isaac. Home to Tully. Most importantly, home to Isaac.
Mr. Patel pursed his lips. "Get out of here."
M, pushed into her second crowd of noisy children for the morning, left the room in a wave like floodwaters.
But as she rushed towards her math class, a dark hand reached through the mass to grab her floral sleeve. She was shoved against the lockers, the bang of her back slamming against them knocking the wind from her lungs.
"Asagwara!" she snarled once her breath had returned. The boy, his silvery eyes glistening innocently, smiled at her like a young child. She could still feel the sting of pain from when she had torn her wrist away from him.
"I've brought you something, miss." Asagwara unfurled the fingers he had carefully secured around an object in his palm. Though M was inquisitive, she lifted her nose from him.
Asagwara sniffed haughtily. "How queer. I assumed you'd want my most sincere apologies for my actions previously." He examined the nails on the hand that wasn't clutching his gift, presumably waiting for M to give in.
"I should really get to math," she murmured. Asagwara appeared concerned.
M exposed her right palm to him after a moment, and he happily dropped the present in it.
"A flower of my sorrows, so it blooms and drinks thy tears, dear missus," Asagwara recited dramatically. He bowed to her and disappeared as quickly as he had come.
M examined the silver flower laying pitifully on her outstretched hand. She realized that sadness had rooted within her, somehow, just by the touch of the petals.
And before her astonished eyes, the flower bloomed.