M is for Melody (Old)

Chapter 17: I Momentarily Break From Disaster

Almost immediately after first hour, my morning energy is sapped. I haven't an inkling as to how anyone could be a morning person, when it's mentally, physically, and emotionally draining. One also loses an impeccable amount of sleep when forced to wake at six a.m., so being grumpy about it is a given right, but some don't feel the need to complain at all. People like...

"You look dead, Mels," says a chipper voice from beside me. To accentuate that observation, Wendy demonstrates what my face must look like, which, apparently, is reminiscent to a zombie drooling over freshly caught human.

"Wow, hit the nail on the head. I don't know why I was excited for anything an hour ago. This is the hell written by the hebrews," I respond, but Wendy's presence almost immediately perks me up enough to straighten my posture a bit.

She rolls her eyes in good humor at my response, unruffled by my obvious lack of pompousness. It is something I inevitably have learned to appreciate about her. Wendy can take anything.

"Look, grumpy, just 'cause you look dead doesn't mean you are. Maybe you need sugar. I got a Kit-Kat in my backpack if you need it." She reaches towards the back of her head to tighten her hair tie and at the same time shoots me with a look that says, I offered you my soul, you'd be stupid not to take it.

See, the thing about candy is it's addictive, and the only person I know who is on par with my apparently obsessive personality is the person right in front of me. Therefore, one can count on Wendy to carry with her everything she might possibly need for any venture she desires, be it a toothbrush, knitting yarn, or cat treats. I don't blame her for being over packed (if I dare even call it that), but one can't help but wonder what she's doing with cat treats in her school backpack.

There was one time when she invited me over the Sunday before the Fourth of July. We were going to watch the parade the following day, and Wendy had thought of so many possible scenarios of what she considered and thought of being possibilities she had to pack her bag the night before. It was as if she assumed the apocalypse would occur on the crowded streets of a Michigan college town with what nonsense she packed in that poor, unsuspecting reusable grocery bag. There was hardly enough room to fit the candy the firefighters always threw out for the little kids.

Oh, speaking of candy, I'm pretty sure I don't need a sugar-induced headache, and I say so. Which Wendy looks pleased enough upon hearing.

"Besides," I say, "what time is it, nine in the morning? Recipe for disaster, I tell you. Never consume chocolate before twelve."

She shrugs and plays a rhythmic game with her fingers, and I realize that her nails are painted white, a strangely angelic contrast to yesterday's hot pink. Can't say I enjoyed that color, so this is nice and not eye blindingly garish.

We continue talking about little nothings through the halls, and thankfully today I am met with hardly any incidents or notable encounters (though there is a frightening moment when I collide head-first into Markus Jenners and worry he'll open that slimy mouth to say something unarguably rude, but I'm pulled away by Wendy just in time to escape the oncoming doom that awaited. Luckily, Wendy knows who to avoid at all costs). Second hour passes in a blur and I hardly pay any attention, which of course is called for. History is never any fun no matter who teaches.

When it comes passing time, Ellie is waiting outside the room. It looks like he is precariously trying not to be swept into the tidal wave of repelled students eager to escape the clutches or utter boredom, but he holds his ground 'till I exit the room more sluggishly than the rest. The sight of his face lets me smile, and I carefully allow myself that luxury. Because if anyone deserves a positive response, it's Ellie.

"How are you now, better?" he asks, falling into step with me. I notice our feet hit the ground at the same time but don't try to shake off the synchronization.

I nod, a minimalistic action I'm not sure even confirmed his question. "I think so. I still can't understand...uh, what I heard, exactly, but there's something I can do, which is a whole lot greater of a comfort than not being able to do anything at all."

He nods, pleased he could help. But then he takes on this sort of uneasy look, something on the edge of his tongue. A question, perhaps, that he doesn't want to voice. So I do it for him, taking my best stab at what might unhinge his jaw.

"What do you want to know? I recognize that weasley look, you obviously want to ask something." I know the look because I use it myself, and I used it the day I sat in the main office with Ms. Kimber after track tryouts for a question I never got to ask. I hardly remember what, exactly, I was meaning to say, but I know it had to have been important, because I remember the feeling of restriction and suffocating necessity to say something or else suffer the consequence of a dying thought.

But since the thought had already passed on, I struggle to bear it no grief of mind and tune into the world just in time to catch Ellie's burning question:

"What did he say? What did he say about you? I...I knew he was up to something the day he first showed up here. He had to 've said something about you to make you so shaken up. There was a look on your face, like...like you saw the world end. There was total confusion."

The first words caught my attention immediately, but by the end I'm stricken by the thought that Ellie might be onto everything, and he might have figured out more than me. Never mind the echo of pride in pain at the back of my head, if he knows something about October that I don't, I absolutely need to hear it.

I consider my next words for a moment before daring to say anything. "He - Toby, that is, right? - didn't say anything about me specifically, per say, but what he did could, possibly, change everything about a specific situation concerning...me. And, perhaps, just a hunch, a lot of other people too."

He smiles like a heartbroken old man and shakes his head. "I want to help if you'll let me...but I'm not sure what I could actually do."

I maneuver around a pack of wild freshmen to rejoin Ellie, and we both turn to the final hallway that leads to our math room. "I want to let you help, too," I say, speaking a bit louder to be heard amid the hubbub of the busy hall. "We could call it payment in exchange for singing lessons."

And that coaxes a true, heaven-is-real sunny smile out from behind the weary one, and I feel like I've won something hard to earn. Too bad I can't really see his face from the side. "I forgot about that, actually. The role assignments are supposed to be up today if you wanna check with me after lunch?"

Ah, good, a happy distraction from the horrid fumes of confusion and caverns of misplaced thought. "Sure," I say, fully meaning it. But I don't dare promise.