The Imaginary

Chapter 1: I Got Myself a Very Cool Alien Friend Part 2

THE IMAGINARY

CHAPTER ONE: I GOT MYSELF A VERY COOL ALIEN FRIEND

PART 2

 Buckle up, we’ll take a ride down Memory Lane. Uh, yes, I meant that. Last week, it was an ordinary school day. Sis had gone to Sunnyshore to sort out some files. I was a growing boy, by myself that time. And I loved the dream world. OK, OK, enough excuses. So what happened was, I was late for school. I overslept, see. I wasn’t being lazy or irresponsible. This was a natural thing for teens.

Mr. Clark’s "Detention!" yells were playing in the mind. Oh, those eyes. I was running then, when Mr. Beak fell on the ground. He nearly hit me.

Mr. Beak was a town postman, one of the few. He was a clumsy middle-aged man. He had a slightly feverish look, crooked teeth, and was always in his ragged black jumpsuit. That outfit seemed overused for fifty years already. He also had a sailor cap.  

"Pardon, lad," he said. He made his bike stand. "It is a troubling day. I’ve been seeing weird things."

"What kind of weird things, Mr. Beak? The abnormal kind?"

"I am certain it was the phantom kind, lad." I didn’t understand, I just stared at him curiously. I’m sorry, Mr. Beak, but what exactly was this "phantom kind" thing? Well, I wanted to ask that, but I feared explanations would get a little too lengthy. He carried on. "But, then again, I cannot be too sure. Oh my, that is a paradox, young Jake." Mr. Beak froze. The me you were seeing here had just realized he was late. "Isn’t it time for school, lad?"

"The number-faced old man does not rest, Jake," said Silver, before being smoked out.

"I know." I fixed my bag in place, then started the sprint. "Crap, Mr. Clark’s gonna kill me." I looked behind. Mr. Beak’s hand was half-stretched upwards, like he was thinking if he should wave me good-bye or not. "Bye, Mr. Beak!"

Usually, the Moonridge corridors had buzzing bees. That day, it was a ghost town. I could smell the stench of blood. And more was to come. My own, sadly. I took a few steps, I think five to eight. The atmosphere was horror. I stopped at our room, held the knob so gently like feather touch, and twisted it. Bang, a pistol fire! But there was no sign of the man. There was only the crowd at the middle.

I’d been a good kid these past few weeks, so the God of Luck was on my side. No cunning smile. No, sir.

"Late again, huh? Minus points. You ought to be better if you want Sarah’s heart."

Who was this? And what was up with that talk about Sarah?

"What?" I turned. Oh, it was Laura. This girl was crazy, trust me on this. I settled my things in my place. "Where’s Mr. Clark?"

"Well, the same as you. Late. But not really." Make up your mind, Laura! "He went to talk with some guy with fancy hair."

"Fancy hair?"

"Yep! It’s sharp, too. I think he could do magic tricks. He looked like it." Well, Ms. President, this part was irrelevant. "Mr. Clark said he’ll be back in fifteen minutes. And that’s--" she checked her watch. "In five minutes."

Laura Braveheart was our class president. She was bratty, leader-type, almost bossy. She was the complete opposite of the fragile-type that was Sarah, which made one wonder why they were best friends. Or, maybe only I did. She was, in some terms, close to Sarah in beauty. Hey, calm down. I wasn’t cheating, just being--you could say, honest. She had short brown hair, which often swayed. It had cute flower-shaped clips. And she shared Sarah’s aura. But she was scary, like an amazon. Transfer students were her dartboards.