Color My World (Ouran High School Host Club)

Chapter 9- A Discovery

I growled, tying a dusty apron around my waist and a faded red bandana around my hair.

The snow had faded away, and the bitter cold was a mere memory, lost in the promise of fresh dewdrops and flower buds; the grass was gradually turning green, the air comfortably warm. It was, undeniably, spring.

Sunlight spilled through the window, cozy and golden. The sky was a clear, crystal blue, puffy white clouds floating hazily in the distance. It was a blissful, gorgeous weekend afternoon, one of those lovely days filled with freedom from the insolent jerks that currently dominated my life.

I swept the dust into a pile, wrinkling my nose as I fished a cockroach corpse from behind my bed. "Stupid spring cleaning...first time I have a break, and this is what I get?"

Proceeding to pull out a squeaky desk drawer, I found it to be filled with envelopes and crumpled bills, various pieces of junk accumulated over the years. I heaved a sigh, snatching up a fistful of the dusty sheets and dumping it into a waste basket.

I peered over the drawer again and reached back in, my hand brushing up against something solid. Frowning, I tossed the papers out of the way to find a duct-taped cardboard box sitting at the very bottom.

A box? My curiosity piqued, I carefully lifted it out of the drawer, the movement stirring up another cloud of dust. I brushed the dust clumps off it, squinting to read the English in messy, loopy cursive: Memoir.

A memoir? Whose memoir? What was it doing in my bedroom? Was it my father's? Or...or-

Unable to resist the temptation any longer, I tore off of the cover with a screech, peeking at its contents. The box was cluttered with messily-scrawled notes, fancy envelopes, a moleskine notebook, and a single leather-bound album.

A mixture of welling emotions struck my heart: overwhelming curiosity, confusion, fear at what secrets and truths it might contain. Mom.

I tentatively flipped open to the first page of the book: a faded picture of a girl with blonde pigtails and vibrant green eyes grinning cheekily at the camera. She was standing in front of a large brick building, a flower-patterned backpack slung over her shoulders.

My fingers traced across the page. I almost couldn't believe it squinting to read the print below the words: Marianna, age five. First day of school!

Marianna...Marianna...was that her name? My mom? Her first day of school?

I swallowed, and there she was again, tightly embracing a thin, balding man who looked stiff and uncomfortable in his crisp black suit. Memories captured in those yellowing pages, thin and thick and bittersweet.

Another and another. The same girl in a cute, striped bikini, splashing a little boy with a handful of ocean water, the golden sun setting in the horizon. She grinned toothily, caught in mid-laugh. Marianna and Tommy. At the beach!

I turned the page with trembling fingers, gazing at a crayon sketch. It was of a stick figure and a simple, childish in vibrant colors of neon orange and rose pink, the lines smeared and smile strained. In the next, she was wearing what appeared to be a cardboard constructed graduation cap, beaming cheerfully as she held up a diploma that proclaimed her a graduate of Ms. Myers' kindergarten glass.

A slip of thick, lined paper was plastered unceremoniously besides to the photo, reading in wobbly letters: Marianna Rosalie Clambert.

I sat back on, oblivious to the rest of the world and the ticking clock as I turned page after page in a mesmerized sort of daze, watching as her life rushed by in photos, in faded memories long-forgotten in a sealed-up box. She had existed, she had lived and breathed and loved, and this was proof of it. A girl with two braids grinning and riding on a pink bicycle in a leafy park filled with other bustling children, posing with her arm around a cocker spaniel puppy, holding hands with her brother.

The moments rushed by, lost in pages and pages. A photo of a teenager wearing a plaid skirt and a collared shirt, clutching a stack of textbooks to her well-defined chest.

And then, she was holding hands with a man with a well-manicured appearance and an aura of superiority. He was reasonably good-looking, with his cropped salt-and-pepper hair and pale gray eyes, and you could tell he knew it, what with his self-satisfied smirk. I couldn't help but notice that my mother's face was solemn in all of her pictures with him, the corners of her lips upturned in a strained sort of smile.

Next, a white card with silver writing, cordially inviting me to attend the marriage of Jonathan Wilson and Marianna Clambert, scheduled for January 7th, the theme "Winter Wonderland."

Marriage? I stared blankly at the invitation, the word running back and forth through my chaotic mind. To someone who clearly wasn't my dad? What did this mean?

The next ten pages or so were dedicated to their wedding, photo upon photo of delicate ice sculptures, bouquets of white roses, and a towering layered cake, my mother breathtakingly beautiful in a sleeveless dress adorned with pearls and a lace wedding train.

There was a tear where the next pages were supposed to be; they must have been torn out. I ran my fingers in a blind daze along the jagged remainder of the faded paper, these new revelations running through my mind at a dizzying speed. My mother's name was Marianna Clambert. She was married to Jonathan Wilson. And then what?

On the final page, a stout boy waved and smiled at me, stubby fingers stuck in his mop of dirty blonde hair; he wore a striped shirt and overalls, a soup stain zigzagging across his clothes. Matthew Wilson.

Matthew Wilson, Matthew Wilson, Matthew Wilson...the name churned through my head as I stared in awe at the tiny cursive. Matthew Wilson, the boy with the green eyes, my green eyes, the boy who appeared in my mother's memoir, who had the same last name as her husband-

My brother.

I had a brother.