Fighting Wayward

Chapter 1

  Rewinding a couple of decades and going through every breathing moment of life thus far would take an outrageous amount of time, so I'll be as brief as possible by visiting more monumental events.

  No need to dwell in the nightmarish shithole that were my younger years for too long.

  To be blunt, I was a very bossy, chunky cheek, freckled, wild child. Looking back on it, and wondering how I managed to have any friends.. I now realize it was more of a hostage situation than anything else.

  Was never much for democracy, if anything I was the wildly feared dictator within my group of friends. If I concluded that I wanted to play tag or fly from the swings, you better believe that's what was going to happen. There wasn't a submissive cell in my body to be found, and to me that meant needing to exert aggressive control over everything I saw fit to.

  My closest friend at the time was Sarah Hough. She lived five houses down from me in our perfectly old fashioned California suburb, with her brother, mother, and stepfather. We spent most days running the avenue playing innocent games, or trying to earn money doing random work for neighbors with the intentions of buying slurpees from the local 7/11.

  The new school year came, and we were on top of the world. Fourth grade was when our elementary school finally upgraded you to the "big kid" playground, meant for fourth and fifth graders, until you left for middle school in sixth year. It was at the end of the day when school let out that a huge number of students would run off to Rec, the after school program in the cafeteria, until someone came to get you, such as siblings or parents.

  The rules were a little loose back then, being in the 90's. Honest to God, a stranger probably could have came to get me from Rec and they would've let me walk out with my kidnapper. Luckily, I managed to somehow survive the 90's.

  It was a typical morning, with my dirty blond hair settling just above my shoulders in a bob tucked behind my ears. Having a tomboyish array of clothes made getting ready in the morning an easily accomplished task. Good thing I wasn't obsessed with myself the way I considered my two older sisters to be. All three of us girls were separated by 4 years at a time, and I was the youngest.

  It was partway into the beginning of the school year already, and my days had become rather routine. One of my sisters were always meant to walk me right up the road to my school before heading in the opposite direction towards theirs, but I usually booked it up the road to meet up with Sarah and walk with her before anyone noticed. They more than likely preferred it that way, and so did I. I couldn't stand for my sisters embarassing me when I was already such an adult. I had this independence thing down.

  Innocently embedded in my memories is the very morning that Caster showed up at school with his messily spiked blonde hair, glasses rivaling Harry Potter's, and his bright red cheeks, with his lips pursed as if he was contemplating the desire to be absolutely anywhere else.

  He was already at the front of the room with Mrs. Lingle, the teacher, when I came through the door. For some reason, even back then, there was an undeniable and imperceptible force that wouldn't allow my eyes to move away from him.

  He was softly encouraged to stand in front of the class for an introduction. While the scene was unfolding, all I could seem to pay attention to was how tightly he was gripping the straps to his backpack. When my eyes roamed over his face, from where I sat, I realized his eyes were closed and his teeth were clamped down onto his lip.

  I wonder what the color of his eyes are..

  It was Mrs. Lingle who finally spoke, effectively silencing anyone still humming with energy, after everyone had filed in seeing the first new student we'd encountered in a couple of years.