Keyholes To Flowerage

VI. Keyholes to Flowerage

VI. Keyholes to Flowerage

NO ARGUMENTS could blur the clarity of Urban City. The 21°C transuded smoothly in my pores, scolding why I didn't put enough layers. Countless vehicles of different kinds lining up so proud to appreciate traffic and practice long forbearance. Urban City was amber jewels. Very picturesque to imagine prologue-ing a new life and keeping another circle of people. Peeking outside from time to time, I did a math on people passing by the crossing but surrendered when their amount burgeoned boundless.

"First time to be here?" Mrs. Stevens participated in my activity. I hesitated whether to stay silent or speak, I did what was polite.

"Yes, Mrs. Stevens. Urban's completely different from our place." I realized my statement would bring many connotations. "I mean, in positive ways."

"It apparently is." She beamed, looking down on her phone to expect e-mails and text messages.

Our arrival in Houston University completed the formation of nervousness that cultured within my system in an instant. All people paused to give a way to a rude car, the driver looked like about my age. He was banging his head to the loud music, biting lips as though rejoicing over a won battle.

"Urban boys are really the biggest party animals," Mrs. Stevens commented as we escaped from the knots of people passing through the alleyways, she retold everything I had to know. Directions. What to do and not. Tips. And repeat.

"Here we are, Marceline. The JFK conference room." She put a soft tap on my shoulder. "Do well, ahuh? Don't be nervous and if ever something came up, head straight to the parking. Gets?" I nodded and waited for her to depart.

I pushed the door open, my penetration was raindrops tapping the windowpanes-only those who had sharp ears could notice. My eyes dragged slowly to look around. Uniforms of different styles. Hi's and hello's filling the silent corners of the room. It was a piece of cake for me to find a seat behind the sea of people. Not too far from where I was settled was a guy my age or older, his phone screen reflected bright on his face. He smelled of mythology, epitomizing the sinewy of Greece.

Silence was visibly audible when three men in formal attires and of apparent domination disclosed themselves. I watched them interact to the students in the front rows confidently.

Another guy appeared in the frame, he was sort of familiar to me. "Mr. Gilman, you're few minutes late."

"My bad, I had problems parking my car." He flashed a grin, roaming his eyes to spot a seat. He found one and the three men started the conference meeting.

"Good morning, everyone!" The man who spoke with the late comer persuaded us to greet back. "To begin this, I would like to formally introduce myself-ourselves. The guy who sits right next to me is the head documentarian, Ren Willis."

He paused to laugh, gesturing the guy behind him. "And the guy here looking unwelcoming is the assistant, Nyle Walker."

"And I'm Mason Gilman." That gave us a conclusion that he's somewhat related to the Gilman he spoke to awhile ago. "I'm the editor of Houston Documentary. We gathered you all to further elaborate the objectives of our documentary; to conclude what kind of friendship will different students develop as they get along, to help you all grow, and to affirm that there really is a connection between or among strangers."

Ren Willis scrounged the spotlight by revealing the benefits we'd get from participating actively in their psychological documentary. "We will only gather four groups out of a hundred representatives. They will consist of two males and two females. Also, there will be an elimination round-an individual interview to be exact-later after we take our lunches. The chosen representatives will be announced by the end of the day."

BY THE time we touched the temporary pause of conference, we were given two hours break. Some representatives made good use out of the allotted time via wandering around the Houston square, few made a new circle of friends, and most of them joined the hype of flexing their schools. On the flipside, I busied myself appreciating the structures of Houston. Buildings taller than 5th floors. A big fountain in the middle of the campus ground. Statues of National Heroes standing across the JFK Hall. Very civilized. Very Urban.

"Didn't expect to see a lagoon here." Moist grasses touched my legs.

The turquoise lagoon reflected the plain horizon and a figure of skinny lass opaquely. Dried leaves sensed sharp against my thin shoes as trees whistled, enthralling me to hop in its lying branches. I was about to settle when the speaker called out my number. My turn on a hot seat, I guessed.

"Ah, hi." I pushed the door close and awkwardly flashed a forced beam.

"Take a seat, please." Mason motioned the seat in front of them. Nervousness led me to sit. I let out the Pacific Ocean breath. Beamed and calmed myself.

With a cold voice, Nyle impatiently stared at me. "What's your name?"

"Marceline," I shyly responded.

"Louder, dam-" Ren tapped Nyle's shoulder, hinting him that he was scaring me.

"Marceline Sullivan." I couldn't look straight at them. I'd rather look into the eyes of dogs particularly that this Nyle guy didn't know how to filter his annoyance.

"Okay, Ms. Sullivan. Tell us one word as to why would we choose you." Mason slouched his back, patience growing thin.

With fumes beginning to cloud me, I settled my back against the cold chair and fought the nervousness as strong as I could. I did what was polite to me; looked at them straight in the pupils. "Deserving."

The next thing I could tell was that we were heading back to Rural. Finally. Mrs. Stevens rejoiced over the announcement of documentarians through making phone calls with some of my lecturers. This was unlooked-for. I did it. Everyone in the school started mentioning my name as we got there. And it was something I couldn't truthfully like.