The Lockhart mystery

Chapter Three: We Know Nothing.

I hurried to get to the Literature class when I felt an ominous presence behind, towering above me almost. I took a slight glance back and saw Cane following suit. He made sure my eyes met his as well as he made damn sure I knew he was trying to get under my skin.

I waved before I clutched my bag, almost running to the classroom. He was laughing under his breath and I heard it the second I stopped walking. I opened the door and stepped in. The fact that everyone had already found their seats and the teacher had somehow begun the class a minute after the bells, that did not bother me the least, what did, however, was Cane who took his seat just behind me. So I could feel the torturing set of eyes he had, I thought. Those dark orbs piercing the skin on my neck as I tried to focus at whatever Mrs Danwell was talking about.

Twenty minutes into class and a ball of paper flew onto my lap. I did not open it until I had spared the little devil behind me a glance of death.

My fingers struggled with opening the little ball, so much that I made a slight cut. I gasped quietly, sucking my finger. Cane snickered behind me, but I was too busy reading the words.

What makes me the wisest man on earth?

I quickly grabbed a pen and wrote beneath it.

Because you know one thing, and that is that you know nothing.

-Socrates.

I threw it back at the same time I was eying Mrs. Danwell's every move, and thanks to my subtleness she did not notice the ball of paper flying into what I believed was Cane's head because he grunted the slightly bit of annoyed. He took his precious time to answer and I looked out the window, resting my head on my hand. I could see my reflection, the image always startling me. I had not inherited my mother's color of eyes, which I believed was one of the many signs of God's dislike for me, but at the same time I had not my father's eyes either. I had this wicked green color which I believed was okay, what with my slightly brown skin. I liked the way I stood out, I liked me. There were no one like me. For example, instead of freckles I had random spots of black, there, above my eye and there, right under my bottom lip and then several other places. My hair was the bloody type of brown and not the good kind of curly, but straight and bipolar because sometimes curls would surprise attack me and I had no idea where they came from, but I just believed my hair was actually alive and changed moods from day to day. Sometimes it would be this very straight, and I could make do, and then they would tangle into each other and have these random curls.

My hair was reproducing, I thought quietly, and almost snickered. Besides, I did look a lot like my mother. Her skin color, her cheek bones, her body type. Tall and slim.

Then I would stand next to my father and some people would think I was adopted. My father was the spotting image of an aging white man in America who had done excellent with his well paying job. My father was tall and fair, nice and funny, and had this slight snobbishness, probably from his work as a lawyer, if I was not mistaken. But he was my father and I was almost happy I had no visible traits with him, though I loved him very deeply.

Cane never threw another ball and the rest of the class went problem free, which I was almost relieved for, but I had a slight wish, if I dared to admit, that he would have sent me another letter. It is not that I found his attention towards me flattering, but I did like the fact I had someone to glance deathly at, but still be on that slight balance of companionship. I could maybe not call Cane a friend, but maybe one day I would. I found comfort in that thought, a sort shelter, a promise for the future.