I wake up and imagine it will be another day of long boring classes, lousy cafeteria food, and the same gossip, drama, and hubbub one usually finds on a high school campus. The scene is already growing old, despite this being only the third day I will attend, and my fourth day in Salmon. I wonder if stopping in Idaho was a bad idea, and try to decide if I should go through with it and buy a house, or move on to greener pastures, maybe try college life.
I have never been content to stay somewhere long, even when I lived in the Encante, a beautiful Utopia, I frequently made extended trips to foreign places, often impoverished and dirty places, just for a change of pace.
I arrive at school early, not for any particular reason, other than I had been up for hours already and had nothing better to do. I rarely sleep more than four hours in a day, and thanks to my ancestry and magic, do not need much sleep. When I get too much I grow restless, that is to say more restless than usual. I decide since there is still more than half an hour before the first classes start I will go see if I can talk the lunch ladies into changing up the lunch menu.
I know that when I turn on the charm I can get women to do just about anything I want. I had been eating the cafeteria lunch for the past two days now simply because I do not find anything appealing about making food for myself, in an antiquated sort of way I consider it something women should do. This alone dissuades me from taking an interest, but with the constant bulk, frozen, bland, and low quality ingredients provided in the public school system lunch lines, I wonder if I might have to change my mind.
As I stride down the empty hallway I determine to at least persuade the lunch lady in charge to add a few more items to the rotation. Then, I notice a locker standing slightly ajar. I have no idea why it catches my interest, but it has, and I find myself walking toward it. It is a top locker, no bigger than a cubby, and painted that awful blue color so common in schools. Though I am not sure why, I look back over my shoulder to see if anyone is watching, then I nudge the locker open further. There is nothing remarkable about it. I gather from the decorated inner door and the mirror hanging inside that it belongs to a girl. Males are not prone to decorating their lockers.
Usually this sort of thing would not have captured my interest in the slightest. I had always been sort of irritated by the foolish things high school girls put in their lockers: photos of male models, stupid phrases cut out of magazines, pop stars, pictures of themselves dressed up and out with girl friends, maybe a picture of their current love interest. However, while clearly a locker belonging to a female, this one is different. The decorated door holds none of the typical décor. Instead it has a few quotes by Ralph Waldo Emerson, a true great, and a poem by Rudyard Kipling. As I look at this locker I ponder the depth of what I see, and grow curious about the owner, a voice dripping with irritation interrupts my thoughts.
“What are you doing?” It is a very feminine voice, but it is laced with disdain and the irritation makes it deeper, more masculine. I wheel around, too quickly and hit my head on the locker door. I grimace at my not so smooth appearance and slight throb as my head makes contact with the metal door. I look down to see a thin, average height girl glaring at me. She has deep brown eyes, with little flecks of green, framed by a light but striking set of lashes. She is dressed in clothes that compliments her slim figure and make her breasts look fuller than they are. Her clothes are not flashy, or trendy, but perfectly cut, and do wonders for her slight figure. But it is not her body that catches my attention, it is her eyes. Those eyes glare at me, bore into me, and demand an explanation. Her lips are thin, and she wears a clear lip gloss. The tight little line they are in indicates she is far from pleased with finding me snooping in her locker. She has a long, slender nose that perfectly matches the angles of her face, and a very defined chin, held a little higher than necessary. Just another sign she gives that she is upset. I notice her hair is a mousy brown, but shines and looks healthy and clean. It is loose and curled, but sort of messy as it falls around her shoulders. It is extremely feminine, and intrigues me.
I am busy taking her in, trying to read her, when I notice her hands are on her small hips, and her foot taps impatiently as she waits for an answer.
“Well?” she demands making that one word a powerful message.
“It was open.” I say mater of factly. She has caught me off guard, but I have regained my composure. I size up her five feet five inch stature, and know this girl, angry as she appears, will have no chance at intimidating me.
“That may be so, but it is not your locker, so get out of it.” Her words are efficient if nothing else. I wonder at the look she flashes my way, and the pursed lips that have not yet relaxed. Most girls are slightly intimidated by me. They are impressed by my good looks, and my charm. Most of the high school girls I have known over the ages have allowed me a degree of leniency. I can usually get away with being rude simply because they want to get on my good side. Most people find me easy to like, and become quickly attached, and overly trusting. She does not seem to care about my appearance, and the look on her face clearly says she does not trust anything about me. And this is exactly what intrigues me about her. She is the second girl in as many days to intrigue me. Just as the thought crosses my mind, I realize it is not two girls, but the same girl. I did not recognize her without the running clothes, but now that I put two and two together it is clear it is the same girl, how I missed it before I don’t know. It seems so obvious now. The girl who turned her head from me on the first day of school, who so studiously wrote on the river bank, and now who is glaring me down. How very fascinating she is.
“My apologies!” I say, bowing to her, an old fashioned habit I picked up in the 1800’s and have never quite let go of. I step aside so she can reach her locker. But do not leave the vicinity.
A bewildered look flits across her face, and a hint of exasperation, but none of the anger or disdain melts as I had hoped it would. She says nothing, just shakes her head and turns away from me. I laugh and turn on my heels to head to the lunchroom. I whistle a lighthearted tune, but am deep in thought. This girl seems immune to my charms. In fact, they seem to have the opposite effect. Instead of falling all over herself to get in my good graces, she acts as though I am beneath her notice. This should probably frustrate me, but it doesn’t. This is a first, and a first is something I have not experienced in a long time. I can’t help but smile. Things are looking up. Maybe Salmon was not such a bad choice after all.
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