"Once Upon a Dream"...part 2

The girl sits alone, a plain, nondescript scarf wrapped ‘round and ‘round her head almost turban style. She sits on a bench, a part of the touring throng of high schoolers and yet apart, taking notes in a plain yellow spiral notebook. No one recognizes her, so she doesn’t go to school with us, but the other girls are intent to ridicule her for her plain clothes, lack of makeup, and sturdy, sensible shoes. And yet they seem marginally afraid of her. Normally they’d tease and torture someone different (I should know) within earshot but acting as if they didn’t know or didn’t mean to be overheard. But with this very strange girl (and being of that genus, I should know the type well), they keep their comments confined to their little pack, cackling quietly enough to not be overheard by either the girl or our teacher, Mrs. Pine. And this girl is strange enough that they even deign to try and include me in their mockery. “Aggy, whadya think? Tragic cancer patient or just really terrible haircut?” “Wow, what choices, Chrys: possibly dying and on some kind of painful treatment for it or shitty hairdresser. Let me think…” Even “slow as Christmas” Chrystyn (yes, two ys) gets my sarcasm…for once. “Well, SlAgatha, if you can’t play nice, you won’t get to play at all. Come on, girls: there’s naked statues in the next room so you know the boys are bound to be there.” Chrys and her rapid pack of wild tramps head off into the sculpture wing behind the tour guide to giggle and pant their way through classic art while I hang back, watching the girl instead. My supposed set-down (as if anyone making fun of my tragically old-fashioned name phases me by this point in my nearly adult life) has gone unnoticed by the girl, leaving me wondering if Chrys’s purile imagination was so far off the mark that she never hit on deaf. I decide to test my theory. “Hi.” She looks up, obviously startled and thus ruling out deaf (guess I’m no better at the ancient art of speculation than half-wit Chrys. Damn), stares at me for a moment (taking in all my plain and unappealing features) and then gives a sort of nod and sad one-quarter smile, quickly going back to her notes. But I’m not one to be deterred. I may not be pretty but I make up for it by being annoyingly tenacious. “I’m Aggy. Agatha really, but I’m sure you can understand why I don’t usually go by that name unless forced to by stubborn teachers and old relatives.” I did better this time. She’s holding back laughter at my rush of irreverent words, but still seems unwilling to commune with me. Guess I’ll have to try harder. “So I know you don’t go to our school. It’s small enough that I would’ve seen you before (and we all rode over here on the same bus—hard to miss you there). So I’m gonna guess you either go to St. Catherine’s over in Shannon or you go to some school I’ve never heard of but I figure it’s nicknamed ‘School of the Worst Uniforms in the History of Ever.’ Am I close?” She laughs this time, one of those tinkling musical laughs they always write about in fairy tales but you never hear in real life…at least not until now. People start to look over, intrigued and surprised by this beautiful yet plainly dressed girl laughing at the plain but bizarrely clown-like clothed girl in front of her (well, maybe not that surprised given my ridiculous but oh-so-awesome patterned leggings and purple-streaked hair only sanctioned because it’s school colors and I argued a lot to keep it). She stops laughing and finally speaks. “Sorry. Um…could you please move? I’m studying this photograph.” “My bad,” I say, moving aside and plopping down next to her on the museum bench, stretching out my multi-colored legs and sneaking a peek at her notebook. “It’s an interesting color composition,” she says, half startling me as I try to covertly look at the doodle I can almost see on the far right of the page. “Huh?” I utter, looking up at the picture. “It’s all in black and white and…greys, I guess. Not much color there.” “No, I meant your tights. The mix and contrast of colors are…neat.” “’Neat’,” I echo. “I really can’t tell if you’re being serious or sarcastic. Very good deadpan you’ve got going on there.” “Oh, no! Serious. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.” “No grapes here, man. I just never heard anybody say ‘neat’ unless they were sixty or older or talking about in what state my room should be. Is that—sorry for bein’ nosy but it’s sorta my thing—but is that—It is! You’ve drawn Trevor MacNamara in the margin there. Pretty good likeness, too.” “Please…keep your voice down. I was just…he has a…classically proportioned face and—and I like to sketch and…” “I could call him over, introduce you, if you like.” “No! N-no, I couldn’t. Um…I have to go. It…it was nice meeting you.” “But we didn’t really—“ It’s no use; she’s already jumped up and gone, shooting straight over to Mrs. Pine, giving me that sinking feeling that I’m about to get balled out for scaring away actual patrons from our sad excuse of a museum. But apparently she doesn’t rat me out ‘cuz the Cone never even looks my way let alone yells out my full name in frustration and rage. She just pats the girl on the arm, saying, “That’s just fine, Zella. I’m sorry you couldn’t stay for the whole tour, but do tell your mom ‘Hi’ for me when you get home. I hope you feel better soon. And make sure you take the right bus, dear. I’ll see you in church on Sunday.” “Dear”? She never calls any of us “dear.” Just who is this girl and how’d she get on the Cone’s good side? And what kind of a name is Zella? A sight cooler than Agatha, let me tell you. As she runs out of the museum Trevor inadvertently almost steps in her way, making her pull up short for a moment. Their eyes lock, and suddenly it’s like we’re all trapped in a scene from a Disney movie, all soft misty light and waltz music. Then, like a spell being broken by the requisite evil witch, Chrys calls out to Trevor, making him look away and the girl shake her head and then sprint out the door. The noise of normal life spills in like a toddler’s messy effort at finger-painting, bleaching the scene of its former romanticism. But I know this isn’t the last we’ll see of this girl, Zella. I feel it deep in my bones; there’s something more strange and more compelling about this girl than just her curious clothes and hidden hair. It’s then that both Trevor and I see that she had dropped her notebook when she nearly ran into him. I kneel down, pick it up, and look inside. Zella Carver, Redwood Lane, #23. I snap it shut quickly as Trevor reaches out to rifle through the pages. I may not actually know the girl, but I figure if she was mortified at the thought of meeting Trevor through my introduction, she’d been even more embarrassed to have him see her little sketch. “Aggy, we have to find her.” “I know she seemed mysterious, Trev, but mysterious doesn’t always equal actually interesting. Besides, I don’t think all that conservative apparel masks some wild, randy airhead.” Maybe I came across as too cynical and biting, but Trevor never talks to me unless he needs help with history or math…and never about anything remotely of a social nature…at least he hasn’t since we were all in the fourth grade. Still the look of stunned and horrified shock on his face was not something I expected to see. “Aggy, there’s—there’s something about her.” “Yeah, she’s gorgeous. And…” “No…there’s something…something wrong. Like there’s some dark cloud hanging over her head waiting to unleash a hurricane right on top of her.” “That’s quite a simile there, Trev. But then you are the Wiz with English.” “She needs our help, Aggy. We have to find her and…and help her.” “Well, there’s her address. Go ‘help’ her. You can at least go on the pretense of returning her notebook. Maybe you can get a date out of the deal.” “No, we have to go. Me and you, Aggy. You’re the one that talked to her.” “And freaked her out sufficiently so that the one person who seemed to have a legitimate interest in art left the museum before the tour was over. You’ll have better luck without me.” “Come on. We’ll catch the next bus and head back to school, get my car, and then go over to her house.” “On Redwood? The other side of town? I don’t—“ And now he’s grabbed my hand, something unheard of any boy actually attempting since we were all about seven and I started displaying my odd fashion sense. He pulls me out of the ornate museum doors (and truly the only thing remarkable about our little gem, but I digress) and down the concrete stairs before I can get out any more significant words of protest for our skipping out on the rest of this little field trip. Though I dress a little wild and punky and prefer my history with no rosy bias, I’m a pretty straight-laced school geek when it comes right down to it. My dad has conniptions if I bring home less than 98 +, even if I’m gymnickly challenged, so skipping out on the rest of this day’s school fun (sarcasm meant heavily here) seems like a recipe for detention; but Trevor’s firm, vice-like grip won’t be dissuaded, and soon I find myself sitting next to him on the almost empty mid-day local bus headed back towards our high school. Well, two good things will come from this little unplanned adventure: I’ll finally get to ride in Trevor’s classically cool Mustang while he careens around town at near break-neck speeds, and I’ll cherish the look of sheer disbelief I saw on Chrys’s face as she saw Trevor pull me outside into the bright, golden sunshine.