"Lila

"Lila? What’s the answer to problem three?"

I sighed and reached downwards, next to the lunch seat. Pulling up my big, red binder I took out the math sheet. "Sixty two—it took me a while to get. You have to divide twice. It’s a little—"

There was no need to explain that it’s a little difficult to understand. The girl, Stacy, was already copying my paper, having whisked it out of my hands. I chewed a little on my fingernails. It’s a nervous habit.

I hate cheaters.

"Thanks!" Stacy yelled in that false, high voice that they always seem to have, tossing the paper back to me. I barely caught it, but my glasses fell down onto the floor.

I’m far-sighted, and almost blind in the right eye. It’s not fun when I get my glasses broken, because it comes straight out of my allowance. But at least my math homework was safe. I bent over, fumbling for the wire spectacles.

Positioning them once again on my nose, I scanned around the lunchroom. If Rachael had been there, we would’ve been dancing on the tabletop. But she was out with the flu. Courtesy of her boyfriend, who I had a feeling had a little more to do with it than she admitted.

It was typical.

I slumped back into the little round cafeteria seat, rather uncomfortable. There were about two options right now. One, I could go and get more food. Side effects? There were two. A) Get fat, B) Get full, and miss out on our family’s foreign food night. Two, I could sit there and be bored. Side effects? One. Boredom.

It’s not like I had a choice. I pulled the book I was currently buried in, Plants: Uses and Identifications, one of my favorite nonfiction readings, and opened it up.

I’m a thinker. I know a lot of stuff, thanks to my thinking. I could tell you what a specific plant used to represent in earlier days. I could tell a monarch butterfly from a viceroy, without eating it. I could say exactly what plants are poisonous, deadly, and just a pleasurable no-side-effect thing. I love plants and animals.

Rachael, my "sick" friend, is a trickster. She’s the kind of person who would glue your butt to a chair, if you gave her the chance. We’ve been friends since kindergarten, when she did just that to me. I cried when I couldn’t stand up, and she felt bad and apologized. Maybe it was my glasses. Maybe it was my sincerity, or my small body. Whatever it was, we became steadfast friends and have been that way ever since. Not a single fight.

I don’t get how she can do what she does. She easily just stands on a table and makes a speech, defies whatever anyone says, goes against the trend, makes new trends, (which, surprisingly enough, a lot of people follow) and flirts shamelessly with every guy to walk across her path. Usually I’ll think up a plan, and Rachael will go with it. We’re known as the "troublesome duo" around the teachers, although sometimes it’s qualified as the "troublesome Rachael." Actually, it always is. I’m a sidekick, but I like it like that. I don’t want people knowing I am the brain behind everything.

But now Rachael was sick, and the brain wasn’t feeling so well herself.

"Hey, Lila, do you have the math homework?"

I turned around, the paper still tight in my grasp. Jack, probably the—excuse the phrase, I don’t use it that often—hottest guy around, was leaning casually against the table. I don’t classify him as hot; it’s Rachael’s term for him. She frequently says he’s the "hottest hunk within five counties." As if she would know. Now you understand why I am the brain. My motto: "School first, boys later." Her motto: "Boys first, and school after whatever else is out there." No wonder I’m the one going to the high school for two classes, and she’s the one getting the flu from Roger, the boyfriend.

"Lila, are you there?" Jack replied, taking a step forward and waving his hand in front of my face. I snapped back into reality. It’s a common habit of mine. When I was little, I wasn’t used to the snapping part and I would probably injure my neck (yes, "snapping" into reality is a very intense workout). But now I’m used to it. I’m probably the best "snapper-backer" in the United States.

"Yeah," I mumbled, unzipping my binder and shoving the homework in. I had typed it up and pasted the answers into the slots; not to mention showed my work on another sheet of printed paper.

Perfectionist? Oh no. I just want to get into college.

"Do you have it?" he asked, sitting casually next to me. Trick question. I answer no, and he responds with that dazzling smile and says that of course I do, or maybe he will find it and rip it up. He’s like that. I answer yes, and he’d probably take it from me, copy, and maybe joke for the next two weeks about the typed up answers.

Decisions, decisions.

The bell rang. He scrammed, and I watched him leave with relief. Picking up my red binder, I moved in the slow oozing motion of the hallways. It sort of reminded me of that old television show, Saved by the Bell.

I hate copiers, so all was good.

I went up the front stairs, which were not crammed with people. That wasn’t surprising…after all, it was the stairwell right next to the principal’s office. She was an old witch if anyone ever saw one. But we had a sort of peace agreement, because I was such a good student. The only grudge against me was Rachael. I had been told more than once, while pulled aside, that "I need to stay away from people like her," and "they are going to ruin my GPA."

Riiiiight.

The second story of the school was a newer addition. Fifth and sixth graders were all on the first floor, and it used to be grades one through twelve. That was eighty years ago. In fact, my mom’s mom had gone to this school. We’re talking second generation here. Now, in "Simpletown USA," as Rachael calls it, there are two levels and a greater technological advancement—elevators. "So that the couples can make out whenever they want." Rachael’s other explanation for the way things are.

When I was in fifth grade, and sixth grade, I liked the school well enough. All the teachers were new and young and easily manipulated. Of course, seventh grade was a nightmare. The first day of school, I learned that I had a bottom locker (sixth and fifth grade got those tall lockers—there were no bottoms or tops) and that the lockers were painted an ugly teal. Whoever had directed the construction, they were obviously colorblind. You don’t paint lockers teal. It’s like a rule of life, as simple as the birds and the bees. No teal lockers.

The teachers were worse than the lockers. They were like…pink lockers. Terrible. Mean, old grouches who had been there for every single day of those eighty years. My mom even remembered Mrs. Halon, the lady who I had for Social Studies. Don’t get me wrong; I learned loads from her. But just because I like to do things right that it means I adore my teachers. Nooo, I hated Mrs. Halon. If I didn’t turn in such wonderful essays, I bet she would have felt the same.

Eighth grade was even worse, if possible. Mrs. Hally, the math teacher, was probably the nicest teacher I had ever had, not including the kindergarten teachers that treat you like you are two. I happened to be a very advanced kindergartner, spare the butt-glued-to-chair scene. That’s why I got to go to the high school to take an extra math credit class. I didn’t fully skip algebra in eighth, I mean, I still went to it; I just went to geometry, too.

I bent down next to my teal locker, a locker with dents the size of the Texas state in my World Geography (another high school class) book. Fortunately, most of the teal color was peeled off of it, despite it’s younger age. I clicked the combination, and it caught the first time.

Laughing slightly, I closed the locker again. It was a drilled habit to go to class, go to locker, go to class, go to locker. I had started it ever since fifth grade, but that was before I discovered binders and their amazing ability to store everything at once. Anyway, I had picked up my math book earlier.

I stood up from flat, threadbare carpet, a cheap kind that you can buy from Home Depot for maybe fifty cents a square foot. My red binder swinging freely, I made for the Algebra room. I would’ve whistled, but I got bumped into and snapped back into reality. No whistling in the hallways—it was strictly for cussing, for that wonderful flow of colorful vocabulary. I don’t swear. As my dad once said, "Anybody who relies on those words is gonna end up using four-letters the rest of their lives." I almost corrected him, preparing to say that there are some cusses that are longer than four letters, but then I saw how angry he was (my brother had just used a swear word) and I shut up.

Mrs. Hally’s room was freezing. She thought like all teachers: Colder air keeps you awake and makes you think. But she was the only one who ever did anything about it. Sitting in my desk, one right in the front, I unzipped the binder again and moved to the section carefully labeled "Algebra." I opened that, moved into Homework, opened that, moved into Due, and finally pulled out the only sheet in there; the paper. Setting it neatly in the center of my desk, I placed my binder under the desk carefully and sat a little bit straighter.

The beginning-of-period bell rang. It sounded three times, then vanished. Like a cattle call, people rushed into the room. I made a face at the tardy ones, then straightened my paper a bit more when Mrs. Hally walked in. She was beaming.

"Today," she began for her speech that she gave every day. A few people slouched in their seats. I glared slightly, but then perked up at Mrs. Hally. She was always so happy—I don’t know how. But she was. And that is one of the reasons I loved her. "We have a new student!" She clapped her hands with a bit of falsetto delight. Majority of the people who slumped in their desks now groaned. I didn’t bother to make unnessecary noise. I was staring toward the door. And the boy who stood in the door.

"This is Isaac—I expect you to treat him with the same respect as your peers," she chirruped, and then pointed to the empty desk behind me where Rachael usually sat. "You can sit there, dear."

"Call me Izzy," the boy muttered, dropping his brown eyes to the ground. I was kind of happy that Rachael wasn’t there. She probably would’ve been all over him. His pants were huge, though—huge and black, a color to match his shirt. A bit dark for Rachael’s taste, I decided, but she’d probably flirt nonetheless.

I snapped back again, for the third time. "Umm…Mrs. Hally? That’s Rachael’s seat," I called, being sure to raise my hand and make sure she saw me. "There’s an empty desk in the corner, behind Jack, though."

"You’ve had enough chat’s with Rachael, Ms. Notingham," Mrs. Hally replied without looking. "I’m afraid she can move behind Jack, and Isaac can stay there."

I blushed crimson. Move Rachael? That was bad enough. But move her near Toni? That was worse. The poor girl was gonna flirt so much Mrs. Hally would have to send home a discipline notice. And to think what Roger would do. I immediately disliked the new kid. Besides—he had made a teacher say something negative, or at least send a negative message, to me.

"It’s Izzy…" I heard the boy mumble again. He lowered his head to the desk, and I was afraid of leaning back, like I usually did with Rachael. The spikes in his hair looked rather lethal; not at all like Toni’s little ones or Roger’s semi-big ones. These were like daggers.

"Alright, Isaac, we are relearning what you were taught last year—it’s going to be one huge review. You were in pre algebra, right? Good. Now, if you could come up here and grab this worksheet that we will be working on later…that’s right. The rest of you, pull out your homework," Mrs. Hally barked. Izzy shifted, stood, and I felt him brush by me. He even stepped on my foot, though I don’t know if it was his mammoth black cargo pants or his actual shoe. I made my back as stiff as a board, glaring the whole while at the poor boy. I doubt that he even noticed knew why I hated him, but I was determined to show him how a real role-model student should act.

"Lila, would you please read out the answers?" the teacher asked me, and I nodded, picking up my paper and calling out clearly.

"Number one, x equals twenty, number two, z equals ninety, number three, p equals sixty two." I continued on down the worksheet, proud and happy with my typed answers. They were easy to read.

"Thank you, Ms. Notingham. Isaac, do you understand the worksheet?" Mrs. Hally commented. It was sort of a question, but I know teachers better than most people. If you answer "yes" too quickly, they won’t believe you, and if you answer it too slowly, they won’t believe you. It takes timing.

"Yes, and it’s Izzy," Isaac said darkly. Woah. That wasn’t a tone I would take on with teachers. He sounded almost…superior.

"Good. Alright, everybody come up, by rows, please, and take up that sheet. Oh, and turn in the homework. No work, no credit," the teacher commanded, and a few people groaned. Those were the copiers, the slackers, or the ones who used calculators. I smiled smugly and laid my sheet on top of the miserable pile when my row went up, straightening them with a slight discontented noise. I grabbed the worksheet and sat down again, starting to work immediately.

A few times I peeked casually out of the corner of my eye to snatch a glance at Izzy. He was just sitting there, a blank look on his face. Afterwards I would snort and turn around to work again. The only thing that made me hate him more was the annoying tapping he made continuously with his pencil.

"Stop that!" I hissed, flipping around and glaring at him. "It’s annoying!"

He just gave me a hollowed stare. It was kind of spooky.

And then the bell rang.

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Dear Reader,

The date is August 13, 2008. This story was begun March 25, 2003. It was ended November 8, 2003. That means it has been five years.

A few hours ago, I was feeling rather bored, so I took to browsing the internet on my PDA. My brother had claimed my laptop for himself and my desktop was tucked away neatly in my car because I am going off to college tomorrow morning. Just so you know, there isn’t much to do on the internet with a PDA. Most things don’t work. It’s not an iPhone, so it doesn’t read websites the same way a computer does. So in my desperate attempt to rein in my boredom, I thought, “Hmm. I should read. But I own no e-books, and they’re pretty annoying to pirate.”

So I remembered Fictionpress.

I have come here off and on in the last five years. I have tried to post new stories, failed, and wiggled my way back into the bowels of the internet, forgetting Fictionpress for the time being. I’d guess I’ve posted about eight different stories up until this point, but most of them have been taken down. Not sure why.

But today was the first time I scrolled through this story. I was too scared to before. And now I really want to clear a few things up…

I am writing this in the first chapter with hopes that people will see it—both new and old readers. I refuse to add this as another chapter because I don’t want to bump up the story and replace some other brilliant piece with my humdrum, confusing mishmash of characters and settings.

First of all, this story was written when I was thirteen years old. Those of you who point out in the reviews, “Why are they in eighth grade? That’s so young!” or something to that effect, you’re right. Absolutely. I’d just never been to high school and I wanted something that reflected my life. That explains a lot in this story, actually. It’s one big reflection of who I was during those nine months it was written. When I was angry, the characters suffered. When I was depressed, something romantic would happen. When I was happy, the story just sort of puttered along in a fragmented way. You’ll notice that each chapter is another mini-episode of Lila or Izzy or whoever else was involved. (I don’t remember anymore. I couldn’t read it.) It was written in chapter-by-chapter parts, with little to nothing holding the chapters together.

When I started this, I had never heard of characterization or plot planning. I just pounded away at the keyboard, deciding what I would write next by typing various scenarios out and seeing if I liked it. Though it may seem flimsy, I am using my age and my naïve nature as my defense. Five years ago, I had never been to the halls of high school. I had never kissed a boy—only held hands and sent gooey notes about how much I liked so-and-so. And, of course, there was the beautiful Latino boy with a perfect face and large hands that I saw between Math and English. I think it was Math and English, anyway. I remember giggling when he’d look at me, and we were in the Math/English quarter of the school...

So reader, beware. Yes, this story is completely jagged and full of things that make no sense. Yes, the characters change on the fly and the plot does not work. And yes, each chapter probably ends in what feels like a cliff hanger because that’s the way it was written.

To the people who enjoy this story, thank you for your support and encouragement. I hope that it has helped you or inspired you or…something. It meant a lot to me when I wrote it, because I was struggling through puberty and depression and all sorts of disgustingly angst-filled situations, most of which I brought upon myself.

To the people who hate it, I’m sorry. I know how you feel, but it’s done and I’m not removing it because it means a lot to me, even if it is bad. It’s kind of like a cat. It was all cute and wonderful in the beginning, but now its five years old and fat, ugly, and annoying. But I can’t get rid of it.

To the anonymous reviewers that seem hell-bent on making sure I know just how bad I am, I hope that you realize someday that your opinion matters very little, especially because I never look at the reviews. If this were an active story, I may be a little more hurt. If I were still 13 years old, I may kick and scream and say, “Well, you guys just need to shove it!” But I just don’t care anymore. All I can say to you is: If you don’t like it, don’t read it! ;) That seems to work well enough for me.

To the people who have tried to offer constructive criticism, thank you very much! I love you helpful individuals. Unfortunately, none of it applies to this story anymore, seeing as its pretty much a sitting duck, but I will try to take what you say to heart and honor it in the future. A lot of it I’ve seen before, especially when it has anything to do with the plot/characters, but thanks for trying anyway!

Anyway, this is perhaps not the final chapter in my Black Obsidian life, but it is most certainly the final chapter in my Geek Wars life. I hope that those of you who decide to read it get something out of it, whether its inspiration or … whatever else you can take away from a story. It was my outlet for nine months, my way of dealing with a difficult time in my life. Now, it is yours.

Best regards,

Black Obsidian