Last night, I dreamed. I can’t even remember the dream, really, just scattered fragments. Smoothly gliding sharks in the twilight, closing in on a slender person. Big, iron cannons. Shadows moving out of sync with the three-dimensional people casting them. Excess of color, swirling.

I fidgeted in my flimsy plastic chair for the twelfth time (something was wrong if I was counting) and slumped my shoulders. Another school assembly. What was up with these school assemblies? They had them far too often, lecturing us about the same things. Wear dress code, don’t chew gum, no violence, no drugs…Apparently they thought drilling them into our spongy little youth minds would make us obey. But, judging by the restlessness of everyone else in the audience, I guessed that these kids weren’t even listening. Gosh.

I pulled out a little notepad from my pocket, unconcerned about the principal, who was getting really into his speech with expressive (and excessive) arm movement and flourishes of his bony hands. The notepad was one of those cheap ones you buy for thirty cents, with a spiral binding and paper that could fit in my hand. Time to analyze.

I don’t hate you; I hate your attitude.

That was a good one. How many times has a child done something bad, tearfully asked the parent if they hated them, and got that as a reply? Many times, I’d assume. Well, painfully obvious is the scorn in here. What is an attitude? It’s how you act. It’s your quirks and flaws. My attitude is my cheerful perkiness, my love of word dissections, my infatuation with fantasy novels, my ability to make nearly anyone feel guilt or compassion towards me, but also my believing nature, the way I’m antisocial, and my weirdness that makes people go away. My attitude is, briefly, my soul. It’s who I am. If you hate my attitude, you hate who I am. That quote is basically saying, “I hate you but I don’t hate your physical body.” It sounds like something a child molester would say.

I sighed, shifting for the thirteenth time. Alas.

Lunch was, surprisingly, not my favorite part of my school day, the one respite of boring torture (which is actually an oxymoron). I wasn’t like the other kids. They were the dumb boys getting F’s and spending the period chomping on gum and flinging paper balls at each other, and the silly girls who wanted to chat their whole lives. No. I liked my education. Some day, I knew it would get me somewhere. I would work my mind hard, make money, and enjoy myself while these stupid boys ended up on the streets begging for money to by booze with.

I sat at the end of the table, perched precariously on the bench. The table was covered with crud, so I was glad of my cardboard lunch tray, the bulwark between my hot food and the dried up gunk. I was sitting in the sun while most people sat in the shade. Our cafeteria was outdoors. Our whole school was. I unwrapped my bagel and took a bite, disappointed at how stale it was. I drank my white milk and watched the others. It was rather entertaining listening to conversations of people walking by. People always acted like no one was listening.

“That was like, gay. I mean, retarded, totally.”

I snorted. Golly gee, these people had no idea of how they babbled.

“Heeeey,” drawled a voice. It wasn’t nice. It wasn’t exactly mean, but I could tell it wasn’t sincere. I glanced up at a gang of prissy girls. They had completely ignored the dress code, because all four of them were wearing shirts exposing their stomachs, which were well-tanned, meaning they weren’t covered up very often. One wore tights jeans clinging below her hips, desperately trying to crawl back up, but it was in vain, because it looked like any second they would fall down. Two wore ridiculously short skirts, and I could practically see the bottom of their underwear. The last wore these little teeny shorts. Baby shorts. Obviously too small.

I knew their type. They were the self-appointed popular girls. There was no guild of popular people here. There were little groups of three to six girls that acted like girly snobs instead. Their favorite prey was the loser. Apparently, sitting alone branded me as such. I could see the real losers off in a corner, with greasy hair and smudged glasses, all hunched over some weird comics. I guess if I was different, I was a loser. There were several ways of handling these girls, like outsmarting them with large words or hugging them, but these seemed to be the determined type that wanted only to annoy, so I decided to go with the plan called Pretend To Believe Them.

“Hi!” I said, sitting up excitedly. “I’m so happy! No one talks to me! I’m glad I can make friends!”

“We’ll be your friends,” one said, and they all smirked.

“What’s your name?” a girl inquired innocently.

“I’m Aeffi!” I said, smiling widely and bouncing. They exchanged glances.

“Aeffi’s a weird name,” one snorted, finally cutting to the chase. The girls positioned themselves. One slid onto the bench next to me, two leaned across from me, and one stood nearby.

“I like your hair,” the one next to me said.

“Thanks,” I said gratefully. “I love it. I got it from my one-eyed grandma.” I pushed my hair into her face, and she sort of gagged a little bit.

“What’s your favorite color?” another one wanted to know.

“Rainbow,” I said without hesitation. I liked all colors. Yellow and orange were cheery, red was active, blue was mellow, white was serene, green was like vegetation, brown was natural, purple was elegant, and black was solemn. I wore them depending on my mood. If yellow was my favorite color when I was bouncy, I wouldn’t like it much when I was depressed. Besides, if I chose one, the others would be hurt. You’re not supposed to pick favorites.

“Rainbow’s not a color,” one said in disgust.

“I like grellow!” one exclaimed. “It’s like green and yellow!” They all giggled loudly. Huh.

“I like pink,” another said.

“Pink’s nice,” I agreed. “It brings out unconcerned serenity and blithe attitudes.”

“What the heck?” one demanded. They always did this when they didn’t understand me.

“Did I offend you?” I asked, worried. “I just want to fit in.”

“I’m leaving,” one said.

I was crestfallen. So crestfallen that I needed to give her a goodbye hug. She squealed in disgust and pushed me off like I was dirty or something. And they scurried off. Ah, victory.

Fifth period, the second-to-last one of the day, was monotonous as always. I never learned anything in social studies. Knowledge just slid off me instead of being soaked up. I loved English, Algebra, and science, but Social Studies was too much to bear. We had substitute, and I inspected him while he called out names. He was dressed in a suit, complete with a tie. Did he not know we were in seventh grade? He went mechanically down the list. There was a pause. What was wrong? He seemed to be stuck on a name.

“Ee-fy?” he asked hopefully.

“Ay-fee,” I supplied. He was relieved as he continued down the list. Aeffi wasn’t a very girly name, granted. It’s rather exotic. My ancestors used to live on these little obscure islands where they healed sick people and contacted spirits. Witch doctors, or to be more formal, shamans. I believe that’s where Aeffi came from. I’m not sure how much of them has descended into me. I’m a little on the pale-ish side. My hair is very unusual, however. People always comment that it’s fiery red. Not true. Fiery hair would be a vibrant, radiant red, with a good deal of orange inside. Fiery hair would be wild and full of life, shining brightly in any light. Fire is dangerous and desirable. My hair is the color of tomato. It’s true. It just hangs there, a deep, sullen red. Whenever I reply this to those who say it’s fire, they just mumble and walk off. I have that effect on people.

The rest of the period we sat and worked on a little packet. I read a page of information, then stared at the questions. I think they were asking about what changed in the Renaissance, but I’m not sure. I was that dull. I tediously answered the questions. Eventually, the bell rang.

Sixth period was band. Our band and orchestra were separate; the band consisted of only wind instruments and percussion. I always loved music, and I had always wanted to take up band. It took me a while to think of what instrument to play. Flute was very common. We had tons of flutes. There was one boy flutist in the whole school, and the rest were girls. The flute was lofted delicately in the air next to a slightly cocked head and played with dainty fingers. Ugh. I can’t describe how unbearable the idea of taking up flute was. It was nice for some, but it was so sweet and angelic, so girly…it just wasn’t for me.

I think I surprised everyone by taking up trombone. I’m the only girl one in the entire school. I might be the only one in the whole district. The whole low brass section is stereotyped as incredibly masculine. The trombone required strong arms and deep breathing. It produces a deep, low sound. The trombone, however, was the perfect instrument for me. Every day I push myself to work hard. The boys move the slides smoothly yet quickly. I’m rapid, certainly, by I jerk the slide forward and backward roughly, hard. I seem to be taking out my aggression to my bystanders. I like it though, because I can channel some of my excess energy out. I’m always tired at the end of band. I remember when it started, because the boys were gaping at me, saying that I couldn’t play because I was a girl. Where am I now? First chair, boys.

The bus ride home was, as always, uneventful. I pressed my face against the window and sighed. It was hot today, even though it was the winter solstice, December 22. The sky had grown cloudy since lunch, but it was still incredibly humid out. I finally got off the bus. I had to walk a little ways to get home, but that was okay. I was allowed to leave my trombone at school, so all I had was my backpack, and it only had one textbook in it.

I was walking through a tunnel of trees. Well, it was a tunnel in the summer. Now the trees were—and I hate to say it since it’s so cliched—skeletons. All the leaves were shriveled and dead on the ground, even though with this weather, the trees could probably survive all year. Instincts, I guess. If trees have instincts. I ran a hand through my hair, slightly sweaty from the heat and my workout in band. Ah well. Soon enough I would get home, help myself to soda, do my homework, then relax.

Reeeeeeeeeeeeeoooooooooooooooooowwwwwwwwwwwwww. What was that noise? I turn around to see a portion of the world gone. As if a giant eraser was going over it, a tree vanished, bit by bit, leaving a white void. Boom—the sidewalk was gone! The trees, sky, everything was slowly fading to white. I closed my eyes; they were hurting too much. When I opened them again, there was nothing.

The ground was white, sides were white, and above was white. All white. There were no defining corners. I couldn’t tell where the ground ended and the sky began. The only shaped color now was me. It was as if all of the world was drawn by a skilled artist, and then, after so long, they decided they didn’t like it, so they erased it, all of it. Except me. I wish I was gone too. Was I doomed to eternal life wandering through this emptiness? I would go insane soon enough.

Then, a surprising miracle occurred. A curved line appeared, slowly going down. It looked like it was being drawn with a pencil. Then another line, then a leaf, and another. A tree was there. Color flooded into it: brown into the trunk, emerald into the leaves. The grass started to appear. Clouds were drawn. Everything was coming into focus. Far off in the distance, I saw more drawings, and I knew things were the same on the other side of the world. Slowly, slowly, the world was once again being created.

I was curious. Curious enough to pull a pencil out of my pocket. I sketched a rough line, and it appeared in front of me. I continued my drawing. A feline head, a fluffy body, giant bird wings, and an extremely long tail. I finished the drawing and inspected it. It looked sort of kind of really demented. Then, color started to fill into it. It was butter yellow with tawny speckles on the face and a tan belly. I looked around, and the rest of the world appeared to be finished. Then everything snapped into focus. I gaped, because I was in a whole new place, a completely new world.

My yellow companion mewed. It fluttered its wings, hovering, then perched on my shoulder, rubbing my face contentedly.

“Wow! What’s that?”

I looked up to see two young women looking curiously at my kitty-bird-puffball.

“I made it,” I said weakly.

“That’s awesome! You must be really special!”

I said something not very smart then. I thought of my only special feature, my shamanic ancestors. I was only a little bit mystic, of course, but I wasn’t really thinking. Therefore, the words, “I’m a shaman,” freely escaped my mouth.

“Great!” one of the young women said. “My mom died years ago, and I’ve been wanting to get in contact with her. Can you help?”