(Wednesday, end last period)

The advice provider, the listener, the all-knowing genius of sorts; far to kind for her own good and yet at a loss as to ever change. At least, to one's face. The favorite of teachers and most students alike: smart enough to abhor as per jealousy but much too nice to bring about such lengths. The Asian, the Chinese, a mere fourteen years aged female, still firmly sought after for insight by many an age.

Quiet, introverted, the perfect constituents for the listener to which she has become, yet with so many talked to, hardly as much are truly deemed friends. The trusted and the close. Not to say, of course, that her scale of trust is more vicious or critical than her friend's. No, for she would never wish to overstep certain bounds. Not scared so much as considerate, as caring. Perhaps even most concerned because of the stories behind her friend's actions. For that is what she had become: the silent watching worrier. The observer. Occasionally to divulge bits and pieces of her own story to some select few upon prodding. What both she and others had made of her.

Quiet, introverted, one not to speak. Therefore, most must think to listen. More so, quiet and introverted: one to reach for a book and, with a bit of well-scrounged luck, avoid humanity almost in entirety. Quiet and inroverted, in such a way so as to shift blearily through a shoulder bag, oblivious, for a book borrowed from her friend, all the while stepping stealthily toward an abandoned bench, a fair distance from both people and pollen. Never one to destroy a book, rather seeing to them fondly, hoping to keep them forever unsoiled, etched in unspoiled printing glory. The form of humanity to slip away after a test seen indubitably as impossible to all others as she slipped away, the first finished, searching for both an isolated bench as well as the book.

Alas, fate of all fates, just as her slim, slightly callaused from numerous works not only in writing but also art, nails long to make for strumming a guitar, fingers encircled around around the thick and unbent binding of the evading book a bell sang shrill from behind her. School was officially ending for the day, her teacher strolling the aisles of the room she'd just recently abandoned, snatching tests from the approximate half who'd not completed the treachery. Not only that, but it also signalled that any attempts of reading would be futile, so she instead relented and released her hold on the book without ever having even removed it from its hidden spot within her bag. Instead, she took to examining her hands, picking away the dying skin and callaus, thinking how the keyboard and flute never destroyed her hands so much. Then again, her own fault really, but who could blame a girl? It has always been said if you have the skills, use them, even if you may end up with three instruments and even more 'gifts.' If you could call them that.

It didn't take long for the rest, or at least majority, of her class to catch up to her position, milling about, closing in, and surrounding her. Each of the beings closest to her took immediately to impatiently attempting to have their quarries heard and answered first, incessantly and continuously raising their voices above eachother whilst she merely stood in the midst of their presence, black hair framing her oriental face as she tugged at the sleeves of her red over-jacket.

Having spotted no close friends within the nearly impregnable group, she resolved to remain as she was in hopes that these people who could somehow attain honors classes could form some semblance of organization. Sadly so, her hopes were hardly high, knowing full well that many in her Honors English did not even comprehend simple words such as 'conduct' or 'consonant.' That, and there was always the small fact that she was never one to be rude to another without reason, especially when she lacked the crowd maneuvering skill of her friend. Though she did, admittedly, come a comparatively close second. Perhaps it was as she was less inspired by a fear of stangers and mass congregations of people.

When the fools fumbling about her finally realized she could not answer them if she could not properly understand them, they calmed down their unannounced bicker, finally speaking one at a time. After what seemed to be forever, they organized a minuscule and rudimentary form of organization, each still frowning and housing impatiently narrowed eyes, but waiting for his or her own turn to leach onto the Chinese as a pool of knowledge.

Yet, impatient as they all were, angered, they waited, not one of them taking so much as a moment to consider their center-piece may not have been enjoying herself to the fullest as her brain was picked for every last posible detail others sought to remember from the test. Rather, tempers flared to force one another to hurry, chastising eachother often more crudely than not for a foolish question, when the introvert merely stood unmoved, mindlessly answering questions as she stared at the angry and agitated faces.

Agitated, why should they be agitated? Was all that could seemingly rush through her brain. She was the one with all but no way out. The one with a mountainous pile of homework to be completed by the next day. The one who now had to walk home, great thanks to the ever-inconsiderate mob for mauling her and causing her to miss her much needed bus ride. Who are these people to be agitated? These people when they, so much without her consent, had somehow taken full control of her life.

The evening sun was far too bright, luciferous in the sky, nearly blinding her as her eyes flitted sharply, swiftly about the area, trying in vain to take in her surroundings and, by some miracle, have an escape fall into place. Much to her own dismay, her own pre-comprehended knowledge ignored, reality does not work as such. Escapes do not appear through magic and hoping, some odd sleight of the eye. Brilliant light does not disappear by a simple and minuscule shift of the eyes.

One thing is true of reality: 'twas she who held the rights to be aggravated, as she was. Deep down. She just would refuse to show it, especially to these people best known as strangers. These people with no idea, truly, who and how she was. All the same, aggravation steamed up quickly and viciously as one leaned in to hug her in gratitude: a hug for the girl who dislikes to be touched. Who loathes hugs.

What could be done at a time as such? Indubitably no room to move, step aside, evade, the crowd too far gone oblivious and much too thick. Doomed, 'twas all she was. Doomed to a hug from one who is not a stranger perhaps, but close enough to be considered so. Much to the common ground cliche however, just as she had resigned herself to this rather wretched fate, she caught a flash of curly red hair and soon had a barrier of a friend betwixt herself and the coming invader.

Tragically stereotypical, being just in the nick of time, but there nonetheless. A formidable fortification, yet where was this redhead, so very cared about, mere moments ago? Surrounding agitation has, in history, no doubt been known to cause rise to a great deal more harm than a hug. Better yet, where were any of her friends fleeting seconds before? Not even there to send a crookedly comical look her way to lighten her mood. Never mind that now, of course, or ever. 'Tis the way she had trained herself, how now could she be mad? Especially when the redhead, she who first started the skill of slipping through crowds, was leading her to safety? She once again held the near passive look on her face, never to be angry or cruel.

This was what friends were, the universe revolved around, was it not? Even if the great savior and curly redhead herself lay hold to selfish wants, hoping to benefit from some aid from her darker featured friend. A give and take, was it not? If she was willing to take Scarlett's saving techniques, rely on her friend to save her this once, should she not repay the redheaded one with the knowledge she so desired? Even if, deep down, she knew Scarlett would be asking for more help eventually, soon even. But, a best friend she was still. The best friend.

Nonetheless, appeasing shall only get a person so far. As well, admittedly, a friendship has never been built upon information seeking, not truly. Rather, for the two to have been best friends for a great seven years, they indubitably had some common ground, as well as had grown to worry for eachother. So, when information giving became too tedious, the redhead not quite so oblivious as the crowd had been, the Chinese merely changed the subject.

"Fescennine and loquacious people all throughout my day, what of yours? Any stygian migraines come about thanks to the allegedly great and upcoming brains of our nation?" She requested, voice soft, as the two began striding along their walk to a shared neighborhood of their homes, unfurling their iPods of choice as they left the school grounds in entirety.

"Can we not discuss that? You know by now that until I'm allowed to worry about you, you won't get much a reason to worry of me. Rather, migraines are old news: so I cry in pain for an hour or so, I have medicine," Scarlett frowned in reply, twirling one green colored ear-phone betwixt her fingers, the other holding fast in the far outer cave of her left ear.

"Old but recurring news, and we both know that I would worry either which way. Perhaps considering me the only one trusted enough to aid you when they come along, I shall have rights?"

"Much sense as I fear that would make, oh almighty one, I say nay. How about for a barter we try, once more, to find some song buy someone other than Frou Frou to which we'll both listen peacefully?" Scarlett returned, tucking a red curl away from her heat flushed face and slipping off her green over-jacket.

And so she obliged, for that was what they did. Or, at least one of which. The imposing dominantly gened child and the recessive one. The complimentary favorites of red and green--never to be confused with Christmas, the dreadful religious holiday. This was who they were, complementary contrasts and then likenesses all the same.

A/N: So, consider this my (temporary) reappearance after an over-long period of hiatus? In all seriousness, this is actually a very important story, and it kind of disappoints me that my own character came off that way to me. (Right, so original writing based on life...) At any rate, this was attempted edited by myself and is one of four which I should have posted all today.

Lissa.