24

6:40

So, how much sleep that I got last night?

I’m holding only two out of possible ten.

Yes, two. Only two.

Oh, my head’s too dizzy I can see stars sparkling from the tip of my pen. Even as I write these words, they’re embroidered with complicated floral patterns which I know I won’t be able to draw had I am sober. I’m still wondering how I’m able to write in this journal. I mean, I don’t even have the power to control my eyelid movement.

Sleep is like a rare gem these days. Suddenly, coffee becomes my bestfriend and it got thicker and thicker as days go by. The other family members, on the other hand, don’t have the very same problem like I have. They seem to contently continue their lives, and even Greg has already found his group of friends, a pack of hypersexual men and women who did orgy parties regularly. You can say that he just owned Dad. Big time.

In this kind of small town, of course it’s hard to search for this particular group. I try to think how in the earth Greg managed to find them, but my brain power is near dead.

School is fine, by the way. Not great, but then again, none has been remotely close to decent. I have a lab partner, but that's because he burnt his previous partner's hair three months ago, and since then, no one would want to get near him when he's around chemical mixtures. I have some girls to flock with at P.E, but that's because I'm surprisingly good at throwing service in volley. Just wait until the teacher moves on to basketball, then I'll be stuck picking the lost bracelets and necklaces.

If you think I'm unhappy with this condition, then don't bother. I'm not happy being alone, but I don't think I can do better had I am surrounded by people. I'm not a people-person. I can't make a smooth conversation without breaking into sweats because I don't know what to say or worry if any of my words have either bore or offend my partner. Small talk? 'kay. I'll go for it. Just make sure that it's not any longer than ten seconds. Greetings? I'm up for it. Smiles? Ha. My jaw still hurt from smiling too much to strangers.

I don't know if I can manage it if I force myself to smile for seven hours straight just to assure my friends that, 'Yes! I'm not mad at you. I'm just used putting on a depressed expression.'

I am alone, but that doesn't mean I'm lonely.

But it seems that my being okay with this condition really bothers Prof. Jerkins, my English teacher. Like most English teacher that works part time as a writer, he tends to dramatize things. He sees me sitting alone in the front of the class, silently doing his assignments while my classmates are either making a circle of gossip or punching one another's shoulders.

And right after I wrote 'he's dead. Fin.', Prof. Jerkins grabbed my elbow and lifted it so that he can read my shortstory.

It took him only a while, just around three to five minutes. It's not the good number for reading a roughly 1.500 words shortstory. I guess he just searched for the words that will prove that yes, I am as depressed and as misunderstood and as pathetic as he thought I was.

So, he closed my notebook and took me to the counselor. Yes, that he did. Then, he grabbed my elbow again and brought me up so that he could drag me to the counselor’s office.

According to the way my classmates glanced at me and whispered to one another, I knew that I’d already make a permanent mark on their social-black book.

I personally think this is very irrelevant. I mean, I wrote my shortstory. I did what he told us to do, while the others ignore him nearly completely. None of my classmates finished their assignment, and even some were daring enough to not start at all. But Prof. Jerkins decided to bring me, the only one who did what's told, to the counselor, which means he thought I'm crazy or something.

"So I take it as you don't want me to do what you tell me to do?" I said to him.

"No, you're missing my point, Miriam," said he, "I'm getting you here because I think you have a problem, and you need some help from the professional."

I scoffed, silently of course.

"I'm fine, Professor," I said. "I did my assignment, is there anything wrong with that? Do you prefer me to ignore you?"

"Not ignore, no," he's shaking his head. "socialize."

Now, that got me silenced.

"Well, this school doesn't have new students often, but when it does, usually the students will at least try to make some friends. They will suck up, they will kiss asses, heck, I even found some who would do anything their groups tell them."

"..."

"You, on the other hand, do none of those. And that particular anomaly brings you here."

I rolled my eyes. "This is stupid."

He actually smiled hearing that. "No. This is what I'd call thoughtful."

And he left me on the chair provided outside the counselor's room.

I sat on the couch, unable to bring myself getting up and running away from this. I knew I can, and I knew no one will ever suspect. All Prof. Jerkins did was taking me there, getting in there was choice. The counselor also seemed busy with another student, I could hear them chatting in a muffled sound.

I didn’t want to consider this, but I’m sure he’d known that I wouldn’t run off.

This wasn’t the first time I was brought forcefully to the school counselor. Hell, even my parents had brought me to some shrinks a few years back. But none of them could find anything wrong with me. Why I’m so preoccupied to be alone, why I never attempt to talk to the others in a friendly approach. I’m neither cynical nor have some kind of traumatic incident years back. I am just naturally detached. I know there’s nothing wrong with me. I wish there’s something wrong with me, so that I didn’t have to stay silent during my sessions with my various shrinks. I think me being so calm and composed make them feel humiliated, I think they need to diagnose me with the most dramatic illness they can find, but they couldn’t, because I didn’t display the right symptoms.

I think I have made a lot of shrinks doubt their ability to conceive people..

This will lead to them to be not as attentive as they’re supposed to be, which will make them bad shrinks. And if they’re bad shrinks, they won’t be able to sort out what kind of problem that REAL problematic teens have. Now, that’s the real problem. That’s why I don’t want to go any kind of shrinks, because this will impact people who need shrinks the most.

Alright, I admit it. I’m not that noble. I just don’t want to go there because I haven’t make up the big blast background story about my terrible-oh-so-terrible childhood that will make them feel the need to sympathize me.

So I stayed there, and since I didn’t bring my iPod with me, I was stuck counting the amount of tiles presented in front of me. There were 1978 of them, but the second time I counted it, I got 1979. I was in my third recount and in the #1977 tile when someone came out from the office.

I’ve never seen this guy before, but the moment I spot his mess of red hair and his distinctively blue eyes, a name bubbled up inside my head.

Caleb Brooks.

He’s a popular name among the female population in my school. I mean, I’ve just been here for a few days and already I am familiar with the name. Everywhere I go, there must be some girls talking or giggling or just plain complaining about him. The phrase ‘I h8 Caleb Brooks!!’ is something you most likely to see in every single girls restroom in the school. A record that could only be topped with the phrase ‘I 3 Caleb Brooks!’.

It surprised me that those girls weren’t just bluffing. All this time when I overheard them talking about him, I’ve always thought the formula was 10% truth with 90% exagerration. But when I saw him in person, I noticed that his gray eyes were really ‘like a pool which draws you in and let you drown’. His hair were really that ‘flaming red’, his biceps were that ‘muscular but slim’, no matter how much Stephenie Meyer-ish it sounded.

He really was that ‘gorgeous beyond belief’.

And, as a bonus, he talked to me first.

“So, why are you here?”

I was completely silent. My brilliance just left me and it didn’t come back.

He seemed to regret his decision to talk to me, because now he’s stuck with me and couldn’t just start smoking pot or whatever he’s rumored to do in school hours.

“You’re the new kid, right?”

I didn’t trust my voice, so I only nodded.

“A few days and already sent here? What did you do?”

As my IQ kept decreasing exponentially, I only stupidly, dumfoundedly, starstruckly gaped at no other the Caleb Brooks himself.

He looked at me for what seemed like a very long time. I wasn’t sure if he was considering: (a) gagging me to death because I annoy him, (b) crack my skull open to confirm that I really was an idiot, or (c) running away from me fast because I bore him.

Turned out that he thought none of those. Caleb smirked lopsidedly and then pointed at the door.

“Just say that you love today’s Top 40 and praise him nonstop. You’ll get out of there in no time.”

And with that, he turned away and left.

-

Caleb’s advice proved to be powerful. Prof. Diglots, or whom I shall dub as Prof. Dimwit, was the lousiest counselor any school could find. He’s got only two principles regarding his job, and both principles are dead wrong.

Prof. Dimwit’s Clever Solutions of Troubled Teenager

1. Teenagers who listen to the radio’s top 40 MUST be normal.

2. Those who are able to deliver perfectly flattering compliments are not insecure.

Like Caleb predicted, I got out there in no time. Two minutes and fifty seven seconds, to be specific.

That’s the fastest psychiatrist session that I ever have experienced.

26

4:04

The strangest thing that ever happened to me ever since I came here just happened about four minutes ago.

Wow, I still can’t believe it. I usually hate it when my journals become raggedy and look like a stumble of badly-strung words that in no other way could be deciphered by anyone but me. It had been and still a speculation, but somehow I have this notion that I’m going to be rich someday and I’ll be needing this diary to show people about my miserable teenage years.

Well, while the chances of that would happen would be slim, I’d still like to have my diary neat.

Alright. Now I’m rambling again.

My hands are still shaking, so forgive me if my handwriting is bad. But just about four minutes ago, I just had one of the longest conversations I’ve ever have with anyone in this world EVER.

And with whom, you might guess?

Ding-dong!! Li Fang’s grandson!!

I don’t even know how to begin this, so I started where I saw him again for the fourth time.

This time he watched us eating again, like he usually did. That night, everyone except me and Greg were left home. My parents got their first invitation to a wedding from the neighbor around here and they’re more than happy to come. TracyslashSelene was supposed to be antisocial, but then she’d just bought a new gothic dress and was eager to show it off, so she came with them.

Greg didn’t come. He intended to sneak out to meet up with his new girlfriend, Toshiki or something Japanese. I couldn’t remember. He did offer me to come with him but I refused. I wasn’t ready to set my sexual orientation to be either a lesbian or a bisexual yet.

So, yeah. We had dinner together. Greg finished up most of it and just went out, totally ignoring the the guy’s (his name is Damian. Damian. Damian. Damian. Damian. Dami-fucking-an!!!) big starry eyes that just screamed ‘LOOK AT ME’. When I was alone, I tried to approach him, but then he’d already gone.

I shrugged it off and finished my meal fast. There’s going to be a new TV show in the TV in five minutes. For a few months, I only watched some reruns of the second episode of Friends, which I’ve watched for more than five times. It’s always good to have something new.

But then lights went out just after about five seconds after the show’s intro, so since I had nothing to do, I just went to my bedroom.

I still couldn’t sleep. My stomach was full, my boredom was at its peak, and I totally had nothing to do since all my access to electronic world was limited if not completely vanished. I MUST be asleep.

But I couldn’t. Finally, at three o’clock, I gave up and went out from my room. TracyslashSelene and my parents turned out to be already snoring in their respective room. Greg hadn’t come back, so I piled up some pillows under his blanket in case my father woke up to take a leak and had a whim to take a peek at his bisexual son’s room.

After that, since the lights were still out, I hate nothing to do. I even couldn’t read books or write since my source of light is completely nonexistent. So you know what I did?

I just stood in front of my room, staring at the blank space.

And that’s when the guy came to enter the screen.

He’s swirling around the open space before me. I forgot how he suddenly appeared, or from which way he was. I blinked, and suddenly he’s just there, seemed deep in thought and restless. His feet moved so fast they hardly touched on the ground. I knew I said I wasn’t the kind of person who greeted a person first, but it seemed that frustation and boredom got the best of me. I came up to him and said the first line.

Me: Hi.

Guy: (totally ignores me)

Me: (really pissed and embarrassed, but determined to not get ignored) Hello. Good evening.

Guy: (turn around and finally sees me) Pardon me?

And from there, everything started. The guy seemed to be genuinely surprised to hear me talking to him, and even more surprised to see that I was able to locate him. His shock was palpable, even to me.

“Y-You saw me?” he stuttered out.

I fought the urge to say ‘duh’. “Well.. yeah, of course.”

“How?”

I fought the urge to say ‘duh’. “You’re walking in the open-space.”

He looked around, then he opened his mouth, as if just happened to realize about that. He then turned his focus to me again, his face was strangely unpleasant with those widened eyes and half-opened mouth.

“What are you?”

His question was a bit strange, I thought I could teach him the proper English grammar. But I answered him anyway.

“Miriam,” I said, handing out my hand.

He didn’t meet it and the shocked expression was still adopted.

“I mean, w-what are you?”

“Miriam,” I repeated, wondering if either of us was crazy. “My full name is Miriam Clearwater, I’m seventeen year old, in grade eleventh of St. Pulkeria High School. My hobbies include sleeping and-“

“Okay,” the guy cut off my detailed introduction. “Okay, okay.”

“So,” I said, extracting my hand back to my sides since obviously he’s not going to take it. “what about you?”

“I’m sorry?”

“You can start with your name, for example.”

He hesitated, took another look at me, and then finally spoke out in a manner that (FINALLY!) could be deemed sane. “I’m Damian.” He said. “What’re you doing in this late hours?”

I shrugged, then took a look at my watch. It’s already one thirty.

“The attack of insomnia,” I said diplomatically.

“Oh,” he nodded. He’d relaxed, but it seemed that the shock of me greeting him hadn’t completely evaporated. “Me too.”

I had a feeling he was lying, but let him get away with it. I wasn’t in mood for arguments, especially with strange strangers that I met in strange hours.

“I saw you looking at us in the dinner last night,” I began, since he hadn’t showed signs he’s going to elongate our conversation.

He ‘Oh’ed again, then spoke out nervously. “Y-Yeah.. you all seemed to eat good food.”

I smiled. “You wouldn’t like to taste it. Dad likes to make everything overly sweet..”

“Really?” he was still rigid. He let a few seconds passed before then he blurted out. “You really aren’t going to do something to me? Scream, at least?!”

I tilted my head, now I was officially confused.

“No offence, but are you mental or something?” I asked. “Why do I need to do something to you, or scream at you?”

Now, it seemed that my outrage really brought him to the earth. Damian now fully relaxed, as if an epiphany had hit him, and it hit him hard. He exhaled, then for the first time, I saw him smiled.

“Got you!” he laughed, “today’s game, I need to make someone think that I’m insane after ten minutes of meeting him/her.”

It took me a while to digest what he’d just said, especially after a series of weird questions he’d fired to me before. But then, I found the humor behind his game and could laugh along with him.

“You really had that kind of game?” I said. “What was yesterday’s task?”

it took him a few seconds to answer. “I needed to aggravate a guy to the point he’d give me a black eye.”

I searched around for the black eye he mentioned, and saw a bruise sporting on the hem of his upper arm.

“I think you also did well on that. The guy failed to give what you really want, though.”

He seemed pleased with my comment. “He’s quite big. I wouldn’t want him to punch me in the eye so I just pointed at my arm.”

I imagined the scene and somehow found it funny.

“So, who are you?” I asked, as now we seemed to have broken the ice. “I mean, you live here, right? Are you Li Fang’s grandson or something?”

“You really think we look similar?” he asked.

I was wondering if it was a trick question, but then I noticed that he was waiting for my answer rather worryingly. I went against my better judgement then nodded. “Yeah, I think so.”

“Yep, I’m her grandson,” he said the moment I closed my mouth. “Father’s white, you see,” he added fast.

I nodded slowly. It’s hard to believe what he’d said, but it seemed that he didn’t want to discuss about this further.

“You’re the tenth costumer here since the original one left the house,” he said. “But I like you, so I hope you can stay long..”

He was smiling when he added the last bit, and I had to gape at his obliviousness at his glibness. Did he just say the ‘L’ word?

Damian seemed to just realize the slip of his tongue. “Em, I-I mean, the last ones aren’t exactly as.. you know.. friendly.. as you.”

This somehow made the situation more comfortable, and I could exhale. Well, yeah, some people here were haughty enough not to make conversations with a maid’s son.

“I hope I can stay here long, too,” I said, and I wasn’t lying. “I really need to make some friends.”

His eyes lit up when he said me saying that. I myself was surprised. I wasn’t trying to make a bait or something, but I could be sure that he’s hooked because for the next forty five minutes, he started intogerrating me.

And this might sound strange, but for the first time, I like nosy people.