Bright White Lights

“It is not known precisely where [they] dwell - whether in the air, the void, or the planets. It has not been God's pleasure that we should be informed of their abode.” ~Voltaire

Chapter 2

My mother hadn’t wasted anytime and I was already enrolled in a local state school here. I had my A-Level subjects [Art & Design, English Literature and French] already and I just had to get back into the courses. The fact that I wasn’t really into them in London didn’t perturb my mother. She was just desperate to get me into some normality. The normality however was my hatred of my courses, so that was fine.

I’d never really seen eye-to-eye with my mother. We were relative opposites. I was tall, and she was small. I was dark haired with very dark eyes and pale skin. I just looked dead in the wrong lighting. I avoid bright lights – for obvious reasons, also. My mother was blonde, blonde with a fetish in hair dyes. She had those baby blues people died for and an olive skin tone. She was beautiful, I was dead. We fitted so well.

She was likeable, and got on with people. Just as well considering we moved all the time. Although, because of that, my mother didn’t have a nationality. She said we were people of the world. At the time, I was scared she was turning into a hippy, but then I thought she might have taken an interest in my slightly freaky lights. Of course she didn’t, and the hippy world was not one we were going to join.

We did however stay united when it came to my ‘visions’. She always moved us. She didn’t want me to get lost in them. She tried to cure me her own way and I was touched that she bothered. I just didn’t know when to tell her to stop. They came with me, no matter how far I was away from the place before.

In the morning of my first day of school, she shoved the uniform, mandatory blazer, white shirt, tie and skirt, into my room and shut it loudly. It was my signal to wake up. I sighed, heaved myself up and dressed quickly. We ate breakfast in silence, the only noises coming from the crunch of toast and the clicking of the clock. My mother darted from the room, when it was time for me to leave, with a hurried message of goodbye and good luck and went to start her article.

I shut the apartment door and trudged my way to school. I shoved my headphones into my ears and tried to close out the world with loud music. It failed to work as; there again, were the white lights. I just avoided looking at them and went into the school building.

The secretary greeted me with a smile faker than her chest, and handed me my timetable and a map of school. As soon as I was past the desk, I crumpled the map up in my hand and threw it in a bin. I didn’t mind getting lost. It put off awkward introductions and badly placed questions.

I hated school - truly despised it. Not only the courses I took but the place itself. The students couldn’t grasp how come I started school on a Tuesday in the middle of a term, instead of at the beginning of the year like normal people. I didn’t dare tell them that I wasn’t normal. They wouldn’t have understood that either.

The students didn’t understand why my accent wasn’t normal. In America, I’d been English, in continental Europe, I’d been American, in London, I’d been a weird variety of American and English and now, I was just flat. I had nothing. I had a sort of American accent but occasionally, this British accent appeared. It wasn’t fun, trust me. Trying to explain why I didn’t sound the same every time you spoke to me.

They also didn’t understand how I’d move so many times. They were still living in the houses they were raised in. Sarcastically, I used to say that I didn’t live anywhere, that we just took extended holidays. They thought I was being serious.

So walking into my first hour [French] was just plain uncomfortable. The teacher, one Madame McBain, glared at me for interrupting her unintelligible speech. French spoken with a Scottish accent was painful to hear. She ushered me to my seat and didn’t ask me to introduce myself. I was silently thankful, considering I didn’t want her to know I spoke fluent French anyway, and I lay my head on my desk, willing that no attention would arrive today. Of course, that wasn’t allowed because I saw a white light in my right eye. I sat up then and just decided to watch her. At least I’d be focused on something and I wouldn’t be able to see it.

The next lesson was far from pleasant. I was stared at as I walked into my Art lesson. I thought that was highly unjust as I was far from weird. The room was filled with emotional, gothic types – black eyeliner and all. However, this time, due to the hippy, floaty-dress wearing teacher wanting us to bond, I had to introduce myself.

“My name is Lana Harris, I’m going to be seventeen in two days and I’ve just moved here from London,” I hurried through my life and sat down. The teacher just couldn’t give it a rest.

“That’s an interesting accent, Lana. It’s not London that’s for sure.”

“I lived in Chicago before.”

“Oh, alright. Well, you’ve joined at a rather awkward time. We are doing portrait work and we are practising by drawing one another. But we were an even number till you joined. You might have to wait until there is someone free to work with you. Until then, could you possibly work on getting your portfolio ready for me? I need to see work from your past school.”

Yes, because I have nothing better to do than cart that around with me, I thought angrily.

I threw my bag against the floor, grabbed my new sketchpad and began to doodle hastily. The bell couldn’t have rung faster. I fled the room and left the building, grateful for my freedom. I returned home quickly, threw some lunch together and retreated to my bedroom.

I couldn’t see or hear my mother, so I assumed she was out. CDs and books were lying all over the floor where I had left them as I needed my bag for school. I scooped one of the books up, not reading the spine and started to read it. It failed to capture my attention and I just ended up falling asleep.

The next day was better, but had the elements of hell involved. I had my first English lit class, and the desks were shared desks. Some lucky sod got the honour of sitting with the new girl. I pitied them. Fluidly, I sat down into an empty seat at the back of the hall. The girl I’d chosen stared at me. I stared back, and I’m pretty sure I just ended up glaring.

Her hand shaking, she put it out to shake mine, “Hey, I’m Joan.”

I shook her hand, wishing to avoid all this formal palaver and just not listen to the teacher instead, “Lana.”

The lesson passed quickly then. Joan was a thick-set girl, with long blonde hair and dark eyes. She was pale however, so just looked permanently washed out. She didn’t seem to crave attention so the teacher’s eyes never even saw our table. Invisibility was something I longed for and I was silently thankful I’d found it here.

School was over quickly and I went home and just slept again. In the evening, my mother woke me, considering we hadn’t really spoken in a while. She pulled me into the kitchen and sat me down on a chair to begin the interrogation.

“So how is it?” She asked jovially as she prepared dinner (microwave pizza).

“Fine, I guess,” I answered, despondently.

“Please, Lana, be more excited than that- at least fake it for me.”

“Alright,” I replied, “my French teacher speaks French with a Scottish accent – pure hell. My art teacher is an undiscovered hippy and I have to work alone until someone is ready to work with me – crappy portrait work. My English lesson involves shared desks. I sit with Joan who is about as desperate for invisibility as I am.”

“How is that going?”

I knew what she was asking.

“I saw them in both classes yesterday but I fell asleep when I got home so there wasn’t chance to irritate me. I saw them walking home today, all the way down the street and on the rooftops this time. I just ignored them and carried on walking. Except... they were fainter than I’d ever seen them –almost real images this time –if slightly translucent.”

“Lana, maybe that means they are leaving you.”

I snorted slightly – I highly doubted that. There seemed something important about tomorrow. I just didn’t feel I was ready to tell my mother that. She really would take me to the shrink.

After this one, it might take me a bit longer to update. Revision for mid-years .

If you don't understand British schooling, I apologise but that is the system used here. I can't help it. I don't know any different, and I've already explained why she isn't in IB schools. Not that I'd like talking about those - I go to one myself.

R&R and I'm late, I know but Merry Christmas & a Happy New Year. [too early, there.]

xje,