Hannie Elise: Ninja, Spy and Kung Fu Master
by throwingstars

THREE
Of Travolta, Painted Wings, and Painted Lockers

I enter a room and an enormous bear spins on a unicycle.

I'm in what looks like a large log cabin, wood everywhere and a heavy scent of pine. A soft tinkling music plays in the background, as the bear points a paw into the air then down to his side in the infamous dance of the 70's. I stand and watch him boredly, as if dancing bears are a regular occurrence for me.

He struts his stuff like John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever, and I barely even blink.

When he skips back a few decades, and pulls out the Hand Jive, I walk away, immediately going through a doorway like I'd known it was there, and where it would lead.

There's a loud whirring noise in this room, and I find it comes from the far wall. Or rather, from a large moving piece of canvas near the wall. It is hooked up to a rotary machine that causes the long canvas to loop over and over again in circles. Upon the canvas is painted a snowy scene, all blues and whites and acting as a backdrop for a set of large bronze horses that move up and down.

The motion of the canvas and pumps beneath the floor make it look like the horses are walking along in a winter wonderland. It reminds me of a carousel.

Something resembling snow falls from the ceiling, though it's heavy and wet. Like white rain.

I look up, and there's Mr. Tally, with his black speckled smock and his large beret, sitting in the rafters. In hand is a large bucket, and as I watch, he dips a paintbrush and flicks his wrist causing drops of white paint to fly everywhere.

The floor below me and the bronze horses look like his speckled Universe smock.

He aims the brush at me, and the drops fall towards me. They change as they fall, going from white to an array of beautiful colors, small rainbows in each drop of paint.

Instead of hitting me, the paint drops fall to my sides and circle around my back. My perspective changes, and rather than looking through my own eyes it's like I'm watching everything through someone else's. I see the paint drops morph into a rainbow outline of wings, connecting to my shoulder blades and fanning out from there.

Then I'm back to a first person view, and I look over my shoulder at my new appendages, fascinated by the colors rather than the fact that Tally just gave me paint wings.

I shrug, and test out my wings. It isn't long before I'm lifting off the floor and flying out a window that appears next to me.

I soar into the sky, a trail of colors behind me.

&&

A loud thump and a scream shatter the silence of my quiet house as I fall to the floor. My legs were tangled in my purple comforter, and the matching pillowcase was halfway on my head. I kick out my legs to free myself of my purple prison, and shoot back onto my bed.

I ignore the pillowcase and lay back down, at least just long enough to process my dream.

When the details finally come back to me, I sigh and reach for the remote, shutting off my television as a cartoon picture bounces around the screen, signaling that the movie had been stopped for quite some time.

I am never watching kids' movies before bed again.

With that in mind, I stumble towards the bathroom for a shower, singing that quiet tinkling music that was present throughout my dreams.

"Dancing bears… painted wings…"

Fifteen minutes later, I twirled gracefully back into my room, dancing on my toes and still singing.

"Someone holds me safe and warm... horses prance through a silver storm..."

Stopping in front of a full length mirror, I braid my hair on either side of my head, and check over my clothes. A lovely pink tartan skirt, black hoodie, green tanktop.

Everything looked in order.

With that, I grabbed the pièce de résistance, which was hanging off the corner of my full-length mirror and sat on my bed to pull them on.

Black satin ballet shoes.

The real kind, not the flats everyone wears. I went through much trouble for these; buying demi-pointe shoes, and removing the box to soften the sole. Since with any ballet shoe you have to add your own ribbon, I was able to add black ribbons that were much longer than usual so that they'd reach my knees.

Beau-ti-ful.

With that done, I grabbed by trusty backpack and set off for school, making sure to bring my supplies in a garbage bag.

&&

I admired the beauty below me, petting the smooth surface and relaxing comfortably against the cool glass.

It's shiny and bright.

Sitting on top of a car, reclining against a windshield with the bright sun and cool breeze is really the only way to start a school day. Relaxing.

Sitting reclined like this, with my feet straight out in front me, I had the perfect view of my beautiful shoes. So I took the opportunity to admire them, wiggling my toes in my ballet shoes, watching the sunlight glimmer off the satin. If it were possible to marry inanimate objects…

I shook my head and my thoughts moved on. I briefly had the sense to wonder whose car I was sitting atop of and petting, if they'd mind and what they'd do if they saw me sitting here, but like I said- briefly. By the time I got to imagining a prissy male version of Samantha Longe screaming about 'his baby', my mind was already going off someplace else.

I already knew what the plan was, and it's low-key compared to some of my other pranks but I knew it would grab attention and any normal male would be upset. The only problem I was having with it was: would it get the point across?

Always, always, always I have this problem. I'm brilliant, if I say so myself, at getting an idea, planning and executing it but I always falter at one of the most important parts, which is communicating the message. And a prankster who doesn't communicate the message properly faces an even bigger problem; having the prankee turn his/her anger on the prankster rather than the prankster-employer.

And I have to do this all the while making sure I never specifically mention the prankster-employer in name. If I wanted to keep these people as customers, I needed to make sure that they don't have dozens of people after them, but making sure that the people get the message. There'd be no point in revenge if the person didn't understand why it was happening to them, after all.

The life of a prankster is a difficult one.

It's why reclining against a beautiful car in the sun is the only way to start the day, but it seems as if my relaxing time was up. I could see a boy I recognized as a senior walking towards my spot with a confused expression.

Ah, so it's his car.

Grabbing my bag from beside me, I slid off the car just as he reached me.

I give him and friendly smile and pat his shoulder, ignoring his perplexed look, "Nice ride."

&&

Trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, I weave my way through the crowds of students who are wasting time before the bell rings. I manage to make my way through a particularly difficult group, who can't see to stay still or move in a steady direction. They'd move right, so I'd dodge left then at the last second, they'd move back and make it completely impossible for me to move around them.

Finally I reach my spot, the doorway of a classroom that's been turned into a storage room. Broken desks, spare desks, chairs, and who knows what else is stored here. It's been my secret hideaway since the beginning of high school; where I stash supplies- like I did this morning- or escape from crazy people, namely teachers and Louis.

The doorway is shadowed by the tall lockers on either side and it's handy for keeping me out of sight but I know if I open the door, I'll draw attention. So I slide down the side of the lockers, sitting with my back against them and my legs across the doorway.

No one but me goes in here anyway.

It's another five minutes before the bell rings, and I watch the more studious of students rushing to class, calling out goodbye to their friends.

I glare as one kid passes me; he'd been in one of the groups that couldn't make up their mind where to stand.

Even after the bell, there are too many students milling around of me to start so I wait another five minutes for the halls to clear.

I peek my head around the corner of the locker, making sure the coast is clear.

"Countdown to commencement of Operation Paint Fool's Locker. Ten…"

I jumped up.

"Nine…"

I brushed myself off. These floors are so dirty.

"Eight…"

I check the coast again, and the door is opened.

"Seven…"

I'm inside, my hand search in one of the desks.

"Six…"

I've got my garbage bag of supplies, checking that everything is there.

"Five…"

I'm back out the door and running down the hall, making sure to duck out of the way of open classroom doors.

"Four…"

Searching for his locker. 1118, 1119, 1120, 1121…

"Three…"

Found Fool's locker. 1125. Not far from the hideout… convenient.

"Two…"

Supplies are taken out and opened, necessary preparations made, quick as a possum. Are possums even fast?

"One…"

I take a deep breath and watch as my hand raises a paintbrush to the ugly light green locker almost of its own accord.

&&

"Here you go, Mr. Trask."

She slid a piece of paper across the desk, and I took it with a smile.

"Thanks, Mrs. Wellner. Hope it wasn't too much trouble."

"Nonsense, dear, that's my job."

I said another thank you and left. I knew it was more trouble than she said; I'd been a major pain in the ass, showing up in the office everyday to complain about my schedule.

My finger tapped against the side of it; I was happy just to finally have it, as I strolled into the cafeteria after my friends.

I followed them until they sat down, letting them get settled before I planned to surprise them. Once they struck up a conversation, I dropped down into the seat next to my best friend Spencer.

The conversation stopped as they all looked me.

"Hey guys," I stole a few fries from Spence, knowing he wouldn't notice it.

The first one to break was Frankie.

"JT, where the hell did you come from?"

Followed by a loud hi from Frankie's twin sister, Ashley.

I nodded to Ash, but replied to Frankie, "The office."

Spence immediately caught on to two things. One, that I was stealing his fries so he pulled his tray away from me, and two, why I was there.

"Ah, Jay! You finally got your schedule changed. Man, I'm touched that you'd want to spend an hour here with us."

"Yeah, cause his alternative is obviously just as appealing." Jennifer rolled her eyes at Spencer, which was a common occurrence. That girl has sarcasm dripping from every pore and it often clashes with Spence's good natured humor.

They were always good entertainment.

"Gym's not bad, Jen. I wouldn't mind it so much if Ersting would lighten up on his hatred of hockey."

Phys. Ed. wasn't required for all four years at our school, but I was one of the small percent that actually took it all the way through high school. I never liked the days we spent playing basketball or doing beep testing, but I always waited like a kid at Christmas for the units on hockey to come around.

I'd been luck the last few years and had teachers that at least gave an even amount of time to the sport, but this year the luck ran out and I ended up with Ersting; notorious for his hate of hockey, and the only teacher I never got a long with. From the start of school I've been working to get my schedule changed around, so that I'd have lunch this hour instead of Gym, and another science in place of my old lunch hour.

"Won't this hurt your game?" Frankie, again. I noticed as soon as the talk turned to hockey, Ash and Jen tuned out.

"It shouldn't. I get enough practice outside of school, missing two weeks of hockey inside the school won't make a different." Two weeks was the time each unit in Gym got, except in Ersting's damn class.

But what I said was true, it wouldn't affect my game. I'm in a competitive league, and they train us like dogs. I hardly have any time just with how many practices they give us, and that's one of the main reasons I never joined the school hockey team. That, and the fact that there is no school hockey team.

I think this school has something against hockey.

I spent the next few minutes tapping my hands against the tabletop, listening to Frankie and Spence carry on the conversation about hockey, even though they don't play the sport themselves.

"Guys, I'm gonna go put this stuff in my locker, I'll see you in class."

I didn't know whether my class would get changed today, so I was still carrying around my gym uniform.

When I got to the hall my locker was in, I noticed a girl standing in front of one of the lockers, a garbage bag laid out at her feet with cans to the side.

I wonder what she's doing.

I stop a ways away to watch her. She was tall for a girl, standing only a few inches shorter than me and I was 6'3". Slender, with red-orange hair and I particularly noticed her shoes, thinking my sister would probably like them. She was in a black sweater, and a green skirt that her height made look a little too short.

She's probably a good sprinter though, with legs that long.

She kept raising her hand to the locker, holding what looked like a paintbrush.

I was a few feet away now, having continued walking to see what she was painting, when I noticed exactly whose locker she was painting.

1125- what the hell?

I stepped up behind her, asking loudly, "What are you doing?!"

She didn't turn, and for a second I thought she was going to ignore me before she said, "Painting this poor fool's locker."

This time I was the one who didn't reply right away, not knowing what to say and just watching her paint. My once green locker was painted a bright purple, with green and pink swirls, a few hearts and flowers. In the middle of the locker was a large yellow peace sign, red letters proclaiming LOVE across that.

"… That's my locker." It came out choked.

Suddenly she turned around, her braids flying around her and nearly slapping me in the face. I saw brown eyes, light freckles across her nose and a bright smile before I focused more on her words,

"Oh! Hi, Fool!"

Again, no way to reply until I finally managed, "I'll repeat, what are you doing?"

"I'll repeat, painting this poor fool's locker."

Lot of good that did.

I ignored her mimicking of me, which include a deep voice and stern face, and tried again, "But why are you painting this fool's--- why are you painting my locker!?"

"Because I was asked to."

"You were ASKED to?"

"And paid."

I was stumped, speechless and beyond frustrated but she was completely calm, still smiling me and occasionally turning to add a detail to my locker.

"WHO ARE YOU?" Hopefully she'd give me a straight answer.

She turned back to me and curtsied, "Hannie Elise, at your service."

For someone defacing my locker, she's definitely polite.

I'd never heard such a unusual name before, though.

"Who?"

She sighed, and repeated herself, speaking slowly like I was a child. "Hannie Elise. H-a-n-n-i-e E-l-i-s-e." She wrote it out on the locker in acid green paint as she spelled it out.

She started at it, and I could hear her mumbling under her breath about her newest addition, "I should erase that… could be very incriminating… it adds a nice touch though, and it'd be so much work to erase." She nodded to herself, "I'll keep it."

My god. This girl talks to herself, paints random people's lockers, mimics them and acts like it's normal.

I took a deep breath and remembered something she had said.

"Who asked you to do this?"

Another swirl on the locker. "Samantha Longe." She began another paint drawing. It was crude and almost child-like- obviously this girl wasn't an artist- but it was very clear.

Is that a unicorn?

"Miss Longe requested that I make it known that she thinks you are despicable. Gorgeous, but despicable and you should burn for break dear Miss Longe's heart."

Samantha Longe was in my Biology class and I'd know her since seventh grade, but I'd known a lot of people since seventh grade. Small town, you know? I've never even dated her; she had asked me out a few times, but I'd never had time with hockey. That, and I never wanted to go.

"So this is how you're making it known? By painting my locker in bright colors?!"

She turned, giving me a look that was obviously meant to ask if I was an idiot. "No silly, I made it known by telling you."

This girl, Hannie, makes its so hard to come up with a reply, but I didn't need one because after adding some more things to my locker, she continued.

"I don't usually make known my contractors, either. Mums the word, I say!" She shrugged, "Well, it's supposed to be, but you were beginning to sound like a broken record, and not an enjoyable one."

I couldn't believe this girl. Who just listens to someone like that? Especially Samantha Longe, of all people.

"So she asks and you just comply?!"

She stepped back to examine her work, squinting and sticking her arm straight out with her thumb up, comparing it to the painting though I doubt she knew what that did, if her drawing skills were any indication.

It was only after she put her painting things into the garbage bag, and stood back up, that she talked again.

"Well it is my job and she did pay well."

I really couldn't believe this girl, and I took a few moments to stumble over my words before shooting out a "You're insanse!"

Ms. Hannie Elise only nodded sagely at me, looking as serious as a girl who just agreed to being insane could, "It's perfectly healthy."

"What?"

This time she was the one suck in a deep breath, waving her hands up as she inhaled and down as she exhaled, as if she were cleansing herself.

"Art is supposed to be about expression, releasing your inner self and letting go."

As far as I knew, Mr. Tally the nut at the art store didn't have a daughter, or any family for that matter, but in that moment I could have sworn on my life that Hannie Elise was a younger female version of Mr. Tally.

I didn't get to reply though, as she took me by the shoulders and moved me to stand next to the locker. In my surprise all I could do was let her, and really, if I could what would I do anyways? I'd never hurt a girl, especially not for something that could be washed off.

" Say cheese."

Before I could ask again what she was doing, she pulled a small camera out of who knows where and took a picture, capturing my surprised expression no doubt.

"Self-expression."

She looked up at me, the camera disappearing again. "What?"

"Art is about self-expression. So why didn't Longe express HERSELF?"

"She is. I'm just the messenger, and you know what they say…"

"What's that?"

"Don't kill the messenger."

She gave me another bright smile, and picked up her stuff, literally skipping down the hall.

Having no idea what to do, I just watched her dance away, fingers making peace signs in front of her eyes like John Travolta in Pulp Fiction.

I saw that she had a small black bag on her back with many pins and patches. One particular one was large and resembled those "Hello, My name is…" stickers, with HANNIE ELISE scribbled in the designated space in marker.

'Don't kill the messenger.' Well, I wouldn't have anyway. I'm much more curious than angry.
Ta-da! An update! And the lead male is finally introduced!

I know it took a while but I ended up distracted with some things: the start of school, a pile of assignments, exams (which I should be studying for right now.), watching the first whole season of Sailor Moon with my cousin (in Japanese, no less.) and some other random things. But, that's the benefit of Uni- a whole month for winter break, so hopefully I'll have the next chapter out soon.

A lot of other things were supposed to happen in this chapter, but I'll have to include in the next one since this turned out long enough. Sorry for taking so long, again.

But it's here now, so tell me what you think! Reviews definitely encourage updates.

Thanks to anyone who reviewed last chapter, or added this to your alerts/favorites. And Happy Thanksgiving to any American readers!

PS. I don't own Saturday Night Fever or Pulp Fiction or Anastasia, or John Travolta (which would be pretty cool, let me tell you.)

¤ throwingstars