The receptionist and Mum's favorite person at Blue Ridge, Ms. Jordi swipes her head around a few times as if she is about to cross a road in the middle of the hall, before she abandons her desk to protrude the end of a blind door where a 'Caution, Wet Floor' sign is permanently displayed.

This is the time to pounce.

I start the run is slow paces and in the absence of light speed, swivel around to see if anyone is curious enough to stick to Blue Ridge after 5 o'clock in the evening.

The sun has already portrayed that it doesn't want to fly high in the sky since the grey disposition which blended with the off color buildings are failing to show any purple, red, magenta or short strokes of thick yellow.

I halt the thumping footing and convey a slide on the shoe's sole as the desk swishes by and an array of doors on either sides start to appear in the slinky light.

'Stationary and Copier.'
'Fax and Telecoms.'
'Break room.'

I'm only capable of seeing blurs in the smooth process of gliding.

I have to tip toe and casually stroll the rest of the way because 'Teachers Room' is unconventionally set at the end of the long hall where a wide spread window casts a long and interrupted view of the unused meadow on the opposite side.

I breath heavily and let a few moments slide to regain the default confidence as well as lung capacity before I commit something equivalent of a crime.

And my unfortunate target is Mrs. Gideon.

I haven't received a good amount of time to think this through because earlier, someone in the room, on some occasion, had uttered the word Simultaneous and since I knew the definition of it beforehand, it has been taunting me ever since.

Mrs. Gideon is currently established as one of Mum's good friends. So, the stunt of subsiding to someone as Mrs. Gideon for advice on adolescence and directions in life, in general, would be an event too hard and treacherous to ignore.

And only then, Mum would come to realize the concrete fact, the blue elephant in the room that her attention to me is required, much more than anything or anyone else.

Especially, more than Dad since he had already finished his 'Coming of Age' period of life.

Besides, Mrs. Gideon seems to capture the essential potential for lending me a helping hand with the whole "Jackie dilemma and Clay's sudden loss of his own self" .

I have already produced different names for both Jackie and Clay. I mean Gerald and Duncan, both of the names weren't the fruit of my imagination but my father unerringly lent me the names from the roaster of his friends names and messages beside the Telephone hook.

I aim for the door handle before granting a look at the plaque on the wall.

'Teachers Room' is in written in Black, having brown as the background.

Whoever came up with the color choice must have been color blind or just simply blind.

"Mrs. Gideon?" I question the thin air and hope to find a pair of comfortable, kind and wise eyes to meet with but in the half drawn light, crisp shadow of a mellow evening in the open, slightly musty room offers me no company.

I squint my eyes and try to locate the nearest falls of breath in this quite dim darkness.

These are the places when I wish humans had echolocation like dolphins which they use to find one another in the big blue sea.

Echolocation has multiple purposes in my life. I would use it to find where Dolorous lives and in the dead of the night, fling a large rock through her window, not hurting her but enforcing the Universal fact that, the Universe always pays you back for the things you have done.

I pop my fingers till they bleat the sound of cracking bones whenever I'm angry about something.

My left ring finger hurts because I have been thinking about Dolorous lately.

"Mrs. Gideon?" There are rows of shelves stacked in the middle of the rooms, creating handmade borders which conveniently divide the long quarter into multiple little stations.

There's the well familiar feel of over worn carpet under my feet.

"Hello? Mrs. Gideon?" I wasn't paying attention to where my feet were plopping down because my brain was busy with the observation of the interior; so the right foot makes a clanging contact with a dust basket which awakes from its slumber and decides to roll away into the third half lit station.

"Jordi? Is that you?" A voice behind the bend speaks up, the tone is followed by a ting sound of metal kissing floor.

I am about to turn away from the light and back to the door but my homely etiquette has ordered me to pick up the knocked over dust basket and return the garbage in it.

I have been known for the habit of cleaning up evidence.

I catch the lady's distinctive worrisome look from my crouched stance, gripping a balled up bundle of papers with my left as the right tilts the bin to straight.

It's Ms. Free hand Writing, staring at me with a sense of relief and equal surprise.

I am vengeful to well mannered instincts.

"Oh." She drives past the boulevard of shock. Onto relief.

With the help of a single fluorescent light, I can spot her round lips turning into a humorous "O".

I wait for the agonizing sound of laughter, which is at the moment, equivalent to an alarm going off as I stand in the enemy territory whilst Ms. Jordi blows in through the wall with her sharp smiles and lead questions of "What am I doing here?"

"Is that--" She inquires as her body swishes back from the chair towards my general direction.

She's like a turret, turning at vigorous agility towards her enemy.

I'm not sure why this emotion of seeing authority figures as opponents was planted in my mind. But I sense the teachers from school has something to do with this aspect of my characteristic.

"It's not Jordi. I'm not--" I bleat the answer, as I pat the dust basket in reassuring beats back to its round feet. If I'm flabbergasted and shocked, I cannot imagine the state of the bucket's emotion, even though it is inanimate.

"I can see that." She confirms, smirking.

My anxiety is screaming me to disappear from the present moment. She is standing up to yawn but through the glasses of social embarrassment, she is in the perfect place to execute me.

Her body features no aggressive posture.

"Hmph, I thought it was Jordi tellin' me I can't stay for an hour more." The unfortunate yawn muddles the exist of her sentence.
"Jordi's in the back. She's probably smoking." I quickly inform as I stand up and brush my knees. The paper ball was accompanied by a handful of sharpened pencil skin.

My palm is being pierced.

"Wet floor?"
"Yeah." I answer as I catch a peak of the door. The distance between the two cubicles has been escalated to a mile.

Perspective is playing its cruel trick on me.

"Oh, I didn't realize it's 5." Her abdomen is now illuminated since she is standing up and because of the midget lamp on the table, certain parts of her tall figure is now becoming bright.

"Aawh!" The rough, tired silhouette is throwing her arms up, yawning.

I can see a stuffed edge of a brown shirt pulling away from the tucked creases of her pants.

I avert my eyes quickly to miss the rare sighting of an unfortunate belly button.

"I think I'll pack my garbage up. Now seems like a time." I waste a series of doubtful moments to wonder if I should reply with an affirmative grunt..

She leans over the table in search for something in the dark and the dim background of the window holds the shadow of a hand, reaching for an invisible grip.

"Oh, shit!" I hear a knee making unintentional contact with the wooden desk which is instantly followed by multiple thumps of books landing a suicidal fall.

There's the last sight of Ms. Free Hand Writing's contour before the lamp tilts to an unhealthy axis.

I cannot even complete the facial expression to express my deep concern of the materialistic things before the light shuns out.

She has disappeared from the side of the blurred window.

I'm sitting in utter silence, clutching on to the ruffled up carpet with my hands formed into a claws.

This is a prime horror scene where the character, especially not an important one, finds himself in the dark, unaware about the monster which is comfortably lurking in the corner and ticking the stopwatch to the exact moment of pounce.

"Hello, Mr. Blue." The overhead fluorescent tube shoots its ungodly rays in over the whole ream with a thin buzzing announcement.

"Whoa gawd!" I yell, quickly wrapping my arms around the dust basket with its metal hinges digging deep into the supple meat of my fingertips.

Ms. Free Hand and Writing is posing her front in a violent forward lean, as her face broadcasts a cruel, humorous smirk.

In the thrill of the moment, I expect her mouth to open, displaying a long row of inhuman, canines and a tongue slurping in her mouth as she bites a huge chunk of my neck away.

"Wahahahah!" It sounds more of a war cry than a laughter but her face proves me otherwise since the cheeks are spread to her ears, the skin above her lips have turned a meaty red and her eyes are squinted as she continues the booming laughter and swoons from sides.

Even though I'm not at all religious, I'm praying for Mrs. Jordi to be my savior since Jesus isn't available.

"Oh, God!" She advances on with the cackle as her body breaks around her waist and jauntily slumps down on the carpet, a few feet beside me.

Her chest is rising up and down faster than a motorcycle piston in full speed. The reds around her lips have been promoted to spread across her face.

Momentarily, I feel concerned about the fact that, this laughing feet could cause a seizure, retracting the bronchus of her lungs to such a small gap that the inhaled air cannot reach to the bottom; creating a proper case for suffocation.

I know the presence of my father is affecting me because my mind is presenting me with medical facts and "Know whys" .

"Are you. . . You! Oh gawd! You should have seen your face. God! I wish I had a camera!" Her laughing feet is coming to the last conclusive notes as she steadies herself on the carpet.

I continue to look petrified, still clamping the basket to my side and hoping to be safe by the leftover garbage's undiscovered magical powers.

"You shoulda' seen your face!"

"Hey, are you alright? You look--" She mumbles and without consent, crosses the gap between us to prod me on my knees.

"I'm . . just. Let me--" I huff the air and try not to look like a Greek Statue.

I quickly imagine myself as one of many Greek Gods in its vast mythology.

I would be 'Freisuis, the Jumpscared'. Historians will always remember me as a cautionary tale and the moral of the story will be, 'Never let your guard down in Blue Ridge because some woman possesses illegal teleportation powers.'

I wonder if her teleportation gene is hereditary.

"Do you have a heart condition?" She inquires as she gets up and dusts the rumpled creases of her brown over-worn Gabardine pants where the dust mites are stacked as a Polka Dot pattern on her knees.

"I might now. Or in the future." I answer sharply, then instantly regret it since her smile is replaced by a sudden stop in expression.

The effect of the remark lasts no longer than it takes to say "One" and the snicker of her lips returns again.

"I'm sorry. I really am." She apologizes, chuckling.

I don't think this apology is authentic.

"You don't look . ." I start but tastes hindrance as she speaks again.

"I just couldn't help myself. You looked so--" she gestures to the air to receive a word. Her eye brows are having a quick argument between themselves about finding an appropriate adjective for the blank space.

"So. . in place. I'm sorry." She gazes at me for a reply.

"You can let go of the bin, if you want." She points to the side and the muffled pain of snatching onto the metal linings make a return.

Unlike my father, I like the thrill of being scared since the psychology of the human mind catapults the body into overdrive, thinking it is in fatal danger. Heart beat increases and so does respiration since the whole system of your meat and bony carriage is trying the very best to elongate its expiration date from death.

Higher blood flow, most of the time secretes serotonin.

I'm already happy enough to hand an admiration to her for the benefit of my mental health.

"So, Mr. Blue." She starts, reviving from the pause as her hands pick up the knocked over books from the side.

"How's the whole 'Being 16 and on top of teenage hood' going?"

She has called me "Mr. Blue" twice and this distinct pot shot of my belief make me think that she recognizes me.

"How's being 'alive and kicking'?"

I stand up straight and glance around the lining of the desks, shelves, posters on the wall, side tables stacked with pamphlets.

My mind is on autopilot to hide the hideous fact that, I haven't been 'Being alive and 16' since in the past few days I only thought about Dolorous, Jackie, Mum, a little bit of Rommery but she has ceased to be an issue. I tried calling Issac but he hasn't been back in his apartment and the desk clark of the hotel was too stupid to spell the word " Benningham " when I asked for his room's telephone number.

"Good. Fine." I answer as my eyes scan the frail and flayed objects on the book.

A series of fashion and lifestyle magazine are spread across the side of the lower shelf and it catches the eye of the examiner at first because no other book in the room has a cover with an attractive blonde in compromised clothing and too much eye liner.

There's a big, yellow Thesaurus which looks fat enough to produce the boom of the thumping noise and right beside it, the lamp with the wooden body is banked to its side, the white clothed reflectors broken in various creases.

It looks well abused by the owner.

"Which one? Good or fine?" She asks without looking and continues to drag a side bag. The big sized satchel seems to be made of cheap leather. The skin has been roughed up and little patches of lumps have already claimed its place.

It looks like it has metastasized skin tumors.

"Both." I answer with a formal little smile. My lips ache to spread to a convincing radius.

"Well, I hope good or fine is better than your punctuation marks. You got um . . . er. . a B-. Average. Well, slightly above average." She adds as her hand scrapes the remaining of the pamphlets out in the open.

"Oh." I grunt, dumbly.

My mind is already wearing a lab coat with a pencil dangling from its ear as it sits down to anticipate and figure out the probable life choices in the future.

The equation of an average result, Dolorous, Jackie, Mum, Dad, the absence of Issac, Clay and Rommery rushes in like a broken dam.

The narrator of the Dam documentary, who is me, is currently describing that the 'Dam of Frey' has been sturdy for a while but not strong enough for the excess water of the 'Monsoon Adolescence season' .

It is metaphorical. Monsoon Adolescence is a no brainer. The Dam of Frey is a objectified example of my state of mind.

"Well, don't look so sad about it." Her keen voice with a sharp, insulting laughter pokes me back as she whizzes past.

"It's just a fric. . .an useless punctuation test. Not the lottery."

I nod in agreement even though I disagree.

Winning the lottery is a matter of chance. A failure in punctuation hints at someone's skill. Moreover, the lack of it.

"Besides, Mrs. Gideon always makes the first test a bit hard." The sarcastic chuckling makes a return as she coaxes the book onto her hands.

I'm torn between the decision of helping her but at the same time, there's a subtle enjoyment in hearing her talk.

It is giving me the sensation of being important. My self esteem is not on the verge of total domination.

Yet.

"Tougher than usual. You know." She nods, eyeing me a divergence code. I fail to decipher it as I stare dumbly.

The heavy flat of books, script papers are up to her chin. From the outside, it looks like her chest has been replaced by stationary paper and files, like a silly automaton.

"Teachers do that a lot here. Makes them feel superior. Especially Gideon. She's a--"

She tries to camouflage the word "Wench" with the loud beat of paper slapping the desk top.

I sense a juvenile hostility in her words.

It is unusual for teachers to slag off other teachers in this distinctive manner which has something to do with being in the same class of a society. The sense of unity is strong enough to reject any sprouting enmity between teachers.

"Why were you looking for her anyway?" She slumps herself down on the nearby seat. The cushion gives in as the sides of the foam runs away from the middle.

The seating looks intentionally ugly. It's a mix between "New Age Modern Chair" and "Old and Traditional".

A love child of a furniture could not be uglier even if someone tried.

"No, I haven't been."
"Well, you just called out minutes ago. Mrs. Gideon and hello?"

I am momentarily stunned by the level of recall of her absent mind. She slightly reminds me of my mother.

"Oh. I was just. . . not it's not that important really."
"Then why are you sneaking around the teacher's lounge at 5?"

She pouts her lips into a sly manner before it she glazes it back in saliva.

I check around the warm, white atmosphere to find a plausible answer that will give me just enough hint of truth, in the mix of a whole lot of lie to elongate my escape.

The fluorescent light is casting a dull shadow on to the next station, behind the shelves.

I see 'Herman's Hypothesis on Arts and Crafts : The Professional Stage'

'Unger Meinsfret: Corrupted Emotions and other cries for help. Short story compilation'

"I just have some questions about--some things."

Her eyes narrow down. They look like silts of a creepy ventriloquist dummy.

"Like what?"
"Um--I think I'll talk to Mrs. Gideon tomorrow."
"She isn't coming in tomorrow."
"I'll call her then. She's good friends with my mum."
"You don't want to tell me? I'm not as wise as Gideon?"

The slur of her voice is unmistakable.

She stole the words out of my mouth, which I wouldn't say to her.

"It's not that. I don't--think any of that--Ms--?"
"And you forgot my name." She tilts her head to the side, brushing the headrest but not leaning back fully.

This is going in a disastrous way but in retrospect, in a way which is less humiliating than others.

"I'm sorry. I can't remember. It's just--I'm like my mother. I cannot remember names."
"Hmm."
"Well. . Can--I know your name?"
"It's Miss Eden."
"I'm Frey."

I expect for us to follow the rules of social etiquette and engage in the process of shaking hands.

I'm not leaning forward and she's silently refusing me since she slumps beneath her coat.

She says nothing more and in the moment's notice, I can spot that I am being deprived of attention since a torn piece of paper, probably from a notebook hangs between her fingers.

I imagine us in a black and white film. The setting is a traditional train station where I am sitting down on a bench and her skinny silhouette is hovering at the edge of the platform, near the train tracks. It's that moment in the cinema, where I am about to call out to her but I have forgotten her name.

"I'm having some problems at home." I start as I look away from her to the window.

The sun has long ago set and the North Star's identity is being confused from this distance with the blinking lights of a billboard.

I don't know the time but it must be flowing past or near 6. If my father hasn't been home, mum would run down the train stations, tram lines, flipping through the yellow pages of the telephone guide to get hold of the number of bus stations.

Mum often thinks that I am prone to run away, a belief which might have come through social theories in her youth. In actuality, she's melodramatic and seeks excitement.

Sometimes, I think Mum wants me to run away so that she can chase down a bus, smashing the brakes as the back wheels drift to a stop in front of the public transportation, making the bus slow to a halt as she dives out of the window and yells out, "I'll be a better Mum, Frey. Honey, come back."

I'm sorry to say this but I might have inherited my mum's gene of melodrama.

"What kind of problems?" She asks, trying not to look to invested. But I can already tell she is since the cut paper is losing view.

"Actually, it's more of a social one and family."
"Alright." Her hair is flushed back, flowing down with the florescent in her eyes.

I forgot how young she actually is.

"And--um--" I glance around, searching.

Her brown shirt seems comparatively old since there's a loose linings here and there, especially around the corners. The Gabardine has seen better days.

My intrusive gaze succumbs to a stop at her feet. They are bare, deprived of any socks or shoes and just a pair of white toe nails scurrying in the folds of the carpet.

"And?" She swings her index finger as if she is fast forwarding a tape recorder. She's in hunt of the exciting parts and her frustrated gesture is showing me the idea that she wants me to jump straight into the description of things, rather than sail smoothly from the buttery start.

A convincing lie is still AWOL from the privacy of my mind.

I spot a half of a motivational poster, the whole picture with loud, screaming text has been dissected down the middle by a badly placed shelf.

I can only see a few words."Communication is the-"

The poster ends in suspense.

"A friend of mine is addicted to drugs." I begin and for the breathlessness of the words, the sentence trembles right in the middle.

Her posture strengthens. She is leaning up from her droop.

"He's very intelligent--and smart. And has a lot of potential for--to do great things. But he's destroying himself with all this poison. And--"

"And then?" I can make out the strain in her voice, a quick, unmistakable sign of her sudden interest in my affairs.

I lock eyes with Miss Eden from her aggravated pose. The overhead fluorescent is adding a glint of reflection on her brown pupil.

I try to look as hurt and passionate about the problem, as if I have been thinking about it for too long and ended up on the avenue of "No answer".

I try to picture an imaginary image which will really bring out the sensual care in my facial expression.

Dolorous comes into mind without a second wasted.

We are standing on the back door of Jackie's kitchen and the mood in the air has become heavy since she just told me that tomorrow morning she would have to drive back all the way to Birmingham. She had scribbled down her address, a fax number only for emergencies and a telephone digits with distinct instructions about only calling only on Friday afternoons.

The dust mites in the air, with the mixed scent of an autumn's leaves are drawing us closer than we ever were, in reality. I know it's a daydream because perfectly, just like the night before, as the screeching sound of cycle's chain nooks the air, I grab her hand and before any of us could make a smitten sound of grunt, we are touching lips.

I can taste the excess of lemon in her lips as Dolorous stands on the top stair where the plaster has dusted off from the door frame and I am standing in the middle stoned step.

According to my memory, Dolorous is a couple of inches taller than me.

This is most definitely a daydream.

It's working since the portrait of an alert Miss Eden is now getting blurred, like the outside of a musty window.

My performance is literally moving.

"Is it serious?" The blurred, brown topped silhouette is shooting away from the hideous looking chair which has increased in ugliness, even in my teary state.

"It is. . . and it's getting out of hand."
"Does his or her parents know about this?"
"They don't care. His dad is a doctor and--he stays away from home, most of the time."

She snaps the second of my breath to utter something quickly, preferably a cuss word but its inaudibility creates a dull mysticism.

"And his mom--um--she's great. She's very passionate about her work. But--her work--she's too busy to spend any time with him at all. I tried to--"
"Why does she do, actually? That's so important than her precious child?"
"He's Gerald. We are friends till 4th grade." I am tiptoeing, walking aside the landmine that is her question.

There's a pause in the air. We are both examining what to say next.

"Doesn't he listen to you? If you have been friends for long?"
"He does. But he's alone most of the time and he cannot help it. He's--I tried to make him sit down with the school councilor but he didn't."

"That's a no brainer." She exhausts and the puffed cheeks damp down as we hold the gaze of wordless worries.

My eyes have been cleared off tears, thanks to my lashes which have been closing and opening, like a window wiper and cleared out the glass.

Miss Eden looks far prettier when my vision isn't of a 80 year old.

"Gerald's a good kid. If he goes on, I mean--"
"What's he on?" She asks, abruptly as she finishes her work at the face of the window.

There is no North Star in the sky and the mistake light in the distance is just appointed on the edge of the middle market to ensure brightness on the Insurance Ad on the billboard.

"Um--what?"
"What does he take? Is it just cigarettes or something heavy or drinking?" She gestures and slices the thin air into multiple choices.

I stare at her rough damp shadow in the window pane.

It looks equally distressed.

"Elvis Ridge. He goes there from time to time, especially alone."
"Oh." She plops the word down.

A word like Elvis Ridge is a thing of power.

"Support groups?"

"Hmm?" I grunt. My eyebrows are stuck to the exclamatory pose of being worried.

The Gerald which is constant in my mind, has become more than a name.

He has a mother who spends more time with her own, solicited passion; a father who's attention is only dropped like a monthly charity.

Imagination is a wonderfully scary thing.

"He can get into support groups. They do work because everyone there is either fu--screwed up at a same level or more. Most of the time, more."

Her smile is a simper of understanding.

I think, in the process of making her feel important with the tale of a faceless, address less Gerald; I have baited her into the deep end.

"I don't know if that will work--"
"Not with that attitude." She snaps the sentence as the tumor, rough skinned bag clutches around her shoulder, dangling near the waist.

"Can you teach me how to be scary? To scare him?"
"Scary?" She's kneeling down to snatch something out of the long, stuffed bundle.

The tower withers slightly in hesitant movement but she practices ignorance with great confidence as she walks out of the door.

I follow suit.

She's the model of power since she has something of a fix for Gerald.

"What you need is fancy words and what his parents need is this." The fluorescent light blinks off and without bumping into anything, she finds her way to the hall.

The only active light is near the reception desk where the artificially straightened hair of Jordi is sliding down from her sides.

The Pamphlet reads as follows :

"Premature Teenage Drug Abuse : What is happening and what you are doing wrong."

The background is lively green, rather than a hopeless blue, in-confident Brown, grim dark or chirpy Orange. The shades of green is resting somewhat in between.

Despite of reading it thoroughly, I can tell that whoever wrote this or performed the effort of deciding the font, really knows a thing or two about perforating the sadness and guilt out of something too strong and damned like addiction.

I already feel cleansed, reading the first few lines.

"It's well written."
"One of my friends wrote this. From the front to the back."
"Props to her."
"Him." She corrects me as her shoes quack a squeaky beat on the checkered floor of the entrance.

Even though she is walking smoothly and the nimbleness of her actions has a hint of anxiety in it.

Her hand is closing and opening before squishing an imaginary rubber band ball in her palms.

I follow her to the parking lot since the conversation silently points to the absence of an introduction.

The words from her appear after the plastic red van chirps to life in the back.

"I hope his parents are not as shit as this car." She booms her voice and it bounces off of the wall, declaring the stillness of the vacant parking lot.

"It's not half bad."
"Yes, not half. It's fully crap. I call it 'The Shit Mobile'."

The exchange of loud replies stop as the car engine finally realizes its job and groans to life as the key screws in the jack.

The car rolls down to the concrete sidewalk of the nearby hall.

"You might have to be the responsible one if his parents are blind as bats."

Bats are not blind. It's a common misconception that was spread because of their ability to use frequency to locate objects.

"You think this will work?"
"I dunno. There's no guaranteed success rate but it's better than doing nothing, isn't it?"
"I guess."
"You seem like a good kid. Hope this Gerald is worth it."

Gerald is a compilation of everything that is wrong with each one of us.

Lack of parental affection is shared by Jackie and me. Teenage drinking is Harvey's game. Loss of character and self, is leaning towards Clay.

"Thanks. For this. I'm sorry if I was--was for forgetting your name before, Miss Eden."
"I'm sorry, too. For not having a camera to take your pant pooping face."

I nod with an embarrassed smile. I'm already better at pulling the certain face that sits between 'Being Humble and hopeful'.

She isn't wearing her seat belt.