August 30. Wednesday. 7:34 a.m.

Daddy made a big breakfast this morning before gathering his things and hugging me goodbye. He had to catch his train; he's going away on important business and he won't be back till late September.

   It's no fun eating breakfast alone in a modestly sized house, so I take a couple pancakes with me on my walk to school. Leaves have already started falling off the trees even though summer hasn't quite ended, and the sky is a clear, brilliant blue. Normally I only get to make these observations from the high window of the study at my private school, but I don't get to go there anymore. I have to go to public school like everyone else. And I am walking, because I don't like trains and I don't trust the busing system.

   Daddy says I'm sure to meet some kids I'll like. I really doubt it; nobody I ever met ever liked me. I wonder why he doesn't recall what trouble I had in kindergarten and first grade; I was publicly schooled then, and always bullied, which is part of the reason he enrolled me in private school instead. He couldn't bear to have me tortured like that.

   Maybe he still remembers, but thinks I'm old enough now that things will be different. I'm not going to hold my breath. It never did me any good.

    The patched, navy blue backpack slams into my spine every time I take a step, rocking back and forth with the force of my stride. Leaves crackle on the pavement throwing bright pops of orange, red and yellow against the gray canvas of my sneakers, and a light breeze threads its way through the hole in the left elbow of my hoodie. The air is sweet and I can't help thinking that I'd rather spend my day out here than inside some massive school building full of people I don't know. It's so beautiful outside. There is a very apparent lack of the usual cold, pressing vibe of this place where everything is always dripping like it just rained, and it always seems to be night. Neon signs reflect off the wet streets, doors are chained closed, parts of the city are forbidden, almost everyone wears leather and trench coats and wonders how they got here. Something isn't coming, it's already gone.

   But today, all that seems inexistent. It's a nice change. Makes me wonder if it will stay this way for awhile. I've lived most of my life and I've barely experienced daylight. Such a shame to waste a day like this going to school.

   Speaking of, I wonder what it looks like. Daddy says I can't miss it; it's the newest, most current piece of architecture around. He says this school is replacing the old one that I went to when I was little. That doesn't make sense, since I wasn't in high school then. Unless they educated everyone in the same massive building. The old school was large, I know that. My private school was in a different, larger city, but worth the travel and boarding. That city wasn't as dark as this one. It was friendlier, more open; a place for tourists. It was convenient for Daddy, too, at least for the longest time. Now, suddenly, it no longer appeals to him. He wants me to stay here in this small, simple town. He wants me to meet people and make friends.

   A little frown flits over my face. I don't think I want any friends. Besides, I can't make friends if no one likes me, and I especially can't if I don't like them to begin with. And how does one make friends, anyway? I hate imposing myself upon people. I made that mistake by talking about my ukulele to a girl at the private school who boarded near me, hoping I had found a friend in her, but she was weirded out and needless to say, we never spoke again.

   People are bewildered by my passionate nature. That's just the truth of the matter. It's hard to make friends, and that's not to say that I haven't tried, because I have. Many times. It's just that in recent years I gave up trying to be friends. I have no use for people who have no compassion and no time for anything that isn't stupid.

   The frown on my face grows a little darker. I look around, not seeing the building. There are other buildings, sure; ones I'm familiar with from doing errands with Daddy. Stores, eateries...but no schools.

   Maybe the education district is after the shopping one. I'm not familiar with the town's layout because I tend to stay at home. That's partially my choice, and partially my dad's. This town isn't really the best place for a girl my age to be hanging out on my own. Not to say I can't take care of myself, as I'm very capable, but Daddy has his concerns and I honestly have never felt need to argue with him on this issue. I was raised to be a homebody; never pushed to do anything I really didn't want to do. Perhaps it spoiled me, but at least I am easily amused and have a strong imagination to keep myself occupied.

   Two darkly attired boys pass me on the street. The shorter, thinner one has a bluish tone to his black hair. I wouldn't have noticed if the sun hadn't hit it just so. His taller, stronger-looking friend has black hair as well, and a long black and white striped scarf is wound about his neck. They both carry an instrument case of some sort, and backpacks on their shoulders, so I know they must be headed to school. After all, they're clearly too young to be living on their own just yet, but in a city like this, I suppose anything is possible. Maybe they're musicians who've got a gig.

   They look about my age. Maybe I can ask them where the school is.

   Nah, that's stupid. I'm the daughter of a very prominent military figure; I should be able to find my way to school without asking a pair of emo boys how to get there.

   The thinner one notices me as I almost pass them, glancing up through his shaggy blue-black hair and smirking pleasantly. I thought emos were supposed to be sad. Something about it makes me warm inside, like we have something in common. It's weird and I drop back a few paces, trying to tell myself that I don't need to pay attention to anyone; I don't need to give anyone a chance, especially a weird-looking emo kid. If my eyes are seeing correctly, he's got two rings in his bottom lip and it looks as though his ears may be pierced as well. Disgusting. What respectable person would walk around looking like that? None that I ever met, and despite my sheltered past, I've known plenty of people in my life. I don't know where they are now. I used to have friends. They're gone.

   For whatever reason, I decide not to keep too far behind in case the emo boys are going the same place as me. As it turns out, my hunch is correct, and they lead me to the school. When I see it, my heart sinks. I wasn't expecting it to be this big. This must be where all the tax money goes, since nothing else in the city looks quite as modern and expensive-except maybe the banks, but even they aren't as intense as this.

   Stretching like a rectangular bullet into the air, the school building is tall and gray with sleek windows and paneling. It also appears to be solar-powered. I wonder how they arranged that. Most of our power comes from trash-conversion facilities just on the outskirts of the state, because we don't get enough sunlight to realistically sustain an entire city.

   Several kids my age or a couple years older are flocking into the building. Concrete steps with iron railings lead up to the double glass entrance doors. Ahead of me, the black-blue-haired kid has been humming a song that sounds oddly familiar. I'm surprised to hear it, because I've never heard anyone sing it before. At least in public.

   Once again, I feel this connection, but I try to fight it. By the time I've entered that monstrous, terrifying building, I've convinced myself not to give anyone here a chance—especially since they have security checks the minute you enter. Can't get to class unless you clear the checkpoint.

   I'm not quite sure what to do, especially since I've never had to do such a thing in my life—my father's military status always ensured my clearance anytime we traveled, which was seldom. Tentatively holding my backpack by one strap, I linger near the inspection tables, watching other students place their bags in boxes to be searched through by the security guards posted there. One of the guards isn't posted to check through bags, and notices me hanging back. He is kindly and young and reminds me of my late brother Ian, who was a soldier like my father. This man approaches me and stoops to look me in the eye. "May I see your citizen ID, please?"

   "Uh-sure, yeah," I stammer, fumbling for the card that hangs from my backpack in a little tag-like sleeve. I hand it to him and he smiles, studying it closely, ensuring it matches my physical appearance. Satisfied, he gives it back. "You're good to go."

   Catching the blue-haired kid by the shoulder, the guard speaks again, in a low voice that I'm assuming I'm not supposed to hear, but I hear it anyhow. "Adam. I'd like you to be a buddy for this girl. She's new here and doesn't know what to do."

   The kid flips the hair out of his face, briefly revealing large, soulful hazel eyes. He mutters something to the guard, who nods and responds seriously, clearly determined that this kid be my guide.

   Eventually the kid gives in, he and the guard stepping near. The guard introduces us. I respond promptly and quietly, the way I was always taught, and Adam kindly offers to assist me during my backpack inspection.

   "So, you're new here, huh?" He asks, the minute I get my things back and we go through another set of doors.

   I nod silently and notice that we are not heading down the main hall with everyone else.

   "Where are we going?" I inquire.

   "You have to go to the office," he explains. "Everyone has to when they're new. You have to register."

   "Oh." For some reason the thought unsettles me, even though I went through a similar process at my private school when I was first enrolled there.

   "Then you have to take a short examination. That'll determine what grade they place you in, and whose classes you'll attend. The schedules will come out by next week. This first day is basically just an orientation day for everybody. Happens every year. Basically we're here to preview the place and get acquainted with everything and everyone. It's pretty chill for the most part, so you don't have to worry about homework or anything like that. It's just a chance for students to get a feel for their classes and the teachers and it will determine our schedules. After today, we won't be back until next Monday. That's when the term actually begins."

   I just stare at my feet as we walk, hoping not to seem rude. I'll be honest that I'm curious about him. I'm just not sure if my dad would approve of me befriending such a person, or vice-versa. Dad's strict about the kind of company I keep, which is one reason I'm never going out of my way to meet new friends. It just seems like too much effort for what almost always seems to be a negative impression on his part. One thing's for sure, he's always been more accepting of my female acquaintances, so I'm not sure how he'd handle it if I befriended a guy. Likely it wouldn't go over too well.

   "Am I talking too much?" Adam looks at me apologetically, and I force myself to focus on the moment and hold eye contact.

    "If I am, don't mind me," he goes on. "It's just something I do. Something I'm working on. Not very easy. A lot goes on in this head of mine, and you're easy to talk to." He taps his skull and smirks. It's a saucy expression that makes a smile inadvertently break across my own face.

   That smirk almost makes me ignore the two lip rings. It seems to be his natural expression. Right away, I've begun picking up on certain quirks of his, like the way he occasionally plays with the plugs in his earlobes—something I'm certain he's not very conscious of, given his apparent laid-back daydreamer nature. It's kind of endearing, in a way. He's chatty, and it's odd for him to say I'm easy to talk to when we've just met, but he doesn't make me uncomfortable. He's also very good at explaining things. Not many people can try telling me how things work and make it make sense to me.

   In the office, he introduces me to the secretary and waits patiently as I give her my information and take the brief exam. I stand beside him as we wait for my results, but when she prints the paper off, the phone on her desk rings. She answers it, exchanges a few words with the person on the other end, then hangs up and instead of handing me the paper, she gives it to Adam. He takes it with a smile, and the woman dismisses us.

   "Let me see," I beg, trying to glimpse the paper. "They're my results. Why did she give them to you?"

   "Because I'm supposed to be your buddy," he explains, inadvertently twisting at the plug in his right earlobe. "It's my job to take care of you."

   Like the remark about me being easy to talk to, the words sound funny coming from someone I've just met. But as I have no response there's no choice but to leave the matter alone.

   "Here's your locker. Number 179." He gestures to a silver, vented panel on one of the walls.

   "Cool. Where's yours?"

   He wanders up the hall quite a ways. "Over here someplace. I'll show it to you later. Right now we need to go to the science room."

   "Okay. Shouldn't I put my things away?"

   "Nope. Keep your backpack with you. We're not actually learning anything today. We're just getting adjusted."

   "Oh. Yeah. You told me that."

   "I know." He smiles, leading me through a series of halls to catch up with what must be our class.

^ ^ ^

   The afternoon goes by quickly as we drift from room to room, meeting teachers and getting acquainted with the building itself. Adam introduces me to Dylan, his best friend; the companion I saw him with on the walk to school this morning. Dylan is a shy eighteen-year-old asthmatic. He and Adam look nearly identical, only Dylan is taller, more built, has blue eyes and shorter, almost fluffy black hair. Adam has nicknamed him "the pickle" simply because Dylan's name reminds him of dill pickles.

   It seems out of the blue to mention Dylan's nickname and asthma, but Dylan doesn't seem to mind and Adam quietly explains to me that he just felt a need to tell me, since he was my buddy and all.

   We eat lunch in the cafeteria, where Dylan leaves us for the remainder of the day. We explore the library and the study hall, receive tours of the gym and explore the outdoor grounds. Through it all, Adam and I engage in snippets of conversation, quickly discovering that we share many similar interests-we even like the same genres of music and the same types of books.

   As we leave the lockers and make our way out of the building, Adam glances at me and asks, "So...four-day weekend. What're you gonna do with yourself?"

   I shrug. "Probably write something, play with my cat, maybe throw in a little reading or drawing. Or I'll just play my uke." The minute the word comes out, I reprimand myself for using the short name. It doesn't sound right, somehow, saying it out loud.

   He appears impressed, as I can see excitement in his hazel eyes.

   "You have a cat," he almost whispers reverently. Then, louder, "You play the uke?!"

   "Uh, yeah..." I rub the back of my neck shyly. Talking about my musical passions always makes me awkward. Oftentimes most people can't relate or they just don't get it.

   He grins. "That's awesome! I play pretty much everything there is to play, but the guitar is my instrumental soulmate. We should have a jam session together sometime."

   "I'm not that good," I shrug bashfully, rubbing my left arm and looking down at my shoes, knowing my words are not true. Ian always praised my playing. Said I was naturally gifted.

   "That tells me you must be decent," Adam mutters, eyebrows raised seriously. "If you ever feel up to it, just let me know. We can line something up. I'm always down for music. What's your cat's name, if I may ask?"

   "Her name is Mackerel. I called her that cuz she's a silver tabby."

   "Bet she's pretty. My cat's name is Pickwe. He's not a silver tabby." He wrinkles his nose playfully, as if he thinks what he said is funny. "Pickwe's just a fluffy black kitten with the biggest greenest eyes on the planet. And the best purr, too." He stops at a small hollow leading down into the forest, branching off the main walkway. "Well. This is where we part ways. See you around?"

   "Sure. Um. Thanks for showing me around and all that."

   His smirk is so graceful and calm, yet packed with so much mischievous, free-spirited energy one can't help but smile back. "No problem." And with a light wave, he turns and heads into the woods.

   "See ya', Adam," I call after him. He glances back with a smile, then continues walking.

   Taking a deep breath, wondering why I feel so empty and alone all of a sudden, I force my feet to keep moving toward home. But there's a little happiness inside me, and a tiny reassuring thought bounces brightly in my mind: I think I've made a friend. And I didn't even have to try. It basically just happened. And that's pretty awesome.

   Smiling a little, trying to ignore the hole I'm feeling inside me, I pick up my pace and eventually make it home. The place is quiet and lifeless, as Mackerel must be outside hunting, but that is just fine with me. I take my ukulele out of its case, out of the dresser drawer it's been hiding in for months, tune it and place my song journal open on the floor. Glancing at the lyrics and chords jotted there, I take a deep breath and play my heart out, singing softly because even though I'm alone, singing has always made me nervous. I'm always wary of being heard. I don't know why. Maybe I'm scared of being good, maybe I'm scared of sounding terrible. Not that it matters if no one hears me. I guess I just want to make sure no one ever does.

   Though the music is coursing in my veins and vibrating my very body—my soul, even—there is still something missing, something hollow inside me that I can't put a finger on. It's been there for years, and for awhile it had almost disappeared today, but now it feels bigger than ever, makes my insides queasy.

   And suddenly I wish it wasn't four days until I can see Adam again.