#heather 1989

yeah i wanted my lovely veronica to be referenced but i could not find a good way to... but i really like the hand in the middle picture... sigh...

CHAPTER ONE : I Can't See Much of a Future

11AM in Sherwood, Ohio, so 4PM back home, and you were watching ever-so-painfully as the classroom clock ticked down to 12, when you could escape around back with a mediocre American sandwich from the cafeteria and your copy of Sylvia Plath’s Ariel to fuel your lamenting. Sure, this quick dip across the pond (as it was first proposed to you) has helped your family financially, that couldn’t be denied, but God, did it make you lonely. Last July, you were ever-so-politely begged to accompany your twenty-five year-old brother to his exciting yet confidential new science job for a few weeks while your parents ‘sorted something out’, but then the weeks turned into months and now you are approaching your 6th month in redneck America with excruciating lethargy.

Sure, you made friends, but you’ve had it up to here with them; with the only name people use for you being ‘Redcoat’, with constantly being asked if you want tea, with incessant comments about British girls being more ‘polite in bed’ than American ones from two certain jocks who you are far too dignified to name. You’re smart, yes, but you find it hard not to be when comparing the two school systems you have been enslaved to, and pretty, apparently, but you’re unsure if that is just due to the novelty of your nationality messing with people’s heads. Despite your personal qualities and the privileges they bring, you know that you hate it here.

So, once you step outside that classroom, you go through the motions. Your most often-seen acquaintance, Ivy, immediately pounces on you, fresh off a period of smoking in the third floor girls’ toilets, and bombards you with news of a ‘rad party’ the weekend coming, and asks where you got your lipstick before deciding it must be from ‘one of those London brands’. You are not from London. However, you have tried to play upon people’s assumptions, and have adopted a far posher accent than usual to quell any commotion surrounding the fact that England does in fact, have a North. Then, two unfortunately familiar boys, towering proud in their letterman jackets, approach you, their chests puffed out in a manner that you can only relate to birds during mating season. They ask you your plans for the weekend, with a barely understandable guffaw lacing their tone. Upon being told that they’ll have to ‘wait and see’, they admonish you for being ‘such a tease’ and in turn, ‘so British’ and move on to a girl far less world-weary and far more susceptible to their advances. Ivy grabs you by the arm and pulls you around the corner, into an empty classroom far from other people’s prying ears.

“I, personally, cannot ‘wait and see’. My entire schedule this week revolves around who will be where, when, and I cannot deal with showing at that party and not having anyone to tell Kurt and Ram to ‘shove off’.”

Each time she quotes you, she does so in a cheap imitation of your accent, and you find plenty of opportunity to roll your eyes. Desperately putting off the decision, as it will inevitably be to go somewhere where you’d prefer to be six feet underground, you decide to laugh at her.

“Why have you dragged me into an empty classroom, Ivy? Planning something nefarious?”

It’s her turn to roll her eyes, now.

“It’s because I’m your friend, and I know you like to do the whole aloof British girl shtick around the boys, so I’ll help you preserve your image, but, God, do I need an answer.”

You sigh.

“Imminently?” You try.

She nods once, determined.

“Imminently.”

You sigh, and turn your head away from her to hide your disappointment, as you were honestly planning on staying in this Saturday and watching Doctor Who on that illegal, pirate TV channel you’d found that somehow manages to hijack the BBC signals right to your home television. You suppose you will have to wait until it is released on VHS.

“Look, unless something comes up, I’ll come. Can’t have you facing those big, mean boys all by yourself, can I?”

When you finish, she envelops you in a hug, resting her head on your shoulder and wrapping her arms so tightly around you that you earnestly cannot breathe for a few seconds. In these seconds, your slightly oxygen-starved brain surveys her, and you honestly don’t know how she survived without you: she’s petite, crudely so, her head barely reaching your neck in the hug despite your lacklustre height of around 5”6; she’s all curves and no edges, wrapped up in whatever Madonna was wearing last week and most worryingly, every emotion she experiences is immediately on her face as if you were watching some sort of hammy pantomime. You feel as if you must go to the party on Saturday, only to bring all the attention and undressing eyes off her.

Still clinging to you like some sort of overgrown toddler, she whines, pouting.

“What would come up that would make you leave me all alone?”

You laugh slightly at the carping, high pitch of her voice and you murmur something not truly thought out, just something to make sure you don’t develop tinnitus.

“I don’t know, if a guy asks me out or something.”

She pulls away from you and her face quite literally glows, as if she is being lit from behind.

“Is there a guy who would ask you out? If so, I need to meet him.”

You laugh truly now, if not slightly incredulously.

“You’re not my mother, Ivy. Plus, there isn't even a guy! That was a hypothetical!”

She hums, shaking her head vigorously.

“I’ll get to the bottom of this, Redcoat, just you see.”

Just like that, she bounds through the classroom door, a blur of a low-cut shirt and tight black trousers, leaving you all alone, surveying the ‘ALGEBRA IS FUN!’ poster of the classroom that you now know contains maths lessons. Irritated, you correct your inner monologue that you have to say ‘math’ now (why - it’s not mathematic, is it?) and calmly debate grabbing some food. Twelve to twelve-twenty is Kurt and Ram’s demon time, and although their torment isn’t enacted on you in such an obvious way, you find it incredibly difficult to sit through the literal bullying of random, helpless American kids and act like you find it funny. It is slightly, but your fun ends when you remember that these aren’t cartoon characters from the American TV shows and instead actual, real-life kids. So, you decide that your best train of thought is to pull out Ariel, which you cling to like a security blanket and paw feverishly to one of your tabbed and wildly annotated pages and read Lady Lazarus, whispering the lyrical lines to yourself like some sort of maddened prayer to an ancient Goddess. You’ll grab some food at some point, you decide.

Around the last couple of verse paragraphs, sometime about the commanding of ‘Herr God’ and ‘Herr Lucifer’, you hear a dry voice leering near the previously unopened door.

“Sylvie, huh?”

You look up to see a teenage boy, his gaunt yet lanky frame cloaked in a deep black trenchcoat, fluffy, tawny fringe nearly covering his eyes, which you can vaguely see are a dark brown, seemingly containing multitudes. Immediately, something seems wrong about him. Unfortunately, this only intrigues you more and you decide to amuse him.

“Mhm, she’s my patron poet.”

He takes this opportunity to stride forward, his pace not suggesting he’s aware that he’s intruding, letting the door swing then slam behind him. His face doesn’t even react to your accent. He doesn’t give away much, actually, just simply nodding his head in response and vaguely smirking as he comes over. He slides onto the desk facing the one you’ve claimed as your seat and his intent gaze implies that you cannot just flip over to Tulips.

“I’m new”, he says, “I’ve been told to find the registry office, yet never been told where the registry office actually is.”

You sigh, in a performative manner that is unusual for you and slide Ariel back into your backpack.

“Follow me. I arrived in September, so I’m pretty sure the way is still in my memory.” You trail off for a moment, but when the boy barely replies, only mirroring you by propelling himself off the desk, you say more. “I’m not from around here.”

He laughs slightly at this, as you can hear a slight, dry chuckle from behind you.

“Somehow, I could tell. Hey, if it makes you feel any better, I’m not from around these parts either.”

Due to your place of origin, you can’t distinguish different American accents apart, unless those accents are rootin’ tootin' cowboy or valley girl, so you are genuinely shocked by this reveal, and you think the boy can tell, as that endearingly miniscule laugh repeats itself.

“I couldn’t have guessed,” You beam, before shock settles on your body and you whip your head around. “God, I have been so rude. I’m Evelyn.”

He makes an attempt at a polite smile, and only says: “Nice to meet you, Evelyn.”

Silently, you continue walking.

Trying to shake off your slight horror at his unwritten-rule-breaking behaviour of not sharing his name in return, you try to make yet another quip.

“I still don’t know why they need another office just for admissions. Surely, they could just use the regular one.”

You cast your eyes behind you, careful not to slow your stride, but you notice that he’s not even smiling, instead, his lips flatten into a straight line.

“They’d get overloaded, Evelyn. Highschool makes kids crazy: they quit, they die, they kill themselves, whatever. Then, another worker drone comes to take their place - rinse and repeat. If you aren’t pulling your hair out by now, you’re stronger than most.”

You, to be completely frank, are stunned. Unsure about whether that was even a joke or not, you let out a muffled, half-laugh before deciding that being candid is your best bet to keep this conversation afloat.

“I’m just waiting to get on that plane back home, to be honest. I was only meant to be here for a few weeks, then the weeks turned into months and then… I don’t know.” You trail off, slightly taken aback at how honest you are around him.

It wasn’t too long ago that you decided that who you are at school is a front, a character to pull you through. Now here you are, expressing actual emotions and being an actual person in front of a literal stranger who you don’t even know the name of.

You turn fully around now, meeting him in the eyes and you notice that he is fully considering your statement, his eyes not even meeting yours, instead unwavering straight ahead.

Suddenly, he speaks.

“I want to get out, too. I think everyone does, really.”

This lulls you into a rather placid silence, you somewhat cocooned with the revelation that you think, deep down, you already knew. Keeping up a steady pace, you soon reach the registry office and the boy begins to leave you, turning his back. You hear your voice escaping your mouth before you even realise you’re speaking.

“Will I be seeing you around?” Your voice sounds distant, yet hopeful.

Swivelling to face you, he smiles in a way that is actually genuine, in a tone which is the lightest you’ve ever heard from him, you hear:

“Hopefully.”

And then he is gone.