“Rhianna Albania! Please pay attention to the lesson,” Mrs. Sawyers said, snapping me out of my daze. I sat up in my seat and looked at my paper, “Yes, ma’am,” I said, sarcasm laced my voice. The page was full of small drawings that any Arter would be proud of instead of the essay I should be writing.
After the class was over, I walked out to the yard. The boys threw balls around, and the girls sat in groups, giggling while talking about and gazing at the boys. I never belonged in any group.
I walked towards the school wall I normally sat near when my friends, Tangerine and Toadstool, are not at school. My thoughts wandered, wondering if my mother ever acted like the girls in my school, or if my father was ever athletic. No, I chide myself, stop going down that path. The end of it is ugly.
I sat on a fallen log next to the wall. And then I saw a mark that to anyone else looked like the rest of the proclamations of love, but to me, it reminded me I was parentless, a mere orphan. It was a mark my parents left: a heart saying,
BB
+
RA
4ever
I knew it was my parents. The only thing I knew about them was their names and what they looked like. I didn’t know who they were as people. I didn’t know their love. I know nothing of them.
My thoughts fell loose when I looked at my fist in the wall right where the mark had been. I hear the gasps and shouts of both guys and girls from behind me.
I feel a hand on my shoulder and I pull my hand away from the wall. I looked back to see Mr. Macher, the principal. I stare up at him, “Mr. Macher, I- I- I am so s-” I start getting cut off by him saying in a low menacing voice, “Ms. Albania. My office. Now.”
We enter his office and he starts off right as the door closes. “What the hell was your fist doing in a wall?” “I honestly don’t know, sir,” I say as a chill worked its way up my spine. “BULL SHIT,” he yelled, “Rihanna, I knew your parents. Neither of them were from the Mighter realm.” I shook my head, “I don’t know shit, sir.”
Mr. Macher ran a hand down his face, “Just go Ms. Albania. Go home!”
I leave his office. I go to the orphanage. When I opened the door, I heard Ms. Harren yell, “Rihanna, you’re late. You know it’s you who cooks.”
“Yes, Ms. Harren,” I said as I walked to the kitchen. I look through the cabinets and the fridge. I get to work on making food for 10 people. I ended up making tacos. I used magik to set the table.
I used my magik to boost my voice throughout the orphanage, “Hey guys come eat.” At that moment, 8 yelling kids, all 17 or younger, burst into the dining room. Ms. Harren walked in last. She clobbed me in the ear, “Rihanna, we’ve talked about the use of magik in this orphanage. But I will excuse you this once. Only because of what happened at school today.”
I sighed, “Yes, Ms. Harren.” After dinner, I got permission to leave the orphanage grounds to go to the park and work on a project. I got to the park and went to my favorite tree, a small cherry blossom tree with branches that hide anything under it.
This was the tree that my parents met under. The only reason I know was a story someone once told me. My mother was sitting under the tree when my father heard the faint sound of her crying. He had walked closer, only to see my mother as a 14 year old girl with a black eye and busted lip. My father coaxed her out from the tree and took her to his house to clean up her eye and lip. From then on, they were said to be inseparable.
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