Intrigued, I walked out of my office and brought in the next box. An hour later, I still had a question with no answer. Fifty-three books she and her sister had brought in, and of these fifty-three, sixteen of them were signed to ‘The Girl With No Name’.
I thought back to the girl. Her sister had said her name was Atalanta. Perhaps it was one of those poetic things? She felt she did not have a sense of identity, so that was how she saw herself? Teenagers in this day-in-age certainly fancied themselves to be the next John Locke.
But no, perhaps that wasn’t it. That girl had gone through something. It was clear by the way she fidgeted and refused to meet my eyes unless we were discussing these books and her guard was down. The way she stiffened when I called her interesting. Her clothes were in terrible disarray as well.
And then there was the other thing.
Pulling up a mental map of the coast line in my head, I thought back to the night before when I had gone for a swim and had seen lights on one of the cliff sides. Thinking on it, I was certain it was the old Winchester Cabin.
That cabin had been abandoned for years and was sure to be worse for wear. Then, low and behold, the girl I had spotted on the cliff walks right into my library the next morning, full of mysteries and mischievous little smiles.
Curiosity to know more about this girl burned in my center as I stared down at the book she had given me to read, this one too also transcribed to ‘The Girl With No Name.’
One way or another, I would have my answers.
Chapter Four
Jason
The smell of brine and the sound of a seagulls call. Deep ocean currents and shimmering scales. That was the world I grew up in. But here I sat, at this desk, watching a seventy-year-old who could not care less about my education, halfheartedly teach math.
Why did I need math?
Beyond the basics, why would I need to know something like imaginary numbers? It wasn’t real! Unlike me. I was considered an imaginary creature, and I was certainly real. So what did that make these numbers? Were they imaginary or not?
“Mr. Clark, would you care to look up from your book and start paying attention to my lesson?”
I looked over to the kid sitting next to me with his head stuck firmly in a Dungeons and Dragons monster manual. I couldn’t blame him. About ninety percent of the class, including me, had checked out well over twenty minutes ago, but at least we were being discreet about it. When the teacher called his name again, I gently bumped his leg and jerked him out of his reading haze.
He looked over to me in irritation. What had I done? I tilted my head towards the front of the classroom where Mr. Stevens stood glaring at him.
“This is math, not English. Put the book away,” Mr. Stevens scolded.
Disheartened, the kid shoved his book into his backpack and slumped forward, his hands propped up on the desk together to hold his chin.
Unfortunately, that was about the most eventful thing to happen the entire class and probably all day. When the bell rang, I stood, not having to bother with the book bag grab-and-shuffle due to my habit of keeping my messenger bag I had used since freshman year always slung on my shoulder, even during class. Now that I was a senior, the poor thing had seen better days. What was once a dark canvas green was now a sun bleached, faded brown with patches of duct tape in places. It only had a semester left of school, and I had high hopes that it could make it.
Making my way out of the classroom door, I met up with Davie, who had the class across the hall. He was standing with his girlfriend Margo, bickering about something as usual.
“Jason, you can help us with this.” Margo turned to me, not even bothering with a hello.
I rolled my eyes and smiled. “Of course, you know I just love being your arbiter.”
Repositioning my bag as I put on my coat, I turned and made my way with the two of them out of the hall and into the schoolyard. It was really just a fenced-in, crumbling black top with scattered trees and patches of grass now covered and dying in the winter snow. Our school, like our town, wasn’t all that big or well kept. With a population no bigger than the nearby town of Forks, Argos, Washington sported a proud 2,563 people. Most of which were fisherman.
“Davie thinks that the school mascot should be changed to a chipmunk, but I think thats dumb. It should be a dragon!”
“Why a dragon?” I ask, moving to sit at one of the few lunch benches available before it was snatched up.
“Because dragons are cool?” Margo replied, her freckled nose scrunched up, eyes squinted. As if dragons being cool were the obvious answer.
Davie’s own nose scrunched right back at her causing his glasses to ride up. “Dragons being cool can’t be the only reason to make one the mascot. If we went on those qualifications alone, then lots of things could be the next mascot. Like Superman, or an albino tree!”
“Both of which would be way better than a chipmunk,” Margo shot back.
The both of them joined me on the opposite side of the table, rifling through their bags to pull out their lunches. Strike that, they pulled out their lunches for each other. Once out of the backpacks, the boxes did their daily swap of owners. Despite their constant bickering, Davie and Margo had the sickly adorable habit of making lunch for each other.
“But at least chipmunks are real, and vicious,” Davie said.
I pulled out my own tuna sandwich and commented, “The fact that you think chipmunks are vicious doesn't help your case, Davie.”
“But seriously Jason, as class president,” Margo began, shoving a big bite of what looked like charred salmon in her mouth and then continuing as if she wasn’t eating coal. "It’s up to you to help decide the next mascot. So what’s it going to be? A wimpy chipmunk?”
“Or an imaginary dragon?” Davie retorted, taking bites of perfectly normal looking food.
I had to hand it to Margo, watching her eat Davie’s meals that were overcooked, undercooked—and sometimes both—every day was almost inspiring.
“How about neither?” I chuckled.
Feeling the thirst begin to creep up my throat, I reached back into my bag for my lifeline. I learned from a very young age to never leave home without at least a good liter of water for when the thirst hit. But this bottle was still empty from when I drained it earlier.
“Ah, hold on guys. I have to go fill my water bottle.” I said, standing and shaking the nearly empty bottle.
“Okay, fish,” Davie mocked, with the very uncreative nickname he used to point out how much water I drank.
He wasn’t far off. But if he ever noticed I wasn’t the only one in school, heck in the town, to be practically strapped to a water fountain, he never voiced it.
Taking my bottle and bag, I quickly made my way to the bathrooms inside to fill up before the scorching thirst in my throat became unbearable. Argos’ middle and high school were held in the same large T-shaped building, only separated by floors. The middle schoolers were still in their second floor classrooms while the high schoolers were on their lunch period, so the first floor hallway was deserted as always.
Briskly, I made my way over to the water fountain and began to take large gulps from the pathetic stream of water. Sated, if only for a moment, I filled up the bottle only to feel the need to down it a few moments later. Sighing, I began the slow process of filling the bottle again.