[DISCLAIMER: NO THIS IS NOT ABOUT CANDY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! D:< roar]

Ame

     "Today we have a new student," Mr. Mushroom announced. He flicked his blackboard pointer to beckon the student into the classroom—he always waved the pointer around like he was conducting an orchestra from Mars. "Her name is Martha Suray [this one's in English order. First name's Martha, last name's Suray]. I hope you will get along with her.” [and uh, in Japan they literally say ‘please take care of me’ when someone’s being introduced, but in English…]

     The new student stepped in, looking slightly uncomfortable in the summer uniform of a cuffed T-shirt, plaid miniskirt, and thigh-length socks [what're they called? if you know, you can leave a comment]. Ame raised his head, more from automatic response than real curiosity, and cast a perfunctory glance at the new object floating towards him. One glance.

     He banged his head onto his desk so hard that the wood cracked sharply. The person sitting in front of him jumped, the only one to have noticed the sudden sound. Ame kept his head down, pressed against the cool, smooth surface. Martha Suray? Raven black hair, wrestled every morning into a semi-neat ponytail, bold face, black eyes. The spitting image of Taharasu Mary [Japanese order, don’t ask I like it that way]. He impulsively shrank into himself as she drew near, hair raised, muscles tensed and cold sweat popping from his palms as the clipping sound of her shoes shrieked right next to him, then relaxed and settled down, relieved, as she passed harmlessly by.

     She sat down directly behind him. He broke into a sweat again, cursing this nightmare. Mr. Mushroom started giving a lecture about class participation (the irony!), droning dully in the back of his mind, and Ame directed his focus entirely on listening to the girl fumble around with the papers she'd been given.

     What devilish situation was his brain plotting against him now? It was rare to have such a realistic dream that wasn’t a memory. There was no question that he would soon be plunged into the ocean again, the dreams and nightmares merged in those icy waters conjured from the blackness of his mind.

     And yet…something in his mouth tasted almost sweet…

Martha

     "Hey, here," the girl sitting to Martha's right whispered, picking up the pencil from where it had rolled onto the tiled floor. “Page 541 in the math book.”

     "Th-thank you.” The shirt was long-sleeved and clung to her skin in the oppressing heat, and to make matters worse the air-conditioning was “out of service.” In other words, the school wasn’t making the best impression. Martha flipped open the book. “Um...this is math period, right?" [i don't like having lots of characters at a time, so "martha's school" consists of only one small classroom, the hall, the school entrance, the field, the gym, the cafeteria, and the pool. :D]

     "Hmm? Yeah, why do you ask?"

     "Oh—well—I…No reason." She let her eyes roll over the alien symbols before her, feeling the numbers and words slide through her vision like water down the drain. Math was never her strong point. "I don’t understand any of this."

     "Oh, don't worry about that. We’re a fun class, and when I can I'll help. But for now," she glanced at the teacher as he cast them a disapproving glare, "let's just listen to what he's saying.”

     Only then did Martha notice the teacher’s eyes on her. She immediately turned to face him, feeling her face grow warmer and sweatier by the second, from what she couldn’t tell. There could be no slacking off as a foreigner to this class, the teacher said with his eyes, as clearly as though the words were written in the air with fire. Her eyes stared up apologetically, and the teacher turned back with the warning still smoldering in his movements.

     Mr. Mushroom.

     She shook her head as if that could shake off the bewildered thoughts draped about her like cobwebs, and decidedly focused on the simple task of absorbing her surroundings. The small classroom was crisp and bare and blindingly white, cubical, with wooden desks. A streamer bordered the ceiling, gold and green like the shining plastic frills on a ballroom dress [do such dresses exist? 0 – 0]. The students all wore the same uniform, starched black and red, and through half-closed eyes the class could have been a box of candy. Her gaze passed over the teacher and the blackboard, was repelled by the geometric signs, and landed among the students in front of her. And landed on the student in front of her.

     Of all things she saw him last, and for all the world she couldn't see why, and she cocked her head slightly in confusion. He wore a dark blue hat over zebra-colored hair and was sprawled on his desk, sleeping. It irked her strangely that she couldn't see his face, wrapped in his arms and the folds of his shirt, shadowed by the baseball cap.

Music Menu

Prelude

Second Dance