CHPT 4: Her Persona, His Presence....

A long day….

A slowed collection of hours...

And an endless stretch of minutes….

Marco sat in the class for what felt like decades. The fact that he didn't fit in seated desks so irritatingly small didn't help in the slightest. He had discipline– his people demanded it. But he still favored moving and a lack of restriction. The only problem was, everytime he tried moving, somebody near him flinched or the flow of the class was disrupted.

Over time the response faded. But when Mr. Westover began the first section of class, tensions were still wound as tight as his muscles after a stressful nights work.

He settled with letting his eyes move where his body couldn't as he gazed out the large bay style window he sat beside. It's warm rays crashed through the windows and held his face in a warm embrace that was almost reminiscent of home.

Home was gone. And suddenly the feel of the sun wasn't so warm. At least not as warm as what he'd feel the touch of when night falls.

Mr. Westover's voice entered his thought-stream, taking his mind off the pain of the sun.

"Alright everyone. We're still pretty new into the year I'd say….hehe…erhm– so…So, I'd like for us all to practice some group warm-ups. Ice breakers are always g-good. And when an academic twist is applied— it's that much better."

The class met him with silence. Silent enough to hear the winds blowing through the trees outside. Mr. Westover continued.

"Erhm– So, for this ice-breaker we'll split up in groups where you'll be describing the physical characteristics of your partner and seeing what part you can connect to their nationality…..feel free to refer to your textbooks– and for t-those of you with a mixed heritage, you'll only be giving your partner more to work with….more to search for. It should be fun. I think some of you will find that how we've changed and intermingled with other nationalities to change certain aspects throughout history can be quite intriguing…."

"The same can be said for what is retained.." Marco thought to himself.

Mr. Westover stopped to apply a napkin to his perspiring forehead before continuing, "So, n-now that you s-see….. how this loosely relates to a history class, please b-begin. You are free to choose your partners."

In a flash, students jumped to each other like their lives depended on it. The students that rested on the outer fringes of the classroom panicked, rising from their seats and skittering across the room to connect with others like a bunch of rodents.

The chaos was all accompanied by the continued screech of their desks that they brought along with them to form their small two man groups.

As if Marco's ears weren't already stinging.

"A Warthog caught in a snare isn't even this loud…" He growled to himself.

When the sound finally subsided, it seemed everyone had a partner. And he remained– seated at the back of the class. Now more alone than before due to the students all trying their hardest to distance themselves from him by hugging the walls of the small classroom. All except one– who remained at the front of the classroom in her seat.

It seemed he wasn't the only one being viewed through a lens that painted him as "other". How fitting.

Mr. Westover forced a fake smile to mask his discomfort as he addressed the young woman at the front of the class, "Ah perfect! Everyone else's got a partner and has started the ice-breaker….So, Lydia why don't you pair up with Marco at the back for me?"

Lydia remained frozen. From where he watched, it didn't even look like she was facing the teacher. Just frozen.

Mr. Westover noticed, "Hey….Lydia? Hello? Lydia!"

She jumped, the candy colored coils of her shining hair followed her ascent. It took her a moment, but she collected herself, reapplying her simple pretty mean-girl persona and acting as if her mind wasn't just thousands of miles away as she looked around and noticed her circumstances.

"...Fine. I guess I'll work with the new student, since I've been forced into the role of good samaritan." She offered with an annoyed smile.

Mr. Westover watched her with a matching smile twisted by confusion as she got up and approached Marco, loudly dragging her desk along with her, "Hehe….sure thing. Thank you, Lydia."

Marco found the switch in her walk funny again as she held her desk in tow. When she came to a stop opposite him and connected their desks, she dug into her purse and pulled out a handful of cleanex's, placing them on his desk without looking at him.

"Just in case you feel like sneezing again."

He'd never felt a gesture so kind also feel so demeaning, "Thanks, but I won't need it….I'm adjusting to the smell."

Lydia tensed before taking a calming inhale and flipping her strawberry-blonde locks behind her shoulders, "I'm gonna pretend I didn't hear that."

"Mhm." Marco said before picking up his pen that rested in his hand like a chipped sliver of wood and beginning to fill out what he could on his warm up partner, Lydia Martin.

***

Minutes. Once again, so long, so uncomfortable. Now shared with a cynical and arrogant woman who couldn't refrain from casting passive aggressive glances in his direction before continuing to write.

The classroom was still held by hands of horror, making the sound of her quick jottings even louder. Only ever stopping when she looked up at him as if he had a dead animal on his face.

"You know, if you keep looking at me like that this is going to feel like a hate crime very quickly…"

Lydia didn't look up from her paper, settling with shaking her head as she continued to write, "Well…did you know that if you keep violently abusing steroids, your manhood will look about as small as that pen does in your Gorilla hands? Do you even know what a manicure is? How are your nails painted but your hands look like that?"

Personal reasons. That was the only answer she'd ever get for the inky black spread that ran across each of his fingernails. It's pure silver particles that stood out in the blackness shimmered like stars under the sunlight from the window. Just like the sun….another painful memory.

As for his "violent-steroid-abuse build", Marco had tried to hide his bulk with a dark purple zip up hoodie under a leather jacket. An attempt to make himself look realistically puffy and less hard. It seemed his attempt failed.

Lydia pressed onward, "Seriously, what are you on? Test?...Anavar? Dianabol? All three? Whatever it is, your supplier didn't teach you moderation and it's showing." She finished with a forced action of popping her gum before loudly chewing it while she studied her nails.

Marco could have laughed at the bizarre sequence. He had to manage a smile first if he wanted such a response though.

"What?" She said, eyeing him in a demeaning manner once more.

"You're breaking character." Marco replied, deciding to write down the trait he'd missed on Lydia before. Dimples.

"I don't know what you're talking about. And you're breaking my ears with that accent." Lydia retorted.

"You don't know what I'm talking about…." Marco repeated.

"Yep." Lydia said, adding an extra pop to the final letter of her response.

"So….the stereotypical uppity American mean-girl is supposed to know what three different anabolic steroids are? I didn't know that was part of your character archetype." He responded, flatly without looking at her.

Lydia looked flustered for a moment before scoffing to herself, "I'm dating an athlete….a triathlete, actually. So I happen to know quite a bit about the sports world."

"Righhht…." Marco dragged, nodded slowly as he explained the shape and color of her eyes on his paper, "And is it in your well crafted character's bounds to explain a person's features with that level of verbal knowledge?"

Lydia's jaw clenched repeatedly as she played around with a myriad of responses in her mind before she stood up and turned to Mr. Westover, "Mr. Westover, I need to use the restroom. Now."

As she left, he found himself looking over her paper. His oddities written on display….along with something of her own doing…equally as odd.

"Dreaded locks of hair like tendrils falling down to his chest. Some adorned with shining silver hair cuffs, others left to fall freely over his steroid-shoulders. Dark mahogany skin. Thick eyebrows, pensive eyes that don't fit his face and a slim beak-like nose (looks like it's been broken) that leads down to a set of full lips....but mine are better. All in all, his features match with where he's from."

False. Despite his complexion, his features placed him up north rather than south. Where his people originated from. Egypt.

Either way, it was all fairly normal and accurate descriptors of his face. It was the bottom of the page that intrigued him more than anything. So bizarre– and so ominous despite it's simplicity.

"....Maercs lliw I thginot"

Marco reached across the table and grabbed her paper. Wonder exploding into existence within his mind as he flipped the paper and found that it had become decipherable.

"Why would you write this, Lydia? Tonight of all nights, what does it mean? Why will you scream on the night of the Full Moon?"