Dreamweaver

Chapter 2

Like every other sane person, I hate Mondays.

The morning passed without significance, just a repetition of the endless monotony of school. Nothing was exactly preparing me for the horrors waiting to greet me after school. As it was, my biggest annoyance consisted of the school's beloved bells. I swear, the administration sat down and went through every ring tone they could find until they found the most aggravating sound ever created so they could play it over the loudspeaker fifteen times a day and laugh as we all jumped out of our seats. Evil, I swear this school is run by pure, uninhibited evil.

I slept my way through every one of my seven classes until school finally let out with a final earsplitting buzz, signaling the inevitable mad rush for freedom. Believe me I was right there with them. The only one who didn’t join the mass brigade was the new girl.

We don’t call her the new girl just because she’s new. She'd started over four months ago, plenty of students had enrolled after she had. No, we call her the new girl because she freaks the rest of us out.

Of course, the guys (including me) won’t admit to being afraid of a girl. We just say she’s weird, a freak, and other, less kind labels. The girls are nicer, at least to her face, but they still shy away from her, their trepidation revealed every time they skirt the edge of the halls as she passes, or take a longer route to class to avoid passing her locker. No one blamed them, Amirra Necare was unnerving.

Amirra never ran. She never raised her voice. She never was angry, happy, upset, surprised, pleased, disappointed, never showed any normal emotions, just looked at you with a calm and calculating glance, sending shivers up and down your spine as the overwhelming feeling that she was looking through you, at some internal being that represented who you truly were, not the social mask the world sees. My schedule required me to pass her locker several times a day, and she always turned to gaze at me, not with admiration (unfortunately), friendship, or even animosity, but a neutral, detatched glance as if I was a vaguely interesting specimen in a chem lab, which, oddly enough, was the only class I shared with her. Though her piercing gaze left a lasting impression, she rarely spoke, and though when she had first transfered several girls reached out to her, she made it clear she preffered to be left alone.

There was no denying she was very pretty, almost unnaturally so. Her long curling tresses cascaded down her back, she was thin, but far from fragile, and her olive toned skin shone with a radiance so great she seemed to shimmer as she walked. And her eyes, her eyes were a beautiful shade of grey, with a churning aspect, like ocean waters below the surface of a brutal seaward storm. But her looks only brought more animosity from the girls, and no male stopped to stare or even glance at her.

Why?

Because she was different. She looked different, acted different, seemed to give off a vibe that screamed ‘unknown’, but the worst part was she made you question whether she was the odd one, or whether it’s you yourself that’s strange...