THEY SAY THAT everything is stardust. That every atom that you're comprised of is from the heart of star. And from that star, came you, your parents, even the town you live in. Maybe even the planet. According to Carl Sagan, the cosmos is within us. So, why did Solomon feel so voided? Empty, even.

This all started after Solomon found Virginia Nez's body. She was one
of his classmates and had been missing for about a week or two before the
school year started. And to be honest, the only people who were truly
concerned about her in this desert town were her own parents. Because, like Solomon, Virginia Nez was an outcast.

Virginia was overweight, with plump fingers and hands that seemed to fumble even at the simplest of tasks. Her hair always had this black, too greasy sheen that seemed to contribute to the growing number of acne scars on her face.

She had a pug-ilke nose and wore heavy, coke-bottle glasses; and wherever she went, the smell of decades old grandma perfume and mothballs would follow.

It was obvious. The girl was shark chum to the feeding frenzy of what would be Middle School up to the ninth grade. The only thing that seemed to calm her down was her walks. Her family raised and sheared sheep, so it was only natural that she'd wrangle up the ewes and their lambs whenever they went too far.

Sometimes, it'd take her a weekend to get back home, under the watchful eye of her dad, but according to the Nez's, "Our Virginia was a responsible, smart girl," Her mom would choke through in tears, "She always found a way to come back and she was adjusting bein' on her own out there just fine!" mama Nez would wail.

The fluorescent light of the black & white tv screen left a blue sheen that engulfed the entirety of his family's kitchen. Solomon rode home from the tribal police on the back of a squad car some hours ago. His mother was called and his grandfather was already there, waiting for them. "My God," his mother said as she entered, her purse slung over her shoulder and her black-brown hair still half-held in that bun she wore it that morning. "I was wondering if they had finally found her," she said as she left her car keys on the kitchen table, "I just didn't want them to find her like that."

Just then, it had dawned on her that they weren't alone, the police officer that had waited with Solomon and his granddad cleared his throat once he entered the small kitchen and tipped his hat, "Miss Dinétsfósí."

According to what Solomon said, this is how he found Virginia Nez.
It was around 3 and Solomon had told his grandpa that he was going to hike around the foothills for a bit until an hour before dinner. "The foothills?" his grandpa questioned, his eyes barely lifted from the paper in his hands, "Take some water. It's hot up there and be careful, remember what happened to those tourists some months ago?"

"I'll be fine." Solomon shrugs, but not before taking some bottled water from the fridge. It was the least he could do, after all. The foothills were a steep walk, but he had been travelling there more and more since school went out. By the time he reached August, he was a natural at scaling the rocks, his legs had even gotten a little leaner as a result.

Still, he also wished his grandfather had reminded him to not wear black. He may have liked, even loved the color, but he hated having to sweat all over his clothes in the dry heat. It just wasn't cool.

Once he made it to the top of one hill, he stopped to breathe and recuperate.
His thoughts went back to school, he would be a sophomore, which meant that he was another year closer to graduating.

And then his thoughts began to run wild. As he sat there, visions of a blood red sky covered in chalk patterns seemed to dance around his head. The images seemed to twist and contort, as if they were taunting him, and as soon as he had realized that he was having bad daydream, he came to his senses.

The sky was no longer red.

The wind no longer blew.

And at the edge of the foothill, he saw Virginia Nez's body, all bloated and grey. The flies have already taken care with the skin on her back and arms; maggots had already chewed holes through her chubby fingers.

And at a second glance, he noticed that her eyes were still open.

"We have yet to determine the cause of death. But we believe that the victim might've died at least a week prior to her discovery."

"I see." his mother, half-stunned from the revelation and half-exhausted from work had only this to say, "So, what will this mean for my son?"

A collective brown gaze zeroed in on Solomon, who sat at the dining table. His own gaze fixated at a half finished plate of lima beans and steak. "I realize that he's been through a lot, Miss, I'll see to it that he won't be counted as a suspect." His mother glanced down at her son and frowned, "Thank you, officer."

That night, Solomon had no worries. He had told (most of) the truth.
He also had no dreams.

THE desert is an ocean filled with saguaros that act as reefs for scorpions and shade for the jackrabbits. Like the ocean, it's depths had vastly gone unexplored, untapped. And within it are centuries of secrets, legends, and a chest of Spanish gold that his granddad had been looking for since his wife died. In his granddad's truck, though, the near hour drive to the closest Goodwill is more like a months' long voyage, with only an ‘89 dodge ram as a ship lost in a sea of sand. It's only eight and raining, so he keeps the windows closed and the air off to save his gas money.

The way he drove intermediated between ‘slow' and ‘deliberate' to ‘reckless & scary'.

Solomon always hated it when grandpa drove. There was always a restless pang of danger whenever he rode with him. Maybe it was the cataract in his left eye, or how heated he'd get whenever he was cut off -- oh, he'd spit every curse word in both Diné and English at that point -- either way, he always rode with his grandpa with the idea that both of the old man's hands positioned at ‘10' and ‘2' controlled their fate.

He looks up to settle his sights on the winding road ahead, but then his eyes catch a glimpse of a postcard. The shadow of a buffalo underneath a purple sky and a red moon. It's slightly dog eared and the back of the card is a light, coffee shade of brown, but the image is clear and sharp. "Your grandma's," his grandfather had answered his question before he even asked, "One of your great Aunt's sent it to her while she was at a retreat in Nevada. It was ten years ago, I think. Odd was already at my shoulders back then, and you and Homer, were... what? Five? And a few months, I believe."

Solomon sat in silence as the rain stops and the sun yawns awake from its sleep as his grandfather continued to speak, "You know about the buffalo? Yeah, the gov'ment almost killed the buffalo clear off the planet because they didn't want the Indians to eat."

Solomon nodded, the words soaking into his mind. What he learned from sixth grade history would confirm his granddad's comment but, "...but" This would be the first thing he'd say after thirty minutes of quiet solemnity, "That happened to the Plains Indians... like the Sioux. We're not Plains Indians, granddad."

"Nah, we're not." his grandfather nodded, "We're Diné Indians! We live in hogans and sell turquoise jewelry from church functions and powwows to white kids wearin' face paint and halloween costumes. And wanna kiss white girls, like Emily Davis in Spanish class."

"We eat bannock and egg mcmuffins and raise sheep." Solomon smirked, and his grandfather yanked one of his braids, "Tch." his grandfather always sucked the air through his teeth, "Don't mock our traditions, boy. I only I can do that."

Solomon grew quiet again. "Sorry."

After that, he didn't speak for the remainder of their trip.

"Yeah, Homer was just a few months. Back when you all lived in Tucson."

<...>
Back then, his mother smiled more. She had no grey hair and her skin was the color of the burnt sienna crayons he used to draw her with during recess. Her lips and cheeks were always red and every once in a while, he'd sneak a hug with her during snack time, and watch her fade back to another classroom where she worked as a teacher's aide, never the teacher.

"Wait for me after class, Solomon. I have to get your brother from the third and fourth grade building, first." and then she'd waddle, being six months pregnant with sore ankles, down the hall and into the October air.

When they lived in Tucson, their hair was clipped short, just underneath the ears and everyone thought they were related to the Garcias, the only Mexican family that sent their kids to this majority white school, until his mother came in to set things straight during a PTO meeting. "We're Navajo. Native Americans." She would pack his snacks with grapes and oranges and small pretzels and crackers and anything else she could buy on a deal with food stamps. His hands and shirt would smell like valencias for the reminder of that day.

"What smells so good?"

"Me, mommy!"

<...>

At the Goodwill, they bought him: six shirts, two pairs of sneakers, one pair of almost new dress shoes, a tie, some slacks, two jeans, and a scarf; mix-match knitting patterns in bright shades of blue and red. The nonexistence of a made in China tag indicated that it was handmade.

Besides that, two of those shirts, the jeans, and one pair of sneakers, everything else was in the warmth bearing shade of black. "I don't know why ya' need yer clothes to be like that, Solomon." his grandfather says pointedly towards the bag in his lap, "Too hot for that."

He shrugs, "I like it." and does know that it's too hot for Arizona weather, but he wears his black clothes, anyway. "You tryin' ta be like Johnny Cash?"

"Nah. I just like the color." Life begins to feel normal. He almost forgets about Virginia Nez. And then, they see it. News reporters. Cameras. All bombarding his mother as she struggles to get inside. His grandad drives up, angry, and nearly makes a sharp turn into the crowd. He steps out first, "What the hell is this!? Sam! What is all this?"

Her name is actually Samantha, but no one has called her that since she'd been in elementary school. "They want an interview with Solomon!" she whispers, already harried by the unwelcome presence of a dozen cameras and people who continue to press the issue of her son drinking people's blood and worshipping Satan. "NO COMMENT!" She cries as she runs to the car with a blanket and covers Solomon, braids and all and crams him into the medium sized house that's been in their family for more than half a century.

Once inside, they can still hear the rumble of at least twenty or thirty people shuffling about and screaming, yes, screaming, "HER BREASTS! WERE THEY OR WERE THEY NOT CUT OFF?"

<...>

They stayed for at least another hour until the police finally showed up and wrangled them all out with threats of ‘federal crime' and a possible lawsuit if they didn't present any license or a valid reason for stomping on private property.

"Tch." his grandfather always made sure he was heard, "This ain't private, we've been renting from the BIA for a century!"
<...>

This just in, a young Navajo indian girl's murder sections a small desert community. Here we have Maria Estes with the story. "Tensions have been high today in an Arizona town as rumors fly about a fellow student of Virginia Nez, who would have been an upcoming sophomore. Locals say that the teen in question is also a young, Navajo native and has been known to be rather odd."

Sources claim that the locals have made theories that range from plausible, to wildly inappropria-

<...>

"I don't care how you found out, it's none of your fucking business! STOP CALLING!" SLAM. Samantha Dinétsfósí is pissed off. Her voice grew sore and hoarse during that call. Solomon can see her in his peripheral, pacing about while puffing away on a menthol cigarette. "I can't believe *puff* the type of town *puff* we live in. *puff*"

The house smells like choking, black tar smoke and cinnamon. It's seeped into everything; the couch, the walls, Solomon's hair, grandpa's chair, and his mom's heart and lungs.

Puff.

Earlier, the house smelled like lard and flour; frybread tacos with shredded chicken and beans was their dinner. They washed it down with a side of poverty.

Grandpa went to bed first. Complained about his bad knee and all of the stress he's been through. He doesn't stop to read the paper or watch the news.

"I'm sorry, Solomon." his mother chokes out.
"For what?" Concern knits his face. She's been crying and smoking for almost an hour.
"Everything."

<...>

For three days and two nights it only rains, but on Sunday night, the sky is clear.
"Just focus on your studies, and ignore them." Samantha has tried to make things easy on her son, but he wonders if a part of herself quietly wished dad and Homer would've survived instead of him and Odd, who was thousands of miles away. The scars on his neck and back match the scars on her hands and uterus. "Maybe..." he says, fighting sleep, "..if I didn't have scars on my brain, she'd love me again."

<...>

Every night, he has the same dream. The genderless person dancing in a field of fallen stars as the smell of doom and burnt earth travels into his nose. And every time, he's spotted and he hides. Every night, the being gets a little closer. From the field. To his window. To his bed. It's looming over him. Floating. He can feel it's heat as it touches its face to his. Every night, he asks, "Who are you?" and then he wakes up.

He can smell coffee, and even though it's still dark outside, he knows its morning.
A tap at his door, "Solomon, get up and get dressed. And don't forget your bookbag."

His calendar is marked.

AUGUST 6, 2007.

WELCOME TO HELL.

7
O muse, o alto ingegno, or m'aiutate;
8
o mente che scrivesti ciò ch'io vidi,
9
qui si parrà la tua nobilitate.

The Divine Comedy - The Descent

Solomon never rushed his morning routine. He'd go into the bathroom and empty whatever what was left of last night's dinner from his body. And then, he'd wash his hands (preferably with hot water) and brush his teeth (preferably with cold). Every once in a while, he'd look at himself, making sure he hadn't changed or mutated into something foreign. He had a thin brown face, not unlike his mother's in the past, and black-brown hair that, no matter how much he'd cut off, grew down to his shoulders by the time summer came around.

Above his top lip was the thin ghost of a moustache that had finally decided to darken over the past three months. His chin, however, was (still) as smooth as a baby's ass. Solomon had thick eyebrows and a sharp nose, and a small scar that skewed the direction of his bottom lip ever so slightly. His eyes were brown and often lidded, not out of boredom, but just out of the natural makeup of his own face and genetics. Compared to Sam, his mother, he was almost a direct clone. Save for his height, which was all of his father's. At only fifteen years old, he had grown to the staggering length of 6 feet and three inches. Which was remarkable, since he was born three weeks premature and would not open his eyes until he was two to three months old.

Samantha could've sworn it was a miracle, although, it also could've been the goat milk.

All of his limbs were long, and he towered over everyone, including his grandfather, who must've shrunk over these past few years. His middle was curveless and, save for the extra inch of fat on his torso, he was as thin as a lamp post.

He puts his toothpaste and toothbrush away and undresses. His chest still has scars, his arms still have scars. He threads a finger down one old incision and pauses before he pulls a black t-shirt over his head and black jeans over his legs. He slips downstairs in his socks; his gym shoes sat at the edge of the front door, along with his currently empty backpack, waiting for him.
"There's the sophomore!" his mom announced from her coffee cup. "It's a new school year, hun."

He half-smiled and sat beside her as she pushed a plate of eggs and toast, "Eat up. But don't take too long, your bus should be here at around 7:30." He nods and does what she said, "So," he says through a mouthful of bread, "Are you leaving work earlier to pick me up? It's always a half-day on the first and last day?"

She shook her head, "Not today, Solomon. A girl quit the diner last Tuesday, which means that I gotta work overtime until a replacement's found again."

"Oh." Well, that went that escape plan, "Besides, I'm sure your bus can make both ways."

He bit his inner cheek. Did she just forget what happened a few nights ago?! He didn't want to ride the bus going or coming, he just wanted to keep getting harassed! He swallows, maybe if he framed it in a different way, "Well...when you remember last week..."

"Don't worry about last week, Solomon." she sighs, "What's done is done and there's not much we can do about it but wait."

"Right mom."

He wanted to scream.

"Say, where's shicheii?"

"Hm? Your grandpa Seth? Dad's ran off to his usual spot. You know, where the gold is?"

"Or where he thinks it is."

"Right."

Which also meant that he wouldn't be able to pick him up in time, either.

"Fuck."

"Stop cussin'." He covers his mouth, "Yes ma'am." and drops his plate in the sink.

Shoes are laced just in time for his bus. He grabs his backpack and waves, but on the inside, he's still cussing.

The bus' gates swing open. The driver is one of the teachers, a squat white woman with graying red hair and freckles, she smiles. "Solomon."

"Mrs. Stanton."

They both exchange a glance of, ‘Here we go again', as he boards. ‘She saw the news. Everyone saw the news.' he thought as he avoided the stares. More than a dozen eyes burned a hole in him that day, he almost thought he'd burst into flames.

"Tch, Solomon, over here!"

He looks up, there's an empty seat in the back across from two other boys his age. One teen was shorter and rounder with a buzz cut and an ROTC uniform. He was lighter skinned and had hazel eyes, but the sharpness of his cheekbones and the shape of his eyes made it clear that he was, at least, half-Navajo. The other one was rail-thin, with light brown hair that was long enough to reach his ears. He wore thick rimmed glasses and had a crooked smile framed by braces. His skin was dark, only a shade lighter than Solomon, but his eyes were green.

One couldn't tell straight away, but both boys were twins. Brian, the chubbier one, was the eldest one by an hour, while ‘Anthony', took his time to crawl out of his mother. The fertilization of two different eggs, instead of one, simply owed to how different they looked from one another.

"Brian! Tony!" he waves, and for a moment, things feel normal. He rushes to his empty seat, and with a gush of gas exhaust, the bus begins to move.

"Man, how've you been?" asked Tony

"Yeah, we heard about what happened with Virginia. I even even inboxed you!" proclaimed Brian, still unused to the idea of having a deeper voice than before. He sounded like a man, but he was definitely still a boy.

Solomon shrugs, "Sorry about that, I haven't been on since May."

"You still could've called, Solomon." said Brian.

"Yeah, Disneyworld was pretty fun." said Anthony.

He smiles, "Oh yeah? Well, maybe I can ask your parents if I can come with you guys next year?"

"Sure, but you're cleaning it up if you get sick." mentioned Tony "Remember how you threw up strawberry ice cream all over our dad in the Sixth grade on our way back from Houston? He smelled like breyer's for a week!"

All three laughed.

Brian, Anthony, and Solomon have all been friends since the second grade. Although, recently, they've seen less and less of each other during school, they do tend to stick around each other whenever there's free time. And, of course, the internet.

While their interests changed, somehow, Solomon still liked to be around them. Enough to consider them his only friends.

The bus finally stopped at their intended destination.

"Well, we'll see ya' at lunch, Solomon. I think we're taking Spanish II together, though, right?"

"Yeah." Solomon answered as they filed out of the bus, "6th period."

They waved and left Solomon in front of the school to check his schedule, "First period is chemistry," he read aloud.

That's when saw her, "Hey Solomon." her voice, southern and light. She almost sounded like a young country singer even when she spoke.

"Emily, hi." he just had to be talking to no one when she came around. Great.

She gives him a polite wave and melts back into her clique. Blonde hair flying behind her.

Emily Davis was one of the few white kids that went to his 99.6% middle school, and now, High school. She was blonde, with blue eyes, and never frowned from what he'd seen. She wasn't exactly popular, but she was known, and had a group of girls that seemed to shield her. Also as if they had protected her, from him, especially.

Also, Solomon was in love with Emily.

He knew he'd been in love with her since the seventh grade, when she moved into his district with her father, a dentist that had a practice in town, and he had been in love with her ever since.

He knew it was love, because, even though he knew next to nothing about her, he still felt drawn to her. That meant that you were in love, right?

At least he was able to speak to her more, now. Her group would disband at certains, so sometimes, he could catch her in the hall or the library, and luckily, 6th period Spanish.

He was in love with Emily Davis. He had to. He firmly decided this.

<...>

First period started off quickly, his teacher was a man in mid-thirties who had already begun to bald, and instead of assigning homework and schoolwork so suddenly, he only asked, "Stand up. State your name. Tell me something interesting."

Which was just as bad, as far as Solomon was concerned.

"My name is Thomas Chee. I'm a basketball player."

"I'm Maria Halwood, and my sister is going to be in the Miss Navajo Nation pageant this year."

"My name is Patrick Begay. And I'm gay."

"My name is..."

He bit his lip. He tried to rehearse his own line. ‘My name is Solomon Dinétsfósí and my mom co-owns a diner....My name is Solomon Dinétsfósí and my mom co-owns a diner....
My name is Solomon Dinétsfósí and my mom co-owns a diner....'

It was just about to be his turn to stand when a rapid barrage of knocks lands on his classroom door.

The chemistry teacher gets up to move and opens the door.

"You're late. Stand in front of the class and introduce yourself before you sit down."

Here enters the new girl. She was small, with equally light curves, which made her seem younger than she probably was. Her skin was dark; browner than most of her classmates, and her nose was flat against her face with a small upturn. Instead of brown or black curls, she had the most unusual shade of maroon he'd ever seen on a black girl, so he'd assumed that it was probably dyed.

She had wide eyes, black and slightly angled, with dark long lashes. And her outfit was eye-bleedingly bright; deep purple overall shorts, buttoned over a goldenrod t-shirt, and lime-green socks. She wore orange-red sneakers with a backpack that matched and a white mesh sweater. Side-swooped bangs were clipped back with a lemon-yellow barrette in the shape of a shooting star, and her fingernails were a deep shade of blue.

She was garish and loud, and she hadn't even said a word.

She stood there in silence, "Name?"

"Makeda."

"Minerva who?"

She turns back to look at the teacher and back at the class, "Makeda Minerva Dixon."
He checks his student role, "Ah, a Miss Makeda Dixon." he checks her name off, and she quietly tries to slip away, but she's caught.

"Wait... you didn't tell us anything about yourself." says one girl, "Yeah, you made us all stand up and say something, why can't she?"

She's unusually calm for a girl her age, most kids would at least blanche at this, but she seemed passive, almost bored by this.

"Miss Dixon, your classmates are right. You do need to share something with the class."

"Alright, I'll share." She moves back to the front and for a second, she shares eye contact with Solomon. And it almost felt like she sapped all of the color out of his face. This girl was weird. And she was about to get even weirder.

"I just moved here." On her back, you could see something grow. White light materialized into something physical.

‘Wings?'

They were white and quite large to be on such a small girl, but the thing that got him was; no one seemed to notice. Not even the teacher.

"Is that all, Miss Dixon?" the chemistry teacher pressed on. She's quiet again.

"Yes."

"Alright then, take a seat."

Solomon blinked. The wings. They were still there.
When she moves to take a seat behind him, he could feel it brush against his cheek. It felt warm, strange, and familiar.

Was he going insane?

Maybe.

She shouldn't have been real. In Solomon's understanding, he had tried to find some logistics within the entire moment. She came in and sprouted wings, spoke to an overstuffed classroom and sat down. Hyper-realistic ones, at that, and somehow, no one; whether they had saw her walk down the halls or within this classroom, bothered to take note. Other than him, obviously. And even he watched enough media, played enough video games, and read enough Japanese comic books to know that if he did point them out, everyone would laugh and he might get sent to the principal or the counselor's office.

Speaking of the counselor's office... he had a mandatory meeting with her during lunch, which meant that he had to eat fast.

He didn't know why, but he preferred to eat as slow as possible. He always got queasy with stuffing his face, and he'd get queasier at the thought of having a heart to heart with a complete stranger. The counselor was new. A miss Penelope Abdullah? Her name looked like a combination of two dissenting worldviews. Penelope was a classic, everyday, American apple pie name. It was also Greek. But over the years, the name had transformed from a character from Greek myth to one of the top baby names in the U.S. since the 1920's. But Abdullah was considered to be ‘odd'. Maybe not to Solomon, but after 9/11, the thought of meeting someone with the name ‘Khan' or ‘Abdul-Gaffar' was odd, even scary to the less informed. 2001 had only been just six years ago, so her name must've stuck out like a sore thumb. Or a shard of glass left on a white linoleum floor after his mom painstakingly tried to sweep it all away.

Either way, it wasn't her name or her race that was Solomon afraid of, it was the fact that he had to speak to her, a stranger. Solomon was already a introvert towards his family and friends, it took him forever for him to get used to the old counselor, so for him to have to make another effort to get to know someone who would only know him for 30 minutes a week a the most, made him sweat.

Although, it could've been all of the black.

The teacher writes something on the whiteboard, his hands already smudged with blue and green marker from erasing and rewriting with his thumbs. "Alright class, this is English II, and hopefully, I will be your instructor for the rest of this year." His awkward choice of words forced a chuckle from Solomon's throat. But he quickly silenced when he felt a pair of eyes bear into his back. He ignored them. The teacher eyes him for a small second before he grabs a stack of pre-stapled papers and passes them around. "The syllabus contains each assignment with a relevant date and the amount of quizzes and homework you'll have to complete in order to pass. If you're unsure about a paper, consult your syllabus. If you need to know which pages are your homework for that week, consult your syllabus. If you need my help, consult your syllabus and if your syllabus can't help you, then you can bother me."

"Any questions?"

"Yes, Thomas Whitehead-"
"That's Mr. Whitehead to you, young lady."

The class's collective eye shot up to the brightly-colored girl, her face nearly as bare as the board that stood behind Mr. Whitehead's gleaming bald spot. He gave her a heated look in return.
"Mr. Whitehead," she spoke up, "I don't see any office hours, or even an e-mail to reach you with. If you wanted to help us, why are you making yourself so hard to reach? Don't you think that's a little unfair?"

Her eye contact never breaks with Whitehead's, and he's almost taken aback by her questioning. Solomon, keeps his head down, knowing full well that all eyes were on her. Even so, he can still see part of her in his desk's reflection.

"Young lady, I-"
"That's Miss Makeda Dixon to you, old man." A chorus of ‘oohs' followed afterwards. Even Solomon had to finally look at her, then. She was still weirdly dressed, but her wings were gone. Did he imagine them? Or was this all a big prank that his family had planned for months with MTV so he'd win a million dollars for everyone? He wished.

"That's enough."
"Why?" God, you could just feel the steam rise from that man's ears once she said it. The room was hushed for a clear moment and then he spoke again, "One more word out of you and you're going to the hall. Got it?" Silence. She seemed to have gotten the point and sat back down. A small smirk reached the teacher's face and he turned back to write something else on the board.

"Word."

There's a pause, "Excuse me?"
"Word. I said a ‘word'. Now, I have to sit outside."
"Stand."
"Ok."
He grows bolder. The smirk on his face reappeared almost as fast as it dissipated, "Come here and follow me." She begins to leave her things to follow, but tells her that, "Take them with you. You'll also be listed as absent for the day. Maybe this will teach you a lesson for interrupting my class."

He wasn't sure what else what said to her, but once he turned to view out of the windows on the side of the class, Solomon would get the gist of his words soon enough. "Look outside!"
They argued. Rather, Mr. Whitehead had argued at Dixon while she continued to stare apathetically. No one could hear what was said between the two but what had transpired next gave a clear idea into what was thrust upon her. She threw her books down and stretched her arms outward so she held the shape of a ‘T'.

More words were spoken between the two. Mr. Whitehead had his back turned to leave until she said something that would make him turn a full 180. The next part would even shake up Solomon quite a bit. The teacher raised his hand, as if he were about to strike her across her face as a way to shut her up and he stayed that way for a long moment. His hand shook and he closed into a tight fist. He pointed at her legs and shouted another command which was satisfied with her lifting one leg away from the ground. She was to balance on that entire leg for the rest of period.

Everyone rushed back to their seats once they heard Whitehead approach. Solomon, in particular, decided to tuck his head down on his desk.

The door opened. No one dared to speak a word. Even the birds were quiet.

Whitehead cleared his throat. The sweat on his forehead seemed to make his head glow. It was a mesmerizing site for a minute before class had actually started. "Solomon,"

His head is still down. "Sit up. I wake up just as early as you do."

<...>
He snuck in glances. He noted how long her shadow seemed to spread upon the pavement or how still she was, even when it was past thirty minutes. To most of the class, the incident seemed to have disappeared from their minds, but Solomon could not shake her away from his mind.
As soon as the bell rings, he can see her pack up and shake her legs as if she were a newborn lamb, awkward and lanky. Her hair bounces behind her as she walks, the campus is filled with students and faculty members, and just as fast as she appeared, she blends into the crowd. His two other classes go off with a hitch without the strange girl's presence, but he did see her again.

Lunch had always been his favorite subject. While the food was awful, it was a time for him to clear his thoughts at the library or talk with his friends. And while he did experience a form of bullying at times in the cafeteria, most people were wise enough to sit with friends or talk amongst themselves. He got a tray of something light; chicken nuggets, one square of lime-green jello, and some limp looking mixture of broccoli and cauliflower, complete with a carton of milk.

He had picked a perfect table for himself and his friends, one that was close enough to the door that led to the school's campus and parking lot. A great escape route once it came time for his appointment. He didn't want to think about it now, instead, he had looked forward to seeing his friends again. Solomon had kept an eye out for Brian and Anthony, they often had most of their classes together, so they had always entered around the same time.

Behind him, he could feel a shadow. He smiled, a genuine one this time, "Hey guys, I-"

His body stiffens once he saw her again. The weird girl. The girl with the big-mouth, the girl who seemed stuck up, among other things that was whispered around in that hour long class. To him, however, she was the wing girl. In fact, she had those same wings on her back, once again. And like before, no one, but Solomon, had noticed.

A strand of hair leaves his band, the ponytail had held the rest of his locks in place, slung low behind his chair. He blinked at her again, as if he wanted to see if she'd respond back in a similar manner, but he found nothing.

"Hi." he said, still glancing around for his friends.
Her lips simper, "Hello, Solomon."

She placed a tray of similar foodstuffs down beside his, stealing what was supposed to be Anthony's seat, "Do you mind?"

Yes.

"No." he said. Makeda never fully grins at him. Her smiles are always soft and small, they more like smirks, but less cruel. Kinder, even.

Personally, that only made Solomon find her even more eerie.

"You know my name, right? Makeda?"

He nods, stuffing a spoonful of jello down his throat. The taste and the smell remind him of how his house's bathroom smells like ammonia and lemon-sol every saturday after they (meaning himself and his mother) clean it.

Disgusting.

"So, do you like going to this school?"

No.

"It's okay, I guess." he chews the inside of his cheek. Maybe if he chewed hard enough he could go to the nurse's office, skip the appointment, and sleep all afternoon. And maybe Makeda would disappear from his life forever. A part of himself hoped this was all an extravagant, lucid dream, or that he had fallen into a coma shortly before leaving home, somehow.

"Could be better." he admitted.

"Yeah. It could be."

They were both quiet. Makeda was more preoccupied with picking at the food laid in front of her (she'd somehow stomach the broccoli mixture), and nodded along to some invisible rhythm that played around in her head. With each nod, her wings would flutter and bop. All the while, it made him feel far more visible than he ever wanted to be.

"Solomon! Hey!" Finally, "Tony. Brian." He would been a lot more excited if they had arrived a lot earlier than they did. Both brothers take in the stranger's appearance.

"Hi, I'm Makeda."

"Hi?"

Brian swats his brother's head, "Don't be rude."

"I wasn't being rude. I just don't know who this girl is."

"Brian, Tony. This is Makeda, I'm think I'm saying it right-"
"You are."

They all look at her in a puzzled silence.

"Makeda Dixon, from my English II."

"Ohhh. That girl." Tony said, "Anthony, seriously?"

She was only here for a few hours and already she had a reputation. And from the looks of it, it didn't seem to bother her. Her smile was missing, that's for sure.

"I guess I'll be leaving, then." she collects her tray, "It was nice meeting you all."

"Weird girl, huh?" asked Anthony, "Well, I thought was kinda nice. Dressed a little funky, sure, but she seemed ok. I just don't believe how someone who seemed so nice got in trouble like that."

"You saw her, too?"

"Oh, hell yeah. Almost everybody on Wing A and B saw her stand on one leg for almost an hour." spouted Anthony after eating half of his nuggets, "I thought she looked crazy enough with those weird clothes. I guess she's a scene kid." he snorted.

"Nah, scene kids are just like colorful emos. They're suicidal. That girl didn't seem suicidal, just... proper? Kinda stuck up." Brian quiped.

"Yeah, right." He looked at his clothes. Well, shit, what did that make him, then?

"Yeah, Solomon's kinda emo, Brian. He wears all of that black and stuff." Anthony said.

"Besides, don't you have a Corpse Bride poster on your wall? That's pretty emo."

"Nah, I'm not emo. And I bet she's not a scene kid, either." Solomon countered.

"No such thing as Navajo emos or black scene kids. All of the ones I've seen are white on MySpace."

"Yeah.... he's probably right."
"Yeah, probably."

He looked up at the clock. "Shit! I gotta go." He hauled his tray and backpack, "See you in Spanish." 12:35 pm. He was already 5 minutes late for this counselor. Which made him wonder if she'd take mercy on him and let him go after ten minutes.

He could only wish.

His walk to the office was a quiet, uneventful one. Which also seemed to take forever. Whenever those halls would be empty, he always felt as if something was coming. Something bad. Solomon didn't want to do this. He didn't want to do anything. This day had already started off pretty weird. And that girl had always had a hand in it. Always.

Solomon shows his note to a secretary and he's guided to a sparsely decorated office with more boxes than chairs. Whoever Penelope was, she must've moved here overnight.

He takes a seat facing away from the office door, and once he heard it click open, he swung his head back to see whoever it was. "Hello, there."

The first thing that anyone, student or faculty member, would notice about Ms. Abdullah, other than her name, is the neatly worn headscarf that covered her hair, neck, and ears. Her lips are painted a dark moon, and her glasses have smaller frames. Her dress is modest, yet professional. He can't see her arms underneath the blue fabric of her dress, but her smile is vaguely familiar.

And then it dawned on him.

"Penny?"

She smiled. Now he'd recognized her, "Hi, Solomon."