It all began with a spitball. To the back of the neck.
Spitballs are disgusting. They're wet, slimy, and are notorious for sticking to your face or whatever body part they hit. It's downright disgusting. But here I was, sitting in Mr. Lowery's English class, when I felt a spitball splat on my neck.
I knew who had sent it, of course. No one other than Harley Kosichek, a boy of fourteen who was nearly six feet tall and made sure everyone knew it. To Harley, everyone else were ants to be squished. I was one particular ant he loved to squish.
From the front of the classroom, I could hear Harley and his friends choking with laughter in their seats. I wiped the spitball away discreetly, training my eyes on Mr. Lowery, who droned on about Shakespeare.
"Shakespeare's many works include Julius Caesar, A Midsummer Night's Dream..."
A spitball in my hair.
"...Hamlet, The Tempest..."
A spitball on my desk. They had missed.
"...Macbeth, Romeo and Juliet..."
A spitball on my face. By now, I was getting angry.
"...and the Raven."
Laughter from the back. I stood and shoved my chair back.
"Would you quit that!" I yelled. The class fell silent. Mr. Lowery glanced at me over his silver-rimmed glasses.
"Is there a problem, Mr. Wright?" He asked. I took a breath.
"No, sir." I sat back down, the class whispering behind my back. I promptly received another spitball, this one sticking to my arm. I casually picked up my notebook and held it behind my head, shielding myself from their attacks. This time, I received a crumpled paper ball that landed on my desk. A neat landing, but no surprise coming from basketball star Kosichek. I put my notebook down and straightened the paper, my eyes taking only a second to read the crass message. I took it back in my hands and squished it into a little ball, but the paper was swiped from my hands and thrown in the trash. I looked up to see Mr. Lowery glaring down at me.
"Passing notes, Kass?" He said in a low voice. I said nothing. He tsked. "Stay after the bell rings, Mr. Wright." I nodded silently. It was at that moment that the bell rang. My classmates gave a cheer and shoved their way out of the classroom as Mr. Lowery went back to his desk and picked up a small book. In no longer than five minutes, the classroom was completely empty.
Mr. Lowery approached my desk and lay the book in front of me. The title was The Raven, by William Shakespeare. "Your punishment is this: read the poems in The Raven and write an analysis of Shakespeare's writing style. It is due Monday."
I shoved the book into my bag. "Yes, sir."
It was drizzling outside, as if the sky wasn't sure if it wanted to be sunny or rainy. I preferred cloudy days, mostly because they were a nice mixture of warm and cold. Thus, I could run a little farther than on a hot day.
I ran. Mostly to get away from the school, to get away from the bullies I knew were waiting for me. But also because I enjoyed running and wanted to head home.
Home was an average-size house, painted a slate color, and one of the older houses on the block. Two stories stories tall, and with a garden so bare it was as if Death had touched her had on it. Which I suppose she had: Mom was a horrible gardener.
"Kass! How was school?" Mom asked as I entered the house. I could smell chicken frying and my mouth watered.
"Fine," I replied, entering the kitchen. Mom glanced back at me with her sharp blue eyes, eyes I had inherited. However, I had Dad's black hair, and not Mom's fair brown.
"We're having fried chicken with boiled vegetables tonight," Mom said. "And then cake for dessert."
"Wait, it's not even a surprise birthday party?" I feigned hurt. "What about my presents?"
Mom laughed and threw a medley of vegetables into a pot of boiling water. "You still get a present, Kass. Dad asked me to get one for you - you know how busy he is." Dad was a pilot, and hardly ever at home. It wouldn't be the first birthday he'd missed.
"I'm going to do some homework first," I said, hiking my bag on my shoulders.
"Sure thing, honey." Mom pinched my cheek, then went back to her cooking. I climbed the stairs and threw open my bedroom door, which thumped loudly against the wall.
A yell came from the room beside mine. "Kass, you jerk! Don't break down the wall!"
I grinned. "Jen, I thought you were going to a concert with your boyfriend tonight?" I called. The reply to my question was a scoff.
"Dumped him. He was cheating on me." Jen went through so many boyfriends, it was almost unimaginable. But she was a university girl who thrived on romance and adventure, so I left her to her own devices and she left me to mine.
I threw down my bag which quickly exploded with papers and books. I quickly extracted The Raven from the messy pile. My room was a mess, but what teenager's room wasn't?
The Raven was a short read, though difficult. And most of the poems were dreary things, talking of death and such. The most memorable line was "Quoth the Raven, Nevermore," but I had yet to discern the meaning behind the phrase. I took a short break and glanced at the objects on my desk. Papers upon papers, a copy of Herman Melville's Moby Dick, and several objects I had collected as a kid. Amongst which there was a smooth turquoise stone, several bleached white seashells, a broken metal dog figurine, blue sea glass, a dried leaf, and a silky black feather. I picked up the feather and twirled it between my fingers. I stood leaned on my windowsill, which overlooked the street I lived on. A soft breeze blew through my hair and grabbed at the feather. I held onto it tightly - I had collected it as a five-year-old kid, and I had no intention of letting the wind steal it just yet. The wind picked up and I contemplated closing the window when -
Feathers.
"What?" I said, but my voice sounded hoarse to my own ears. I looked at my hand, but it was no longer a hand. It was a wing. A wing of oily black feathers. I looked down at myself. More feathers. Feathers everywhere. And - was that a feathery tail?
"What is this?!" I yelled. I hopped around, noticing that I had shrunk a considerable amount, and I was now standing on the windowsill, the wind thrumming through my feathers. My legs also didn't bend forwards. They went back. "How can knees bend backwards?!" I exclaimed frantically, trying to walk around and only achieving a walk like a limping duck. I spread out my arms to survey myself, but forgot two important facts. One: I had wings. Two: It was very windy.
The wind picked me up and I hurtled through the sky, flailing wildly. "Someone help!" I cried. I fell like a stone as the wind stopped its updraft, screaming my throat hoarse. On instinct, I spread out my arms.
And glided.
Arms rigid, I took deep breaths, heart thumping wildly in my my chest, watching as the ground below me whipped by in seconds. I had lost all sense of direction, but now I spotted the roof of the school passing by.
"I - I'm flying," I whispered. I soared, tail twitching to compensate. "I'm flying!" I tucked in my wings and dove toward the ground, then thew open my wings, almost losing my breath as the wind caught them. The breeze caressed my face with misty raindrops.
It was the most amazing feeling ever.
Until I was attacked.
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