Prologue

The cut was no longer than a pencil eraser; an antiseptic, deep and primitive red.

The crook of my left hand skated for a brief and beautiful second with the starchy cover-page of my finicky pocket thesaurus. I didn't realize it at the time but I was officially being initiated into what retrospectively, will be known as the "Concise wanderings" -a short lived yet ever so eventful period of an otherwise saltine existence. It was one year, and yet after its revolution I had developed mental crows feet and the undying urge to resurrect my uncles pocket watch from the trunk it currently resides. Ive been hung up on time a lot lately, I guess it's one of the side affects. I wasn't always the kind of person to "guess", I was always so sure of everything. Nowadays the only thing that I view as fact is that mayonnaise is a God forsaken condiment, and even that is relative. Ah yes, The paper? The anxious usher, setting off a swift and immediate flare; a flare that I chose to ignore, at first. My hand? The epidermis of an unsuspecting topographical map before the development of rocky ground.

I don't believe in omens, signs or foreshadowing. It is illogical to see one serendipitous act in correlation with a future event. That is simply an archetypal fallacy instilled in the common man ages ago by corporate capitalist prototypes who now bring us "the Long Island medium",the horoscope industry, and the YA fiction genre. But there is something eerie to be said about this cut. This minuscule, irrelevant cut, that opened a succession of doors. No matter how detached I grew or the degree of my current trials were, i would always be reminded of the silly paper cut. I can still hear the tear clearly , and the numb pain that accompanied it, then the sickeningly sweet sanguine stench, piercing my nose, burning my throat; freeing me if not for a split second.

It may sound strange but I would give anything to go back to that moment; a time when it was okay for things to be a little out of my control. But alas, things are different now. Or maybe it is just that I now see how things always were.


Samuel Scott has one of the most geometrically sound noses I have ever seen on any human being; a real trapezoid that thing is. Identifying his nose as such is undoubtedly the most useful application for geometry I have ever encountered, which works out considering the guy is heralded the great geometer of our county. A true wizard with a compass, it is shocking the entire school isn't covered in perfectly rounded circles,so that the whole community may bask in his superiority and pure magnificence.

I have also had the outright privilege to be a pupil under his majesty. And starting this morning, I posses the wild fortune to be a member of Samuels advisement! My excitement is practically seething out of each of my pours like burning magma, stinging my insides and causing my body to shut down. Yep. I am just thrilled.

I uncomfortably shuffle into the classroom that reeks of rotting tubers. Eyes down, I manage to feel my way to the last row of desks. My full black hair acting not as a curtain or a shield, rather, as a red flag to the pale little man who is currently sitting cross legged in his awful vinyl swivel chair, scanning the room for the next Euclid. And being Indian, Samuel has taken a liking for me, even though my mathematical skills are anything other than stellar.

I begin to arrange my belongings in my bag: my trusty blue cardigan, the bundle of ReelWood! pencils Anna brought me from New York, my un corrupted moleskin, and my copy of Vonnegut's collection, which is not as worn as one might think because I take precise care of beautiful things. So marking my place whenever I grace the pages, is this paper bookmark I received at my library's "ready set read! " book event, when I was helping serve lasagna and cobbler of the unidentifiable and equally inedible degree to the ungrateful youth of our community. Now you know it was bad cobbler when I make such a claim, because I myself am a card carrying member of the dessert lovers society of America, and my not so flat stomach can testify. The bookmark on the other hand is slightly tattered despite its undeniable beauty. Copyrighted in the grand year of 2002 is when this gem of a page saver came into existence. It is a shrunken down version of a " (young) Leonardo de Caprio at your library" poster holding up a copy of Jane Eyre. With the expected tasteful amount of heart stickers, the bookmark has been with me through thick and thin, and I find joy and solace in its presence.

I take note of my fellow advisees. Behind me, a herd of males is beginning to congregate. It appears as a group, they live by two philosophies: lacrosse- 'nuff said, and screaming sweet nothings such as " dickwad" into each other's ears in an effort to impress.
I would like to say that I am unamused, but the reality is quite the opposite. It's like watching the animal channel on t.v.

I am very transfixed on my red socks with black bears on the ankle when a voice decides to penetrate my focus, and I have this suspicion it was directed at me.

" So Alaska"
" Alaska?" I inquired

The voice was no nonsense, female, raspy, and completely unfamiliar. I look up from my bear socks only to face a girl with long brown hair and quizzical eyebrows, clad in a vintage, navy blue Bob Dylan T-shirt. Above her left eye, was a striking red birth mark.

"Your socks" She dramatically glanced downwards toward the suspects, who, in addition to the bears, had "Alaska!" stitched along the top.

She then swiveled her head back to where the herd was throwing empty bottles of Gatorade at one another. She rolled her eyes, and just as quickly, turned her head around to look me dead in the eyes.

"Hi"

"Hi"

"So, in the event of a fire occurring in this building during this period lets make a pact right now that you and I will immediately saunter, not run, off of the school premises and get ice cream at Pudge".

I'm typically very shy when I'm around new people, and I was admittedly quite startled from her directness and peculiar urgency, as if she knew something was going to happen. But for whatever reason, I liked her, and instantly wanted her to be my friend.

" Sounds like a plan, but we must order The Ann".

My conscious was giddy with friend- making merriment and I didn't want to mess this up.

" Only if The Ann is a giant sundae." "Oh it is, it's named after the owners niece, who ironically is lactose intolerant" .

At that, Samuel called her up to his desk to distribute items mandatory for new students. I was once again, alone.

The week preceded without event, and Samuel was dodged many times but some encounters were almost too close. He seemed to be trying to tell me something. At the time I figured it was unimportant, probably something to do with helping volunteer on Pi day. However, I kept feeling a nagging pull at my stomach, as if whatever the man had so say was urgent.

It was three o'clock on Friday, and the bell had just rung. I was hoping to see the girl from advisement and ask if she wanted to hang out, but our schedules just haven't aligned. I began to walk down the frenzied hallway, planning my wild night of Ben & Jerry's and Monty Python movies with my older brother, Aarav.

After my best friend Anna moved to New York, he and I have grown really close. Next to her, he is probably my favorite person. He is tall, with jet black hair, like mine, that he wears quaff and combed back. Unlike me, he has terrible vision, so he wears black framed glasses constantly. We are eleven months apart , he's a senior this year and I am but a junior with no friends. Sometimes he lets me hang out with his Debate pals when they come over to our place for extreme jenga and curry, but even he doesn't want me tagging along all of the time.

Walking outside the clouds are active, swirling about like grey cotton candy machine. I begin my bike ride home, and it begins to rain.