Arielle of Cedar Brook
Boundaries of Mirkwood
Chapter 3
Arielle of Cedar Brook
Attempting to find a parking space at 7:45 AM in the Kennedy High parking lot was akin to finding a man; all the good or even semi-decent ones were taken, and the rest were handicapped.
Not that there weren’t plenty of guys in the throng of students. In fact, there was an odd, slightly out of place group stationed in the vicinity of the side doors. Nearby, the girth of four motorcycles took up the first two spaces. The guys seemed to be guarding them against the cars that were slowly but dangerously fighting to find any meager opening.
A blur of yellow and black sped between some cars like an angry bumble bee, popped up over the curb and onto the sidewalk. Its owner parked right up next to the side doors, bypassing the usual parking system to either the shock or amusement of the students who walked there all the way from Siberia.
The rider didn’t notice them or the boys who were now staring. She turned off the yellow Vespa. One leg lifted to dismount, the skirt rose, and with practiced ease, the rider maintained her modesty to the chagrin of her admirers. The black helmet was removed and a mass of red-gold hair tumbled out.
She secured her bike without a second glance at the others. It came as no surprise to her that she looked out of place. A peach silk kimono-styled shirt with gold lotus blossoms was just visible under a knee-length black, sleeveless, collarless jacket. Yet she knew that what drew the most disapproval (or approval) were her black knee-high boots. She was a sucker for great shoes, especially comfortable ones.
Today she didn’t care. Not really. When she’d dressed that morning, she’d aimed for the “outward making the inner feel better” thing, thinking that looking nice and showing off her new boots would get rid of the shifting ire in her chest. It wasn’t working. So far, she still felt ill at ease and lousy. Honestly, she ought to feel great. Her manuscript was in; she was, for the most part, done with it. It had turned out great, really, honestly. After five years of writing, revision, and a year of general tweaking it was in. It was done.
She grimaced as she heaved her rather heavy bag on her back, causing the content in her chest to nauseously shift in her ribcage.
Getting it finished should have been a good thing; why all this trepidation? Why this stupid oppressive feeling in her mind? Could it be. . .no. Nothing was going to happen. This was Iowa. Nothing happened here; nothing but corn.
Arielle didn’t really have to push her way through the crowds; they had an annoying way of avoiding her. She glanced with distaste at a fake-bake blonde freshman who quickly averted her gaze from Arielle’s deep green eyes.
A shadow emerged beside her.
“Morning, Nathan.” Arielle greeted him without so much as a glance.
“Morning indeed,” he scoffed, sounding about as troubled as Arielle felt. “Is there a reason you look so festive?”
“Speak for yourself.” It seemed to her that Nathan had finally deemed it chilly enough to break out his trench coat. “Keep that thing on and Dr. W will throw you out.”
His dark eyes narrowed at her mention of Dr. W. “It’s windy. I’m wearing a coat. I see no fault in it and the Wookie can do what she will.” He then scrutinized his friend whom he felt looked a little too pale; granted, she was usually pale, but. . .
“How are you feeling?”
She snorted. “Grouchy.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
"Fine."
“You did just have open heart surgery two weeks ago, didn’t you?”
“Yes. And?” she challenged.
He shut his mouth. There was no way to get her to talk when she was like this. Hell, she’d been sick for months and months before the surgery without saying a word to anyone. Side stepping a foot that jutted out to trip him, he accidentally bumped into Arielle while avoiding it. Immediately, he sent her an apologetic look. It was totally inconsiderate, running into a girl who’d just had open heart surgery. She didn’t seem to mind, but sent the foolish jock that had pulled the stunt her trademarked glare of death.
“Watch where you’re going, fag,” but the jock refrained from continuing with this line of conversation when he met Arielle’s hardened gaze. She was gorgeous, knew it, and had the most perplexing way of keeping everyone at arm’s length with it.
“Did you hear something Arielle?” Nathan asked, scowling, resettling his backpack on his gangly frame.
“No,” she replied, breaking eye contact with the now skittish jock.
“Something else wrong, you know, aside from those asses?” he attempted.
Thankfully she didn’t get angry, but just sighed. “Nothing I can figure.” With those creases in his forehead, he didn’t look so good himself; “You?”
He frowned and tilted his head toward a slightly less dense alcove. This was not normal behavior for Nathan; there were only a few minutes before class and students like them were never late. If what he had to say couldn’t wait, it was important.
“What?” Arielle asked.
After looking up and down the hall, he said, “I think they’re planning something.”
“The jocks?” Arielle snorted as if he were making a joke. “Is it a kegger? Should I bust out my stash?”
He shook his head. “No. Those hot-headed mafia kids.”
She raised a brow.
“They’re cowards, I know. But they’re stupid cowards in a large group. Like those fucking jocks.”
Arielle laughed. “The Coats worship you.”
“They don’t fucking know me!” Nathan snapped back, but quickly calmed at the sight of Arielle’s wry smile. “You changed the subject again. What’s with you?”
They both started off to Tsang’s room again. Arielle frowned. “I just have a bad feeling. Just. . .I sent in my manuscript.”
“That’s great.” Nathan lit up. He knew she was going to do it, but hadn’t expected it to be so soon.
“But something’s wrong.” She pulled the classroom door open and they both entered into a room hung and decorated with Chinese calligraphy, and smelling of stir-fry and faint of jasmine.
“You don’t think it’s finished?” Nathan asked, puzzled.
“Yes and no. It’s good, I love it, but,” her eyes pleaded with her old friend. “I feel like I submitted it because I was out of time.”
The bell rang and Eddie Tsang took out the syllabus overhead. It was the exact same thing he’d done every morning for the past 34 years at Kennedy, in Iowa.
“Before you hand in your Oedipus essay,” several groans murmured in the class, “I want to remind you tonight is Asian Awareness. We have lots of fun, we do Gung Fu! Arielle presents, and if you be her guinea pig, I give you five Tsang dollar.”
Arielle smiled to herself as they began rifling through their bags, ever amused by her Chinese English teacher. She’d started learning “Gung Fu” from him after she enrolled at Kennedy. The lessons held at the local martial arts gym were a blessing; an outlet. It was Tsang who’d recognized her malcontent with the mundane rut her life had fallen into and drawn her out. He’d been in the same class as Bruce Lee back in the day and often kicked the crap out of him. Had photos to prove it too. Appealing to Arielle’s fascination with his youthful exploits, he’d convinced her to join up one day when she stopped by after class to discuss Camus. It’d also kick-started her writing into over-drive. With mental and physical exercise to occupy her, her life had crawled out of a terrible rut.
Unfortunately, the master was getting old now. He was close to retirement, but Arielle suspected that he’d never stop teaching. It was in his blood.
A particularly upset girl bustled past Arielle.
The thing about Tsang was that he was hard. That essay, 5 pages on Oedipus, was assigned two days ago. It would have the most strident expectations and format to follow, making achieving an A close to impossible save for a few. Arielle knew most of the students in this school resented the old man. Only those who actually wanted to be prepared for college took him, and the rest sought out easier routes. Tsang’s teaching strategy was to make these first two months particularly rough just for the purpose of weeding out students who weren’t willing to expend the extra effort. She’d found it amusing to watch bottle blondes and streaked, spiky haired boys in retarded, annoyingly trendy clothes “humph” and walk out on the class.
Arielle frowned. Nathan had taken his essay out already and was about to turn it in.
She stopped him. “I’ll take it up for you.”
He sat back, and handed it to her with his thanks.
Two weeks ago, a couple Mafia Coats had quit, raising a ruckus; yelling and cursing at Tsang they’d left in a huff. Arielle had gotten the feeling they’d expected Nathan to leave with them, and by association, her. That had bugged the hell out of them then. It even irritated her now just thinking of it as she presented their papers to Tsang.
“You ready to present tonight?” Tsang asked.
Arielle forced a smile. She didn’t feel up to it at the moment, but she’d never been one to back down on a promise. Before school let out, anything could happen. “I have my uniform in my bag; lesson’s all set Mr. Tsang.”
He smiled back. “You do well, I give you extra crabmeat rangoon Friday.” His mouth dropped open as if this were a big shocking surprise.
She didn’t have to force a smile this time; his cheer was contagious. Even if she did end up laid flat out on the cafeteria floor during this thing, he’d still give her an extra treat. “Thanks Mr. Tsang.”
He had a goofy way of putting her at ease and the tense sickness in her gut began to abate. Yet the moment she turned away to go to her seat, the unease took hold and everything slowed. The wooden door made a sharp clatter as it impacted the wall. There was a Coat standing in the frame. Tsang shouted.
Arielle saw nothing; heard nothing but murmurs. She could only see the gun and knew its trajectory.
Tsang.
Arielle didn’t think; movement was instinct. There was pressure in her chest; ribs cracking, sinews snapping, giving her mind a split second to wonder why there wasn’t more pain which promptly struck. She had a clear view of the stunned Coat, momentarily still. Just long enough for an enraged Nathan to rip the gun out of the Coat’s hand and bash it over his head.
Tsang knelt over her crumpled body, the peach silk turning red. He was shouting in Chinese (or was he?). Nathan skidded to a halt, thrown down on his knees trying to comfort her as the others ran out of the room, trampling the Coat as they left, alerting other rooms with their cries.
Nathan was crying, along with Tsang. Arielle wanted to tell them it was alright; it hurt, she couldn’t breathe, this wasn’t much different from open heart surgery, it would be alright. Her time might have been up, but she wasn’t finished yet.
Chapter 3
Arielle of Cedar Brook
Attempting to find a parking space at 7:45 AM in the Kennedy High parking lot was akin to finding a man; all the good or even semi-decent ones were taken, and the rest were handicapped.
Not that there weren’t plenty of guys in the throng of students. In fact, there was an odd, slightly out of place group stationed in the vicinity of the side doors. Nearby, the girth of four motorcycles took up the first two spaces. The guys seemed to be guarding them against the cars that were slowly but dangerously fighting to find any meager opening.
A blur of yellow and black sped between some cars like an angry bumble bee, popped up over the curb and onto the sidewalk. Its owner parked right up next to the side doors, bypassing the usual parking system to either the shock or amusement of the students who walked there all the way from Siberia.
The rider didn’t notice them or the boys who were now staring. She turned off the yellow Vespa. One leg lifted to dismount, the skirt rose, and with practiced ease, the rider maintained her modesty to the chagrin of her admirers. The black helmet was removed and a mass of red-gold hair tumbled out.
She secured her bike without a second glance at the others. It came as no surprise to her that she looked out of place. A peach silk kimono-styled shirt with gold lotus blossoms was just visible under a knee-length black, sleeveless, collarless jacket. Yet she knew that what drew the most disapproval (or approval) were her black knee-high boots. She was a sucker for great shoes, especially comfortable ones.
Today she didn’t care. Not really. When she’d dressed that morning, she’d aimed for the “outward making the inner feel better” thing, thinking that looking nice and showing off her new boots would get rid of the shifting ire in her chest. It wasn’t working. So far, she still felt ill at ease and lousy. Honestly, she ought to feel great. Her manuscript was in; she was, for the most part, done with it. It had turned out great, really, honestly. After five years of writing, revision, and a year of general tweaking it was in. It was done.
She grimaced as she heaved her rather heavy bag on her back, causing the content in her chest to nauseously shift in her ribcage.
Getting it finished should have been a good thing; why all this trepidation? Why this stupid oppressive feeling in her mind? Could it be. . .no. Nothing was going to happen. This was Iowa. Nothing happened here; nothing but corn.
Arielle didn’t really have to push her way through the crowds; they had an annoying way of avoiding her. She glanced with distaste at a fake-bake blonde freshman who quickly averted her gaze from Arielle’s deep green eyes.
A shadow emerged beside her.
“Morning, Nathan.” Arielle greeted him without so much as a glance.
“Morning indeed,” he scoffed, sounding about as troubled as Arielle felt. “Is there a reason you look so festive?”
“Speak for yourself.” It seemed to her that Nathan had finally deemed it chilly enough to break out his trench coat. “Keep that thing on and Dr. W will throw you out.”
His dark eyes narrowed at her mention of Dr. W. “It’s windy. I’m wearing a coat. I see no fault in it and the Wookie can do what she will.” He then scrutinized his friend whom he felt looked a little too pale; granted, she was usually pale, but. . .
“How are you feeling?”
She snorted. “Grouchy.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
"Fine."
“You did just have open heart surgery two weeks ago, didn’t you?”
“Yes. And?” she challenged.
He shut his mouth. There was no way to get her to talk when she was like this. Hell, she’d been sick for months and months before the surgery without saying a word to anyone. Side stepping a foot that jutted out to trip him, he accidentally bumped into Arielle while avoiding it. Immediately, he sent her an apologetic look. It was totally inconsiderate, running into a girl who’d just had open heart surgery. She didn’t seem to mind, but sent the foolish jock that had pulled the stunt her trademarked glare of death.
“Watch where you’re going, fag,” but the jock refrained from continuing with this line of conversation when he met Arielle’s hardened gaze. She was gorgeous, knew it, and had the most perplexing way of keeping everyone at arm’s length with it.
“Did you hear something Arielle?” Nathan asked, scowling, resettling his backpack on his gangly frame.
“No,” she replied, breaking eye contact with the now skittish jock.
“Something else wrong, you know, aside from those asses?” he attempted.
Thankfully she didn’t get angry, but just sighed. “Nothing I can figure.” With those creases in his forehead, he didn’t look so good himself; “You?”
He frowned and tilted his head toward a slightly less dense alcove. This was not normal behavior for Nathan; there were only a few minutes before class and students like them were never late. If what he had to say couldn’t wait, it was important.
“What?” Arielle asked.
After looking up and down the hall, he said, “I think they’re planning something.”
“The jocks?” Arielle snorted as if he were making a joke. “Is it a kegger? Should I bust out my stash?”
He shook his head. “No. Those hot-headed mafia kids.”
She raised a brow.
“They’re cowards, I know. But they’re stupid cowards in a large group. Like those fucking jocks.”
Arielle laughed. “The Coats worship you.”
“They don’t fucking know me!” Nathan snapped back, but quickly calmed at the sight of Arielle’s wry smile. “You changed the subject again. What’s with you?”
They both started off to Tsang’s room again. Arielle frowned. “I just have a bad feeling. Just. . .I sent in my manuscript.”
“That’s great.” Nathan lit up. He knew she was going to do it, but hadn’t expected it to be so soon.
“But something’s wrong.” She pulled the classroom door open and they both entered into a room hung and decorated with Chinese calligraphy, and smelling of stir-fry and faint of jasmine.
“You don’t think it’s finished?” Nathan asked, puzzled.
“Yes and no. It’s good, I love it, but,” her eyes pleaded with her old friend. “I feel like I submitted it because I was out of time.”
The bell rang and Eddie Tsang took out the syllabus overhead. It was the exact same thing he’d done every morning for the past 34 years at Kennedy, in Iowa.
“Before you hand in your Oedipus essay,” several groans murmured in the class, “I want to remind you tonight is Asian Awareness. We have lots of fun, we do Gung Fu! Arielle presents, and if you be her guinea pig, I give you five Tsang dollar.”
Arielle smiled to herself as they began rifling through their bags, ever amused by her Chinese English teacher. She’d started learning “Gung Fu” from him after she enrolled at Kennedy. The lessons held at the local martial arts gym were a blessing; an outlet. It was Tsang who’d recognized her malcontent with the mundane rut her life had fallen into and drawn her out. He’d been in the same class as Bruce Lee back in the day and often kicked the crap out of him. Had photos to prove it too. Appealing to Arielle’s fascination with his youthful exploits, he’d convinced her to join up one day when she stopped by after class to discuss Camus. It’d also kick-started her writing into over-drive. With mental and physical exercise to occupy her, her life had crawled out of a terrible rut.
Unfortunately, the master was getting old now. He was close to retirement, but Arielle suspected that he’d never stop teaching. It was in his blood.
A particularly upset girl bustled past Arielle.
The thing about Tsang was that he was hard. That essay, 5 pages on Oedipus, was assigned two days ago. It would have the most strident expectations and format to follow, making achieving an A close to impossible save for a few. Arielle knew most of the students in this school resented the old man. Only those who actually wanted to be prepared for college took him, and the rest sought out easier routes. Tsang’s teaching strategy was to make these first two months particularly rough just for the purpose of weeding out students who weren’t willing to expend the extra effort. She’d found it amusing to watch bottle blondes and streaked, spiky haired boys in retarded, annoyingly trendy clothes “humph” and walk out on the class.
Arielle frowned. Nathan had taken his essay out already and was about to turn it in.
She stopped him. “I’ll take it up for you.”
He sat back, and handed it to her with his thanks.
Two weeks ago, a couple Mafia Coats had quit, raising a ruckus; yelling and cursing at Tsang they’d left in a huff. Arielle had gotten the feeling they’d expected Nathan to leave with them, and by association, her. That had bugged the hell out of them then. It even irritated her now just thinking of it as she presented their papers to Tsang.
“You ready to present tonight?” Tsang asked.
Arielle forced a smile. She didn’t feel up to it at the moment, but she’d never been one to back down on a promise. Before school let out, anything could happen. “I have my uniform in my bag; lesson’s all set Mr. Tsang.”
He smiled back. “You do well, I give you extra crabmeat rangoon Friday.” His mouth dropped open as if this were a big shocking surprise.
She didn’t have to force a smile this time; his cheer was contagious. Even if she did end up laid flat out on the cafeteria floor during this thing, he’d still give her an extra treat. “Thanks Mr. Tsang.”
He had a goofy way of putting her at ease and the tense sickness in her gut began to abate. Yet the moment she turned away to go to her seat, the unease took hold and everything slowed. The wooden door made a sharp clatter as it impacted the wall. There was a Coat standing in the frame. Tsang shouted.
Arielle saw nothing; heard nothing but murmurs. She could only see the gun and knew its trajectory.
Tsang.
Arielle didn’t think; movement was instinct. There was pressure in her chest; ribs cracking, sinews snapping, giving her mind a split second to wonder why there wasn’t more pain which promptly struck. She had a clear view of the stunned Coat, momentarily still. Just long enough for an enraged Nathan to rip the gun out of the Coat’s hand and bash it over his head.
Tsang knelt over her crumpled body, the peach silk turning red. He was shouting in Chinese (or was he?). Nathan skidded to a halt, thrown down on his knees trying to comfort her as the others ran out of the room, trampling the Coat as they left, alerting other rooms with their cries.
Nathan was crying, along with Tsang. Arielle wanted to tell them it was alright; it hurt, she couldn’t breathe, this wasn’t much different from open heart surgery, it would be alright. Her time might have been up, but she wasn’t finished yet.
Subtitles
- Darkness and Starlight
- Abigail of Wellington
- Niobe of St. Andrews
- Arielle of Cedar Brook
- Yumiko of Shinjuku
- The Banks of River Running
- Stiff and Stark
- Screams in the Dark
- The Red Bird
- Many Meetings
- Night Fight
- Yumiko's New Friend
- A Mind of One's Own
- Running in Circles
- The Price for Revenge
- The Coming Night
- It Speaks English!
- Fragile Things: I
- Lull