Adapt (I)

TJR Garcia © 2020

SCARLET

Days in Green Haven aren’t usually like today. They are usually drenched in warm ultra-violet rays, heating the fine grain sand, and opening the flowers in the morning dew. Instead, today Green Haven is a monochrome blur of water and wind, as it becomes subject to the uncanny coastal weather.

I screw my nose up as I examine my face in the mirror. Rainy days don’t work for me. I pull a brush out from the draw and drag it through my long dark hair. It clings to my skin with static. With a growl, I pull it back into a ponytail. I go to my tiny closet and rummage for a suitable shirt. I settle for a light weight long sleeve shirt that covers all my markings on my back, and a pair of skinny jeans.

Phoenix, my overly excitable German Sheppard, dances around me in the hopes that I will take him out for a walk. I give him an apologetic scratch behind the ear and walk him to the back yard before I make my way to my car.

My beat-up silver Jeep booms to life, the sub-woofers pounding like a beating heart. I scream out the lyrics to the Fall Out Boy album as I make my way to school. People on the sidewalk turn their heads as I pass them.

In this tiny town everyone knows me.

Everyone knows everyone.

Usually, my little town is an amazing watercolour painting of sandy beaches and sparkling turquoise oceans. We have a little over one thousand people in our community. Sure, it has its flaws, but the peeling paint of old houses, and the weeds growing up the spaces of the picket fences gives the town character that isn’t explainable to those that don’t live here.

I park in front of the creatively named Green Haven Central High School. I hop out with my school bag. I can sense the words on the tip of the teacher’s tongues, wanting to comment on the volume of my music. I flash them a nonchalant smile as the bell rings for class. It is hard to chastise one of your best performing students.

I see Caron across the courtyard and start my way toward her. She catches sight of me and excuses herself from her conversation with Mr. Pintt; her history teacher. Caron is a straight A’s student, and what’s more, she seems to have friendships with all the teachers which makes it easier for her to get the extra help when she needs it. You would be excused for thinking that she is a teacher’s pet, though. She escapes the stereotype by being a blonde bombshell and resident rebel outside of school hours.

“How was history?” I ask, knowing that she had a zero period of AP History this morning. She looks energized. I wonder if that is because she is on her third coffee or if it is because she just really enjoyed the class. Knowing her, it is more likely to be latter.

“Actually, it was pretty good.” She says, confirming my suspicions. She gives me an up and down glance. “I see that the weather is doing you as many favours as it’s doing me.”

I roll my eyes at her. She looks as stunning as always. Her cream skin perfectly clear, with no need for foundation. She has a dash of her signature brown eye liner just grazing the outer corners of her eyes. Not one hair of her salon quality blow-out is out of place and her outfit is what I would call Valley Girl meets Girl Next-door. When compared to me, she is the Mona Lisa to my The Scream.

The courtyard is emptying as everyone files to class. Wordlessly, Caron and I make our way to English.

As a rule, I don’t take humanities subjects. They always bore me with their ambiguous rules and lack of concern for decisiveness. Even science is a little too wishy-washy for me. I mean, theories that can be proven over and over, however can still be held into question? No. I prefer my world to be straight edged - black and white - so I delve into numbers. But, to gain my final mark I must pass my English units.

So here I am.

We make it into class, and I plunk down in the back row. I pray that time speeds up for the next hour. The classroom fills with wet and cold teenagers, all chattering like budgerigars in a cage. I flip open my notebook and wait, pen in hand, for the teacher to begin class.

Caron drops her bag on the floor beside the desk. She takes her seat next to me and starts to preen her hair.

I smile softly.

She sighs as she runs her hands through her perfect hair, as if it needs maintaining. “So... you forgot to text me back last night.”

I rest my chin on the heel of my hand. “I didn’t forget.”

“Then how come you didn’t reply?”

“I didn’t want to.”

“Are you serious?” She turns in her chair to face me. I glance at her.

“Caron, I told you, I don’t want a boyfriend.” The last thing I need is someone more intimately involved in my life than Caron. It is hard enough to keep my secrets from her, let alone a boyfriend.

“He doesn’t have to be a boyfriend-” she starts but is cut off by Mrs. Mathers voice.

“Miss Fairmont, if you don’t mind, I have a class to run.” Mrs. Mathers stands at the front of the class, her wrinkles set in a stern glare.

“Sorry.” Caron replies, sheepishly.

“Come and sit up the front.”

“But-”

“Just do it. We have a new student today, and I don’t want him to think that this is just a class for chit-chat.” Mrs. Mathers turns away, shutting down any further argument from Caron.

I give Caron a sympathetic smile, and she gives me a look that can only be translated as ′we will talk about this later.′ She drags her bag to the vacant desk at the front.

This period is going to be even longer than I first anticipated.

“Class, today we welcome Boe White.”

He steps into the room and instantly the hair on neck stands on end.

He is over six foot tall. His hair is jet black, short on the sides and slightly longer on top. His skin is dark bronze, as if he has spent too much time in the sun. Even through the jacket and jeans, I can tell that his features are chiselled to the vein. He has a fresh face, but somehow, I get the feeling that his dark green eyes have seen things that most his age wouldn’t have. Then there is the lazy lopsided grin...

Every girl’s spine becomes straighter in a matter of microseconds. Even Mrs. Mathers’ chest pops out a fraction. The guys in the room straighten their shoulders.

I straighten too, but not to impress. My territorial instincts worm their way to the surface. I don’t want to appear weak.

“Boe, would you like to introduce yourself?”

He hooks his thumbs under the straps of his school bag, flexing the muscles in his arms. The girls in the room collectively sigh. “Well, I guess you already know my name. I come from the west coast. I like to surf a bit.” He bites on his lip for a second. “Nothing else to say, really.”

“Well,” Mrs. Mathers clasps her hands together. “Thank you. You may take a seat.”

I suddenly become hyper aware that there is a spare seat next to me.

He starts his way towards me, his eyes fixed on the empty seat. Goose bumps break out across my skin, but not in the nervous teenage girl way. The markings on my back are fiercely tingling. I brace myself for the inevitable waves of ice-cold chills to wash over my body.

I chew on the inside of my cheek. He is a hunter.

Boe is a hunter.

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Then Boe diverts to sit three tables away from me, next to Chandler, a boy that would probably rival Boe in height but had as much muscle tone as the pencil in my hand.

I exhale. Thank God.

Chandler wears a set of Clarke Kent style glasses, that hint at his actual aptitude for software engineering. Boe and Chandler greet each other in a casual way, but Chandler is obviously sizing Boe up.

Mrs. Mathers begins to pace at the front of the room, prattling on about the word-ingenuity of Mary Shelly’s Frankenstein. I invite the distraction and begin to focus as much of my attention on this God-awful class as I can possibly muster.

I twist my thumb ring around my knuckle nervously as I try to wrap my head around the sublime descriptions that Mrs. Mathers is demonstrating, but my mind wanders. I really don’t like other hunters. Every time our paths cross, we end up nearly killing each other. Well, to be perfectly honest, I nearly end up killing them. I have never been able to understand why I cannot stand to be near other hunters. All I know is I get the same gut wrenching feeling when I am near them as when I am near the creatures I hunt - ice cold shivers that trail the markings that scar my back. Following that I get the all-consuming blood lust that often results in the hunter being majorly wounded. I have also been told this it’s not a common response for hunters when they meet each other.

I work better alone, anyway.

I glance at Boe. Why is he here?

Mrs. Mathers announces that we will be breaking into groups to examine a chapter. Not a second passes by before Caron races back to my desk.

“Thank God for that. I thought I was going to have to sit by myself all damn class.” She whispers to me. Students all mill around, deciding on groups of four or five. At the desk in front of us is Eric, who doesn’t take long to spin his chair around and joint our group.

Eric is the definition of understated. He has all the makings of a high school jock - broad shoulders, handsome features, and the sports repertoire. But he is mostly shy, and although he wasn’t the best at school, he did try. He has a smile that reminds me of a retriever pup, and a personality to suit. About a year ago Caron and I made a point of trying to befriend him. We never pushed him, and at first, he made a point of distancing himself from us, worried that we would get the wrong idea about him. But between Caron’s caring nature and my ability to make someone feel comfortable whilst making fun of them, we broke through most of his defences. Now he feels at ease enough with us to just join us, whether it’s in class projects, at lunch when he had enough of the guy crowd, or at parties. I think we boosted his social ranking as well, and it gave him the opportunity to work with a group in class that might actually get work done.

“How’s it going?” He asks, glancing at me, then Caron.

I nod. “Better if this wasn’t English.”

Caron rolls her eyes. Contrary to me, Caron is a humanities student. She understands the paradigms behind all these subjects, which makes the material easy for her. In many ways, that is why her and I get along so well. She is the yin to my yang.

Then the fourth and fifth to our group approach. I should have known that Boe would make a point of joining our group. He drags a chair up to our table and straddles it, rather than sitting like a normal human. A little unsure, a moment later Chandler gets his own seat and squishes himself into the group. He sits with his shoulders drawn into his body as if trying to make room for everyone else. Or maybe he is just trying not to touch any of us.

“Hi.” Boe says to the whole table, as if he is just another student.

Caron’s eyes brighten and she smiles one of her dazzling smiles. Subtle, I think to myself. “Hi. Boe is it? I’m Caron.”

Boe gave her an equally heart melting smile. “Nice to meet you.”

Eric clears his throat. “I’m Eric, and this is Scarlet.”

Normally I would have chastised Eric for speaking for me, but right now I am grateful not to have to speak to Boe.

“Nice to meet you guys.” He reaches his hand out for Eric to shake. Such a formal thing for a seventeen-year-old to do? Weird. Eric takes Boe’s hand and does his best to disguise his confusion.

There is a lot that is weird about this whole situation, actually. First, Boe hasn’t even talked directly to me. Not that I am unhappy about that, but hunters that come into my life seem to beeline their way to me. Some out rightly just knock on my door. They never mince words, attempting to recruit me into their weird militant world. They called it Head Quarters; a big training academy based in the city. They promised outstanding training, a team that I would hunt with, and a life completely paid for they their ‘organization’ - whatever that meant.

Moreover, I have never seen a hunter this young. I mean, I am sure that they exist. From the limited information I was able to gather from the past hunters I have met, almost all hunters undergo the transformation by the age of six, just like me. I guessed that most of them attended Head Quarters in leu of going to regular school.

As usual, Caron leads our discussion. She tries her best to catch Boe where we are up to with Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein.

“So, the monster is a symbol?” Eric asked. Even though we were supposed to have finished the book two weeks ago, I know for a fact that Eric hadn’t finished it until last night.

“Well, no...” Caron trailed, trying to decide how to answer the question. “And yes... it depends on how you interpret the text. It also changes throughout the novel…”

Holy smokes Caron! I begin to tune out as I get lost in the different levels that she has already revealed. I am still stuck on how a monster could be animated from grave robbed corpses and electricity.

“Okay,” Eric nods, feigning understanding. “Now what is Sublime Nature?”

I want to laugh at Eric, but I know that he learns best when Caron explains the text. I also am getting a lot from her demonstrative retelling of the chapter, even if ninety percent of it is going straight over my head.

Between the three of us, we keep skimming through the chapter that Mrs. Mathers assigned us. All the while Boe just observed, no notes being written in his pristine notebook. Chandler takes notes frantically.

“So, you’re telling me that the monster wants salvation?” Eric asks.

“Not really. He doesn’t let himself want it because he knows that there is no place for him in those realms.”

“He has a sort of awareness of himself. Even though he knows his nature is wrong, he also knows that he can’t fight his nature either.” I say, slowly starting to understand more about this book.

“Actually,” Boe interjects. My attention snaps to him. I almost forgot he is there. “I think that it has less to do with all of that, and more to do with the dangerous nature of unnatural beings on this planet. I mean, ultimately, even the monster knows that he does not belong, but he cannot fight the urge to protect his own life, until it is already too late.”

“Well, that is the most superficial interpretation, of course. Anyone can see that.” Caron clips, her competitiveness rearing its head.

“Sometimes the meaning that is the most obvious is the only one that the writer intended to convey.” Boe retorts.

Eric and I both look at Caron, waiting for her to fire back.

“Well, it doesn’t matter what the writers intended meaning was. It is all about what the reader absorbs from the text. So, if you want to write a two-thousand-word essay on how monsters are bad, then be my guest. But I’m actually trying to get a good grade.”

Well, I am not disappointed with her answer, but in the edge of my vision I can see the corners of Boe’s mouth turn up. He glances my way and catches me looking at him. Before I can divert my gaze, I read something in his forest-green eyes. Suddenly, I am sure that he isn’t here to go to school like a normal boy.

Before anyone else can contribute anything, the bell rings. Mrs. Mather yells over the sound of students pushing out their chairs and collecting their things, telling us that she expects us to present our group work in our next lesson, which is tomorrow.

I stand. Simultaneously Boe stands beside me.

I stuff my bag with my books and file for the door. I can feel Boe’s gaze on me. I sigh with relief when Boe doesn’t attempt to follow me. Out in the rain cooled air I take a deep, full breath in, letting my tongue momentarily taste the moisture in the air.

But as I exhale my cleansing breath, a niggling sense of unease creeps into my thoughts. I haven’t seen the last of Boe White.

Not by a long shot.