A Victorian Ghost is in My Mirror

There's a Victorian Ghost in My Mirror

Chapter One

Relocating Mr. Johnny

On the west side of an old school building, past the green oaks and the budding roses, over the climbing vines and many insects, lies a classroom. This classroom, with its tiled floors and cheery paint, housed one student who, in the right circumstances, might have turned out to be a normal human being. She didn't though. No. There wasn't any chance. This story would be boring if she was normal. What main character is ever normal?

Hello. That's how you're supposed to greet someone right? With a simple hello. It's only one word. I don't know where social anxiety sprung from with just one word to say.

As a self-introduction (as we know that the character must describe themselves before the start of the story, lest the reader be picturing a feminine Nicolas Cage excitedly hugging a little blond girl,) one might say that my hair was spun wheat; it was about the same color as barn straw. Another might say I had eyes the color of chocolate; ...No...but I have no problem with that. I like to think of my orbs as more of a muddy-creek shade. Very flattering. Thirdly, my skin- not tan, not fair, just normal. Think of the color brown mixed with a lot of white, and the shade that you might get.

There you have it. I have introduced myself. Now if you wouldn't mind, I'd like to tell the story.

There are things in this world that man does not ever know. And, there are things in this world that woman knows better. Then, there are the things in this world that I know.

Not much.

“If you combine a with b, since they are both variables...” I now know what happens when you combine a and b. I will soon forget it. As with everything else that I 'know' in school. It's natural.

I sighed, leaning on my arm and facing the window. There wasn't much time left in the class, and soon I would be going onto History, then Science, then so on. I figured out long ago that school was a monotonous cycle, like an assembly line filled with adults, putting one piece of information into your brain after the other. You see, in a teacher's mind it makes sense to put it in little by little, and apparently they think that if they sound like a robot while saying it then we become the robot. Be the robot, Memi, I thought, Be the robot.

“Alright everyone, now if you would look here-” As a goddess of fortune, the bell rang.

Using my practiced sigh I reserved especially for leaving class, I stood up, picked up my gray bag, and walked out the room.

A common ritual that is associated with high school girls is the traveling to the bathroom between classes. But, we don't just walk to the bathroom. No, according to the observations of teenage boys, we herd to the bathroom. According to teenage boys, the bathroom is the information central, the absolute headquarters of all girlish communication. In the eyes of the male population, everything happens, in the bathroom. And there I was about to go, into the belly of the beast, the female's den.

The Bathroom.

With my thin hands I pushed open the door, face blank and eyes calm. Rule #1 of entering The Bathroom- don't appear happy. In an instant, you would be attacked with conversation too fast and too high for the human ear and brain to perceive. With a steady expression, I entered the long room, evenly taking steps towards the mirror. Rule #2 of Entering The Bathroom- don't stare at yourself. Do what nature requires of you and go. If you are still following the first rule, yet continue to gaze at your reflection in the mirror, it is a natural assumption that you are incredibly depressed, and/or, vain. While that would protect you from the encore of high-pitched chatter, normally one might take kindly to at least being able to converse at least once in their lifetime.