The Dreamer ✓

Letter 19

NO.19; A LETTER TO SOMEONE YOU JUDGED BY THEIR FIRST IMPRESSION

MARCH 12th, 2014

Dear Imogen,

Pretty, petite Imogen Reed. I remember the first time we met. It was on the first day of Year Seven at Burbank School and the one hundred fifty of us had all been assembled in the Great Hall for induction. Mrs Plummer filed us all in one by one in an orderly line and we filled up the dozen rows of red chairs. I ended up sitting between you and Laurel Zanetti (who would go on to be one of my closest friends at Burbank). We were on the last row and you had scuttled in five minutes late, red faced and sputtering apologies to Mrs Plummer. You slid in the empty chair next to me and offered me an unsure smile. I'd smiled back and you seemed to relax.

Later on that day, you'd bumped into me and sent the stack of folders you held against your chest scattering onto the floor.

"Oh my God...I'm-I'm sorry, s-sorry," you sputtered as you knelt down and began scrambling to pick everything up.

I shook my head and bent down to help you, "It's okay."

When I'd managed to help you collect all your things, you stood up as you sputtered some more apologies. You got all your things and smiled. "Sorry again. I'm such an idiot. I...I was looking for W72 cause I have Spanish and I really don't want to be late."

I agreed to show you to the room since I had French and our classes were across from each other. You'd huffed out this breath of relief and your smile widened into a grin. You reminded me of a pixie, the ones you read about in fairy tales that flew around the forest and got tangled into human affairs. You had a small frame (you still do) and a fair complexion like you hadn't seen much of the sun, your pale blonde hair fell to your elbows and you had these big baby blue eyes. You were so cute and kind but at the same time you were so ditzy and forgetful. You always turned up to lessons late with some excuse about getting lost and you'd trip over your feet when you were talking too much and not looking where you were going.

For about three years, up until Year Ten, you wore a pastel pink ribbon in your hair and you walked around with a lollipop in mouth like you came straight out of a Hello Kitty advert. And for a while (along with everybody) I thought you were the typical dumb blonde. Pretty to look at but nothing going on upstairs. (I'm really sorry for that by the way). But then it all changed about two months into Year Eleven. It was during the weekly assembly for Year Tens and Year Elevens when Mr Weinstein made a surprising announcement.

"This summer, a student from our school had the unique and prestigious honour of being selected to take part of the International Mathematical Olympiad. A competition that takes the brightest young minds in the world and puts their knowledge to the test," The bored expression he usually wore seemed to melt off for a moment as he continued talking. "This student was only one of six pupils in the country chosen to represent the UK in this challenge."

At this point the entire hall was waiting with baited breath to see who he was talking about. They had to be great if they got Mr Weinstein in a good mood.

"Imogen Reed," Mr Weinstein announced and a chorus of disbelieved murmurs crashed through the hall. "It was Imogen's mathematical know-how that led the team to victory. Imogen, can you please come down here and tell the school about it. It's an amazing feat and I'm sure everybody would love to hear about it."

I remember staring at you with wide eyes as you stood up from your seat and walked over to the front. There was a nervous spring in your step as you climbed up the stairs and onto to the stage. I thought it was some of kind joke because for years you'd be pretty, petite Imogen Reed.