literature

Fox 001: Fox at First Sight

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"You don't have to look so down every time you start a new school.  It is not like we move that often," my mom says to me as we approach the visitor's parking.  I wait until she is in the parking spot before replying.

"I realise that it has been a very, very long time since you were in ninth grade, but yes, even once a year is often when changing schools."

"You don't have to be so dramatic.  At least you are clever and pretty.  You should have no trouble making new friends if you just try an fit in a little."

I sigh in exasperation, "It is hard for me to make friends, especially when I try to fit in.  You know that."

"Nichole," Mom was serious now - she used my real name, "We talked about this before.  I didn't even go on dates until college.  We all just hung out in groups.  Your... preference is no body's business and should not even be a factor in your school life."

"Yeah, Jenifer," I only call her Jenifer when she calls me Nichole, "it is a factor.  When I have to worry about who I smile at or who makes me blush... I can't know who I can just be myself around.  All I can do is keep quiet, keep to myself and hope for the world that no one sees a twinkle in my eye for the wrong person."

Mom let out a sigh and turned to me in the passenger seat. "Chole, honey, if you were into boys, it would hate to think of you fooling around-"

"Good grief, Mom!" I had not planned on getting worked up before even going to my first class, but there I was. "Do you think I got that black eye because we were caught making out?  No!  We never even held hands!  We just... looked at each other the wrong way.  I have never even openly flirted and they still see it in me!  I must be the only person in the world without a 'gay-dar!'" I cried into my folded arms for a minute or two before I felt I could compose myself.  Mom put her hand on my shoulder reassuringly and I sat up, drying my eyes.

"When you get home after school, you can tell me all about the cute girls, just like I was your best friend."

I roll my eyes and pull the door handle, pushing the complaining thing open with its groan of reluctance.  "Don't be weird, Mom.  That's my job."

* * * * *

We came the afternoon before and registered me for school, let me pick my classes, and meet most of my teachers.  Of course, picking my classes is a bit of a stretch of the word, implying choice and all.  Being in band made the choices even fewer, but at least I got to pick my foreign language.  Almost anyway.

"And what foreign language would you like?"
"I thought French, seeing as that was what I was taking for the last eight weeks."
"Well yes, but French is full, so what would you like?"
"Spanish, I suppose.  It is close, kinda."
"I am sorry, dear, but Spanish is also full.  How about German?"
"Ugh, no.  What else do you have."
"Well, there is Italian, and Russian, but I probably ought to mention that they are full."
"So... is German open?"
"Yes"
"Anything else?"
"No, I am afraid not."
"Can I have those two minutes of my life back please?"
"Come again?"
"German will be fine.  Maybe I will transfer again in another couple months and I will get a shot at French again."
"That's the spirit."
"What? Really?"
"Hmm?  You are going to take the German class, right?"
"Uh... Right."  I was beginning to think I was getting confused, but it got better.
"Oh, oh, oh, no that will not work.  Unless you wanted to drop band.  How about that?"
"Oh, you have got to be kidding me."
"So, you do not want to drop band?"
"Mmm... not so much, no."  Not for German, anyway.  I have a great-uncle or something whose English had never been that good and he keeps telling me I need to sprechen.
"Or you could take it for zero hour, then be free for seventh," she pondered.
At last, a solution.  "Fine.  I'll have a zero hour.  What's a zero hour?"

So there I was, at some grotesque hour of the morning, taking a class that starts before any descent person should even be out of the house, and it was German for mercy's sake.  I was happy, however, that I had wondered the halls had found my classes the day before - this old building was intimidating enough seeing it for the second time, and now it seemed dark and foreboding with sun just creaking its way up the mountain-obscured horizon.
Mountain was probably a less than apt word, but seeing how I was used to places so flat that if you thought you saw a hill it was actually the curvature of the earth, this may as well have been Pikes Peak.  This place had more character in any one square mile of terrain than my past four home towns combined.  It was a fact that  only added to the ominous impression of the looming building, dark before me and I think there was a fog lingering over the lawn.

Pressing on, I climb the two expansive sets of stairs up to the main entrance and look at the handle on the door.  I had been thinking about the handles off and on the night before.  They looked like brass that was tarnished with time and polished with thousands of hands, mindlessly grabbing hold and pulling, letting the metal slide in their hands as the door swung and their feet, their thousands of feet carried them over the threshold.  I had meant to look on the internet for what school door handles like these would be made from, but I forgot.  Every time I thought about it yesterday, I could not just go look it up, so I put it off, then again, forgot.  Here I am now, on the threshold, mind full of thousands - no - millions of feet passing through and I did not know what the handle was made of.  Was brass even remotely plausible?

I recognised the panic attack early enough to squelch it before it gripped me too greatly.  Mild anxiety was perfectly acceptable.  Someone passed by me in the doorway, almost touching, and I breathed in sharply and shook off the sensation.  Up the front stairs, three halls back and one over and I was at my locker.  Every school I had ever been to had stainless steel handles.  I started to think about handles I had seen on television and in films, but it was no use.  The same tall, dark figure that passed me down at the entrance, passed me again on my trek two halls over and one up towards the languages hall.  There were not many people in the building yet at this forsaken hour.

Passed like a mist in the cross hall was a wispy girl with red hair, red ears that poked up brightly, tipped with white, and a red tail trailing in her wake, also tipped in white.  I blinked just a couple of times then hurried to the intersection to get another look, but she was gone.  There were a couple people milling around but no sign of the fox.
I figured she had disappeared into one of the half-dozen classrooms that direction, and so turned the other direction to suffer through German.

[You have been reading the first installment of the Fox Tale Series by Lady Quindecim.]
[If you received this text from a source other that DeviantArt, please let the author know via e-mail to lady.quindecim@gmail.com]
[I hope you have enjoyed this installment]
If this is the firs one you are reading, by all means please stop and read ---Oh, Wait! This IS the first one first, then proceed in order.

Part One: Fox at First Sight → You are Here ←
Part Two: Foxy Lady → [link]
Part Three: Still a Fox → [link]
Part Four: Fellowship of the Fox → [link]
Part Five: Fox Free Period → [link]
Part Six: Fox, but not Forgotten → [link]
Part Seven: Fox Report → [link]
Part Eight: Fox in socks → [link]
Part Nine: Lingering Fox → [link]
Part Ten: Bargain with a Fox → [link]
Part Eleven: Speechless Fox → [link]
Part Twelve: Fox Filled Dreams → [link]
Part Thirteen: In a Box, With a Fox → [link]
Part Fourteen: Fox and Stone → [link]
Part Fifteen: Chef Fox & On the Spot → [link]
Part Sixteen: Fox Proud → [link]
Part Seventeen: Fox is Watching → [link]
Part Eighteen: Foxless Day? → [link]
Part Nineteen: Cornered Without a Fox → [link]
Part Twenty: A Fighting Fox → [link]
Part Twenty One: What Fox Can Never Know → [link]
Part Twenty Two: The Wounded Fox → [link]
Part Twenty Three: The True Fox → [link]
Part Twenty Four: Holding On To Fox → [link]
Part Twenty Five: A Box for Fox → [link]
Part Twenty Six: A Locked Box for Fox → [link]
Part Twenty Seven: Putting Fox Aside → [link]
Page Twenty Eight: The Fox Path → [link]
Page Twenty Nine: Fox Has Secrets → [link]
Page Thirty: Happy Fox → [link]
Page Thirty One: Walking With Fox → [link]
Page Thirty Two: Fox’s Gift → [link]
Page Thirty Three: A Foxed Conviction → [link]
Page Thirty Four: Fox’s Town → [link]
Page Thirty Five: Fox at Hand → [link]
Page Thirty Six: A Foxy Habit → [link]
Page Thirty Seven: I Can Dream About Fox → [link]
Page Thirty Eight: Chef Fox 1 → [link]
Page Thirty Nine: Chef Fox 2 → [link]
Page Forty: Chef Fox 3 → [link]
Page Forty One: Chef Fox 4 → [link]
Page Forty Two: Searching for Fox → [link]
Page Forty Three: Morning Fox → [link]
Page Forty Four: Quiet Fox → [link]
Page Forty Five: Fox’s Warning → [link]
Page Forty Six: Grumpy Fox → [link]
Page Forty Seven: Fox Running Off → [link]
Page Forty Eight: Trouble with Fox → [link]
Page Forty Nine: A Dream a Mask and a Fox → [link]
Page Fifty: Dancing Fox → [link]
Page Fifty One: A Change for Fox → [link]
Page Fifty Two: Pinned For Fox → [link]
Page Fifty Three: Named the Fox Indiana → [link]
Page Fifty Four: Happy Fox → [link]
Page Fifty Five: Sorry, Fox → [link]
Page Fifty Six: Sleepy Fox → Coming Soon ←


If, for whatever reason, you want to use any of this/these, please check with me first.

As always, feedback welcome.
Comments12
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Macadamiannutjob's avatar
Ah very interesting.
I love the sprinkle of humor in this lol.
Convo with office lady was great :)
I am very curious about her funny thoughts on doors lol.

Youve already pulled me in with the very small mention of The fox! :D