The Transmuted (Chapter 1)

The sun was rising over the world once again as it did every day and every morning since the beginning of time. It illuminated the translucent dew that adorned the verdant grass of the field in front of him, giving color to the world like a painter with brush in hand. That shining painter, though passionate about his craft, was red hot with exasperation completely incensed by the fact that so little were admiring his landscape’s vibrancy. No one seemed to pay attention to this ceremony, the world being revitalized from its nightly torpor, and were much too busy with their lives to recognize its grandeur. I looked around to see the rest of the audience and only found students of varying shapes and sizes scurrying down pathways and across fields to escape the painter’s exhortations and find refuge inside.

I, however, lingered to watch the many scarlet fingers of the sun stretch out onto the world and caress everything with its light as time slowly crept on and the morning was realized. I of course was afforded this opportunity because of the fact that this morning marked April 30, deep into the second semester of my senior year.

The bell blared in the background as belated boys and girls rushed to make first period before the doors were shut, leaving them to grieve and gnash their teeth outside until a haughty but sympathetic instructor would allow them in, leading to their effusive and tender thanks. I had long before grown tired of the ritual and decided to stay out in sun’s gallery for a little longer, more as an act of quiet defiance than rapt appreciation.

“Hey, Michael!” I heard a familiar voice call.

The voice belonged to Anthony, my longtime friend, and neighbor, who I turned to see rushing towards me. Anthony was a lanky, slightly awkward young man of about my age who wasn’t necessarily helped by his rather pale skin. His eyes were shielded completely by thick-rimmed glasses that he had been prescribed two years earlier, around the time he found out about the Lost Generation and read himself half-blind under the dim lights in his home. He was, however, a handsome man who had grown into his looks of late, and if he decided to put down the Hemingway for a second and picked up a dumbbell he could make himself into an appealing man for the hedonistic romp that college (we were promised) would be.

“Anthony, how are you, man?”

“Pretty good, you coming to English today?” He said motioning towards the familiar edifice I was now facing.

“Yeah I will, I just needed a second out here before class started.”

“Oh, yeah I get that.”

‘Yeah, I get that’ had become a favorite phrase of everyone at the school lately. The expression feigned infinite resignation and worldly understanding but was simply verbal filler. In reality, we knew nothing, I doubt anyone does.

“Oh, so last night” Anthony continued, “I was reading The Old Man and The Sea-”

“Again?”

“Yes, last time I read it as allegory and this time I’m reading it as an epic.”

Anthony was a voracious reader and enjoyed the solemnity of a local bookstore or library over almost any other venue. I’d always admired him for this and he helped me love books and for that, I’m grateful to him, but, as evident, he can sometimes be a little too highbrow for his own good.

“Well, I’ll for sure check it out at some point,” I lied.

Truthfully I had already read the book but thought Anthony went through a lot of trouble just to see a man feed some sharks.

“Yeah I know you’re more of a Fitzgerald guy but I think you would like it.”

I nodded hopefully and we both looked out as the sun slowly crept up, straining to reach its apogee. The field and pathways were vacant now and, though the sun had gained an admirer in Anthony, it was increasingly infuriated and shined down with hotter anger at each passing moment.

“Do you want to go inside now?” Anthony asked his hand shielding his eyes from the sun.

“Yeah that’s fine,” I said while beads of sweat began to congregate on his forehead, “the sun will do you some good though with that skin of your’s.”

“Yes, well I have to worry about sunburn a problem you don’t have to worry about.”

I was silent and feigned offense on my face when Anthony rushed to apologize,

“You know I didn’t-”

“Yes I know what you meant, we’ve been friends for years I know you’re not racist,” I laughed.

He joined the laugh and we both began to walk out of the sun into the building. My skin was a deep brown and defied the categories of both light and dark skinned lying somewhere in the middle. I had for a long time despised my skin color and race, as the world forces many, but had grown to love it as I’d grown older. Now in private school, it was a point of pride for me and an encouragement to always strive for perfection. Though, like the rest of my peers, I was beginning to slip away; perfection is tiring.

As we swung open the doors of the school the cold wind rushed up to us with a benevolent greeting. The English room was open revealing Ms.Jackson amicably chatting with some students while the others hung out nearer to the back of the room.

I respected Ms.Jackson, a plain woman who had crossed over the hill and was descending pleasantly into her golden years, for her teaching style and book preferences. She preferred a smart story over a sensational one and a truly well-written one above all else. Also, she selected intriguing writing styles over suspenseful plots, subtle stories over melodramas, and genuine realism over mere escapism. Because of these predilections, she despised the way fiction was headed and especially the wildly extravagant fantasy and science fiction novels that fill shelves today. It was this topic that she was speaking about as we walked in, catching her mid-list

“... every imaginary monster you can think of in a fantasy land, write a shaky plot with shaky prose, have some monsters fight some other monsters, and couple monsters fall in love with the attractive monster and you have yourself a bestseller.”

Ms. Jackson laughed and the group around her went along with her.

“You’re so right Ms. Jackson,” one said.

“Yes, exactly Ms. Jackson.”

“What an astute observation.”

“Apposite for sure.”

“Have I mentioned I love your class, Ms. Jackson?”

The other four clamored to profess their adulation for Ms. Jackson. The group that now surrounded Ms. Jackson, kindly christened ‘The Sniveling Sycophants’ by Anthony last year, had spent the whole of high school stepping on each other's toes to be seen as the star of every teacher’s eye. They were a diverse bunch, each touting a different ethnicity, which they surely all made use of on their college applications (even Susie, the white girl, who had Ms.Jackson review her essay on having a diverse friend group.) They are the chief reason I don’t believe in the catch-all terms “smart” or “intelligent” being defined by the number by someone’s name, that would make The Sycophants geniuses and by far the smartest kids in school. In reality, they were idiots.

“Let’s go over there and talk with Ms. Jackson,” Anthony said.

“Are you kidding?”

Needless to say, I try to avoid The Sycophants at all times.

“I know they-,” he said motioning to the group as Susie’s head rose like a doe hearing a twig snap, “-are over there but I really want to tell Ms. Jackson my college decision.

Anthony, along with Michael and some others from his high school, planned on going to North Central University, about 2 hours from the city. It was Ms. Jackson’s alma mater and she would be glad that Anthony was going there.

“Well you go do that, and let her now I’m going too, I’ll just hang out in the back.”

He nodded and I made my way over to an open seat in the back corner with another one open one next to it. The room was one of the largest classrooms at the school, a smaller version of the public college lecture hall. Filing out from a podium and desk in the front were chairs, that were once new and comfortable and now tattered and hard, organized into a semi-circle. I enjoyed the soft lighting of the room, a butter yellow that was never too harsh on the frigid winter mornings.

I liked the faceless pastiche of boys and girls and young men and women intermixed in the back considerably more than the bootlickers up front. Most heads were down intently examining their phones and the rest were conversing casually with each other. I dared not to examine any faces closely because of the risk of seeing her.

I finally made it to the seat, a particularly patchy blue seat, and rummaged through my bag for something to read. Grabbing one of the books I looked up to see two people in front of me, the guy was Zack, a conventionally attractive young man with sandy blonde hair, and the girl I was in love with. The sight was a surprise, I can’t decide whether for better or worse. My very soul was both brought to its apogee and its nadir at the same time pulling the corners of my mouth up in joy and the bottom of my lip down in anguish. The happy couple looked at me for a second in bewilderment for a few moments then Nathan asked me a question to try to break the spell I was under,

“How are you doing man?”

“Nothing.”

The bewildered looks continued as I contemplated my answer and tried again,

“Good, sorry about that.”

“It’s cool. So Mary and I were thinking of having our graduation parties together and we’d be really happy if you showed up it’s…”

Earlier in the year I had decided I was simply not going to look at Mary and my problems would be solved, and the plan for a while had seemed to work to perfection. But now, blankly nodding at unintelligible words, I had been ambushed and trapped in a reverie in the delicate autumn garden of her hazel eyes. I could spend eternity in those eyes, simply bathing in their warmth and, in a way, every time I looked into her eyes I did. The room around me, all the noise of the world, all the people, and even the rest of our bodies eased away and we were just two sets of eyes existing because of each other. Or maybe we were both maintained because of her.

“So do you think you could make it?” a voice said ripping me back into reality.

I hadn’t spent eternity in her eyes but I was damn close. I finally recognized the voice as Nathan’s and remembered Mary as not being single. The world was once again an evil place.

“Yeah, that sounds great.”

“Great, we’d be so happy,” Mary said.

Her voice, for a split-second, lifted me up into paradise just to crush me down back into the inferno, the hot pangs of jealousy and darkness of longing tormenting me.

“Yeah, that’d be fun.”

The happy couple smiled at me and walked languorously back to their seats, enjoying every second of each other. Once they left I put down the book, pulled out my phone, and opened Tinder.