296: Weird Girl (Drabble)
There is a weird girl who lives a few houses down from me. We share the same route walking home after school, but we never walk together. From afar, I watch and observe, immersing myself into a girl’s life that I could never lead or witness up close.
She is around the same height as me, moderately tall. She has short, cropped but unkempt golden hair. Her pale cerulean eyes are framed by a pair of thick, gawky glasses that make her eyes unnaturally pop out of her face. With thin, colourless lips she stretches into taut, toothless smiles, but I know it hides a perfect set of teeth I could only hope to have myself. She always jogs home, her long, thin legs propelling her off the pavement and down the street. She always wears the same pair of shoes, a worn pair of black and white Adidas joggers. I remember when they were new and shone on her feet with their crinkly new leather and their polished surfaces. Now, it’s scruffy and has a dull look about it. Her blue school bag seems to burden her thin frame, but it doesn’t hinder her jogging speed. For a moment, I watch her disappear over the uneven road before I take my own steps forward. She’s always so eager to get home. A little sister, homework, new TV show? I’ll never know.
In the morning, I see her step out from her home, shouting something in a different language. Perhaps a routine farewell. She pounds the pavement, wearing the same shoes, same bag, same glasses. From the front door of her home, I see a little girl clutching a white teacup. She has the same hair colour, except it’s past her shoulders in messy ringlets. She wears a white one-piece suit, probably her pyjamas. By the time I turn my head to look for the weird girl, she’s long gone.
At school, I see her in some of my classes. She stays quiet except when the teacher prompts her. A prompt animates her like a switch, and out come pouring years and years of wisdom, knowledge and passion I can only assume can be part of the genius that she is, and has been, for a while. I watch her scrawl in black ink in a separate book to her schoolbooks, possibly a journal of her own. Her handwriting is almost illegible, but I can imagine her composing works that will be considered modern classics, classics of the twenty-first century.
I so admire the weird girl. She is everything I am not, nothing that I am, and everything I aspire to be.