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Note: The summary has been changed. I thought it was A) too short, B) too revealing, and C) not descriptive enough. So here I have a better summary that reveals less, yet describes more. The last one sort of gave it away, and people didn't want to read it because they knew exactly what the story was about. So now I changed it, and here it is. She leaves him for another. He's forced to start over in a new town, at a new school. He's positive he can never love again. She loses her mother in a terrible homicide. She's forced to pick up the peices and try to live again. She's positive that the hole in her heart will never be filled. When the two heartbroken pessimists meet, they notice that the other is strangely detatched, and horribly sad. Neither can figure our what made the other so bitter, until they open up. After all they have been through, can they learn to trust again? Can they learn to start over? Can they learn to forget those that hurt them? Most importantly, can they learn to love again? Chapter One has been rewritten. The story line is completely different, yet somewhat the same.


2. Chapter 1: Restart

Rating 4.5/5   Word Count 2313   Review this Chapter


Starting over isn’t as hard as it seems. If you move far away enough, no one knows your name. No one knows what you’ve done, who you’ve hurt, what you’ve lost. No one but you.

I sat on the uncomfortable green vinyl seats of the yellow school bus as it bounced and creaked over bumps in the pavement. There was a bubble of space around me – from just the look on my face; people instantly knew to stay away. No one sat in the seat ahead of or behind me, nor beside me, or even across the aisle from me. Exiled, all alone.

My family – that is, the ones who still passed as school-age – was on a similar bus, taking them to a school twenty miles away from my own. Alice had persisted, but I had won the battle. Like I needed them following me around, giving me pitying glances and trying to soothe me. As if I didn’t face that enough at home. With one last sorrow filled glance, Alice turned her back on me and boarded her bus.

My own bus pulled up at the school – a crumbling brick building that much resembled a jail house – and I was the first off; standing abruptly and making it to the front of the bus even before it had stopped. The driver gave me a scolding glance before resentfully opening the sliding doors.

If the choice were up to me, I’d have driven myself – but fifteen year olds can’t drive in Maryland. Nor anywhere else in the US for that matter, but that’s beside the point. I am technically seventeen.

Walking so fast it could have been considered running, I dodged glances and entered the shelter of the building. Of course, that proved to be not much of an improvement, seeing as most of the student body appeared to be in the lobby. I blocked out the petty thoughts of the students as I pushed my way through the crowd and up the half-stair case to a raised platform (and then I realized that the lobby was actually lower in the ground, and the raised platform was really the first floor).

A sour looking teacher stood, arms crossed, before the doors leading to the hallway, determined not to let anyone through. Her half-moon glasses slid to the tip of her nose, and she glared down at me (she was extremely tall; and I’m six-one) over her nose.

“You can’t go into the hallway until half-past, unless you’re going to breakfast.”

I quickly made up an alibi. “Yes, that’s what I’m doing,” I lied lightly. She sighed, as if it were a great inconvenience to her, and stepped aside.

I pushed open the door and strode down the hallway, through another set of doors, and down another stretch of hallway. A chipped blue door stood open to my right – like a safe haven from suspicious teachers that lurked the hallways. I quickly ducked inside and hid (which wasn’t all that easy, considering my height) behind a stack of bookshelves – realizing I had found refuge in the library.

Casually pretending to peruse the books (I’d unfortunately selected the “World War I” section), I sorted through the thoughts of the other people in the library.

Weird kid…” The librarian thought idly. “All kids do nowadays is hide in here. All my lovely books are going to waste. *sigh*

Should I get this Gossip Girl book, or this one?” Came the thoughts of a girl standing near the back of the Fiction section.

God…I hate first days. I never know what I’m going to run into. I wonder…I sure hope that dream I had doesn’t come true,” another girl worried.

From a loudspeaker above my head, a nasal buzzing noise erupted, startling me (which was odd, because I wasn’t usually startled). I fled the library, checking the envelope in my hand for my homeroom number. Room one-twenty-seven.

Quickly, I located the said room and found a seat in the empty classroom. People were straggling in, one at a time, as the seconds until the late bell slipped away. Soon the room was filled with people – a buzz of voices and a buzz of thoughts.

One of the last to enter, a petite girl with brown hair slowly made her way to the back of the room, feet away from where I sat. Her dark chestnut hair was cropped short – long enough to lightly brush her shoulders. The girl had startling green eyes, and equally startling blank thoughts.

And I realized, with a flash of pain in my chest, that this strange girl reminded me of her. I’d tried my best not to think of her but now the memories were returning. Her fragile petite frame, her long dark hair, and her strange ability to block her thoughts from me. As of then, she had been the only one capable of blocking my mind reading powers. But now, there was this girl.

“Hi,” said a shy voice from behind me. I spun around, and sure enough, the girl was standing there. “Are you new? I’ve never seen you before…”

I quickly found my voice. “Yes, I’m new.” My voice sounded cruel and uninterested, void of emotion. She seemed startled, but blinked and continued.

“I’m Ravyn Thompson,” she announced, extending her hand. I looked down at her small fingers, but made no move to shake her hand. Slightly upset, she brought her hand back down to mess with the strap on her messenger bag, satisfied that I wasn’t planning to shake her hand.

“Hello,” I murmured, but made no move to introduce myself. I turned my head to look out the window, hoping she would go away. It wasn’t that I had anything against her personally, just that I was feeling anti-social. As I did everyday now.

Dissatisfied, she turned and walked to the opposite end of the room before sitting alone.


I decided he wasn’t going to talk to me, and sat down on the opposite side of the classroom. I pulled out my fresh binder and opened it to the first section that was empty and ready to be filled with papers. Surreptitiously, I watched him from the corner of my eye.

He gazed out the window at the sheeting rain – perhaps an omen of a dreadful new school year. I focused on his eyes, which were an odd shade of brown – extremely light and possibly a butterscotch tone. I’d never seen eyes like his, and I’m sure I’ve seen a lot of eyes. I’d seen the lightest blues and browns so dark they looked like black, but never a shade like this.

And even more – his eyes were extremely sad. Just looking at him made me want to cry. In fact, he looked like he might cry. But, from what limited knowledge I had of the male persona, I was sure he would hold it inside to look masculine.

But why was he so sad? I’d never seen someone so sad in all my life, and I was sure I’d seen quite a few sad strangers. But he was definitely the saddest. It was as if someone had died – someone close to him.

No, it looked like he had died. Or like he wanted to die. Like someone had hurt him so badly that he couldn’t go on. Only, he had to go on, just to prove that that person couldn’t win him over. To prove to the world that he could go on, or at least try to go on.

I had to admit, I could sympathize with him there. I felt a defensive wall go down in my mind as sympathy surfaced. As I watched, his head whipped around and his strange eyes fell on mine. In one breathtaking moment, our eyes locked, before his turned cold and he looked back out the window.

I felt my heart racing in my chest. As it slowed, I felt my defensive wall go back up. His eyes flickered to mine once more before resuming his gazing out the window.

“Everyone, find a seat now,” the elderly teacher called from the front of the room. I jumped, startled, and my eyes fell to my empty binder section and clean notebook on the desk. Around me, chairs scraped the ground as the students hastily obliged.

Taking a chance, I glanced over at the window to check if he was still there. Oddly enough, he was. It was as if he had never heard the teacher speak – or he just didn’t care. Maybe he was a rebel or something.

The teacher cleared her throat. “Excuse me, sir? Would you mind taking your seat?” Her unpleasantly nasal voice squawked at him. He blinked and turned his head to look at her before picking up his bag and walking away from the window. I looked back down at my binder.

In the awkward silence, I heard the loud scraping of the chair beside me as he pulled it out and sat down. He unzipped his bag and pulled out a plain black binder and flipped it open.

The teacher clapped her hands together once to get the class’s attention and announced in a loud voice, “Everyone, put your books away for today. We’ll be starting on all that boring stuff tomorrow.” She tried to sound cool, but failed miserably. “We’re going to be playing a sort of game.” She grinned and tried to get the class excited.

“Here’s what we do. I’ll start, and then we’ll go around the room and give our names and the name of our favorite song and whatever else you’d like to add. Everyone understand?” She paused and waited for someone to say something, but frowned at the silence. “Okay, I’ll begin. My name is Miss Robinson, and my favorite song is ‘Mrs. Robinson’ by The Beatles.” She laughed like it was an interesting coincidence. The rest of the class only found it annoying. “Now you,” she pointed to the boy in the closest seat to her.

“My name is Jeff,” his voice was nasal, like his nose was constantly stuffed up, “and I like anything techno.” Someone let out an unimpressed murmur.

Slowly, we progressed around the room until we reached the back row, where only three people sat: a girl with choppy black hair and blue streaks, wearing a revealing crop-top and a too-short mini-skirt with past-the-knee black boots that reeked of cigarette smoke, the boy beside me, and myself.

“My name is Amber,” she said with a New York accent, “and my favorite song is ‘Sweet Escape’ by Gwen Stefani.”

And then the moment I’d been waiting for came. It was his turn. The class fell silent as if they too had been anticipating the moment. When he said nothing, and didn’t look up from his desk, the teacher cleared her throat.

“Sir? It’s your turn. Perhaps you’d like to introduce yourself to the class? Don’t be shy now.”

He didn’t look up as he spoke. “My name is Edward,” he paused and looked up at the teacher, then his eyes flickered over to me, “and I hate music.”

The teacher gasped with shock. The whole class gasped. I gasped.

“You don’t like music? How can you not like music?” Someone from the front of the class piped up.

“No. I don’t like music.” He said, cold and unemotional.

“Surely you don’t mean that, Edward,” the teacher said. “You must like some kind of music.”

He glared at her in silence.

“Jazz? Rock? Maybe Rap? Or perhaps classical?”

Edward flinched.

“Maybe you prefer listening to string orchestras or piano-”

“I hate the piano.”

I flinched in my seat.

The fury that rang so clearly in his voice terrified me. He was glaring at the teacher with a murderous look in his eye, wishing that she would just drop it. He clenched his fists so tightly that his knuckles stood out on his pale skin, as if there were no skin there at all.

“I see,” Miss Robinson said in a small voice. “All right then,” she announced, slightly louder, “and you, miss?” She looked at me.

Still tense from the previous conversation, I scrambled to remember the song I had chosen. It had taken me so long to decide on the perfect selection out of the list of my numerous favorites.

“My name is Ravyn, and my favorite song is…” I paused and looked over at Edward. He snapped his bright yellow pencil in his strong hand. I flinched and looked back at the teacher. “My favorite song is… ‘It’s Not Over’ by Secondhand Serenade.”

“Okey-dokey then. Now I’m going to pass out some papers for you to fill out – contact cards, students handbooks, and your planners. Make sure you write your full name in the cover of your planner before you do anything else, that way if it’s lost you can get it back.”

The bell rang finally, after Miss Robinson had passed out the papers and our planners and gone over the class rules in that boring monotone of hers. Edward was the first one out of his seat – grabbing his bag and flying from the room before anyone could even stand up. Timidly, I followed him out of the room and searched for him in the hallway, but he had already disappeared.