Chapter Four

Lina and Fuzzy

   My mind is fuzzy as I stare at the paper, trying to solve some trig problems. I feel warm and detached, like I do when I listen to Atsushi sing: warm, detached, and not all entirely there. I can't think straight, but I try and focus to no avail. This is a side affect of the dreams, the loss of memory.

   Normally, when I get this way, I sit on our couch under twenty blankets, and watch crime dramas for hours. Baby, our kitten, and sometimes Sasha or Tasha, the family's cats, will curl up on the couch with me as I recuperate from the dreams.

   But I had school, and River and Westin were a stronghold against me staying home today. I'd missed too many days, and besides, I needed to 'get out more often' and school must be a part of my 'social life.'

   So here I am, half-dead, sitting in my desk, staring at a trig problem and hoping it will solve itself. I can't do anything in this state, but I don't want the teacher to notice. Last time she did, she made a big fuss and had me sent home, where I desperately want to go, but if I do, River and Westin will chew me out. A heady, dead sort of feeling and emotional distress don't mix well in me.

   I glance up at the clock. It's two-fifty, with this as the only period left in the day, but forty minutes left in the class.

   I sigh and pick up my pencil, trying to look productive, and sketch in the margins of my assignment. I let my mind wander and my hand the reigns.

   A sharp voice makes me jump, "Miss Angelina, this is not art class. Please do the assigned problems."

   I glance up at her, the teacher, to gauge her anger. She doesn't seem too mad. "Sorry. I was thinking and my hand just drew on it's own."

   "Angelina, please try and focus on the work assigned." Her voice softens, "I know it's one of your off days, but please try. That's all I ask."

   I cringe. So she knew. "Sorry. I'll try and do some."

   "Thank you."

   I stare at my paper, my cheeks burning like a blotchy flame. I pick up my calculator and work out a few problems, but my hand longs to draw, not do math. I tell myself no, if I do the homework, I can treat myself to some NCIS.

   I get through most of the problems before my hand starts itching to draw again. Instead of a right triangle problem, my hand pulls a likeness of Atsushi from my fingers. I sigh and give my hand the rights, no more NCIS for me tonight, and let the feelings wash over me.

   Vaguely, I feel that the teacher walks by, but doesn't comment, seeing as how I've done some work and my hand is flying furiously against the margins. My hand is possessed and my mind is dead, hearing nothing until the ugly bell rings and I go home.