The Tearsmith

Lost Tale page 3

-with barely open eyes, without moving.

If it were in my power...

If it were in my power, I would have erased him forever. Along with the Grave, Mrs. Fridge, and the pain that constellated my childhood. I wouldn't have wanted to end up in the same family as him. To me, it was a tragedy. It was as if I were condemned to carry the weight of my past without ever truly being free.

How could I make others understand that?

"Hi!"

I hadn't realized that I had mechanically walked out of the principal's office. I looked up, and my eyes met a radiant smile.

"I'm in the same class as you. Welcome to Burnaby!"

I saw Rigel in the hallway, his black hair swaying with his confident steps. The girl accompanying him seemed barely aware of what she was getting herself into; she looked at him spellbound, as if she were the newcomer, and they both disappeared around the corner.

"I'm Billie," my companion introduced herself. She extended her hand with a dazzling smile, and I shook it.

"And what's your name?"

"Nica Dover."

"Micah?"

"No, 'Nica,'" I repeated, emphasizing the 'N,' and she put her index finger on her chin.

"Ah, the nickname for Nikita!"

I surprised myself by smiling.

"No," I shook my head, "just Nica."

I wasn't bothered by the curiosity with which Billie looked at me, as had happened with the other boy a little while ago. She had a genuine face, framed by honey-colored curls, and two shining eyes that gave her gaze a passionate air.

As we walked, I noticed that she observed me with great interest, but it wasn't until our gazes met again that I understood why: she, too, had been captivated by my unique irises.

"It's your eyes, Nica," the younger children would say when I asked them why they looked at me so intrigued. "Nica has eyes the color of the sky when it cries: big, radiant, like gray diamonds."

"What happened to your fingers?" she asked me.

I looked at the tips of my fingers wrapped in band-aids.

"Oh," I stammered and clumsily hid them behind my back, "nothing..."

I smiled, trying to change the subject, and Mrs. Fridge's words echoed in my head: "Don't do anything strange."

"This way, I don't bite my nails," I blurted out. She seemed to believe it, to the point that she raised her hands proudly, showing me the chewed ends.

"And what's the problem? I've already reached the bone!" She then turned her hand and started examining it. "My grandma says I should dip them in mustard: 'That'll make you lose the desire to bite them.' But I've never tried it. The idea of spending an entire afternoon with my fingers in sauce leaves me a bit... How can I say it? Perplexed. Can you imagine if a delivery person knocked on the door?"