Andromache and His Little Secret

Dear Friend,           I am sitting and writing the best I could. I want to tell you one thing that can make you happy or sad, or anything in between. I want to know if you would come to tell me whether my stories were great or not. I want to just sit here and keep writing until my pen runs dry. I want to keep writing even if my pages are stained. These things make me feel okay about myself even though they were not good enough for someone else. I think about one day. I think about the days I am left with. Days I should live and days – I suppose – I should barely stay alive. This time, I am finding my own path so I can participate with my friends, teachers, and my family. Although I am the kind of guy you see every day with a thin body, I hope you will not think of me as a worst-kinda-guy who spends his day mostly with himself. Please don’t make me feel that my life has been in vain. I see a lot of things and feel them. I can feel my blood running through my veins. I can feel my stomach knotting. I can feel my bones cracking. I can feel everything.                                                                                                                                                            Love always,                                                                                                                                                            Andromache   Where do stories begin? Should we start at the beginning or at the end? In life, stories can begin at the end, we just don't know how.  There are stories that probably have read by one or more. I wonder how many of them have loved those stories. And how many people got through a bunch of bad times because of those stories. School is pretty boring this semester. It’s my first day of school in Santa Monica University where it is only three blocks away from my place. I live in the countryside which I love because I can always smell freshly cut grasses on the field. This semester, I have three credit hours in the morning and one in the afternoon. My first class is Advanced English where we have to review books from renowned authors like John Grisham, Stephen King, Harper Lee, and many more. Today, we are given a book to read all throughout the first term. “Good morning, class. I am Mrs. Welsh from the Languages Department.” Mrs. Welsh lives a few blocks away from me. There’s been hearsay that her son never goes out and chooses to lock himself out. The rest of the story is a mystery. Mrs. Welsh knows too much about it, but she discards the thought of it. “Today, I will give you a reading assignment.” She continues. The room is filled with silence. All eyes are set on her. “Reading assignment. Great!” Someone behind me shouts. Now, everyone’s eyes are set on him. “Yes, Mr. Fitzgerald. Either you like it or not. Unless you want to drop my class again, you can do so.” Aaron Fitzgerald is a repeater of this class that’s why Mrs. Welsh knows him. He doesn’t want things hard because he was taught the easiest way. “I will be distributing copies of To Kill a Mockingbird. It’s the book I want you to give a review after you’re done reading it. I will be giving you three weeks to finish the book and two weeks to give your review. There’s a film of this book, but I don’t want you to watch it. Remember in this class that writers are born to read.” The bell rings and Mrs. Welsh manages to distribute each of us a copy of the book. I head straight to the library to start reading the book but I end up just staring at the title.  Suddenly, I remember what my grandma told me before: "In order for you to start a story, you must know who the author is." Without a thought, I immediately google Harper Lee, the author of the book. According to a credible source, Lee was born on April 28, 1926, in Monroeville, Alabama. She was the youngest of four children, she grew up as a tomboy in a small town. Her father was a lawyer, a member of the Alabama state legislature and also owned part of the local newspaper. For most of Lee's life, her mother suffered from mental illness, rarely leaving the house. It is believed that she may have had bipolar disorder. After reading all the information, I have concluded that if this is what Mrs. Welsh wants us to give a review first before any other book, maybe because she can relate to it. Maybe the hearsay of the people was true. What if her son is just like Lee's mother? What if... he's bipolar? But, what if it's not true? That's another theory.   My mind is both wandering and wondering. Either way, I must decide if I should start reading the book or not yet. Before I head to my next class, Mrs. Welsh approaches me. "You're Andromache, right?" She asks without hesitation. "Yes, but you may call me Andy." I retort. She gives me a smile and continues to speak. "Right. Well, Andy tomorrow you will read the first chapter of the book to the entire class." I never read in front of many people before. I have stage fright. I shiver when I speak and I can feel my knees trembling. Mrs. Welsh is waiting for my response. I have to say yes to her even if I am afraid to face the task she gave me. "Sure, Mrs. Welsh. I'll read chapter one to the entire class. Tomorrow." I say flatly. Right there and then, she manages to give me a smile and I smile back.   The students in the library go to their next classes and I check what my next class will be. History. The class starts immediately. I don't know why I am here or why I am standing right in front of this beautiful lady. Her eyes are diamonds – hard to find. Her crooked nose tells the difference. By the time our teacher comes in, I know she is saying something, but I just kept looking straight at her eyes. "Are you okay?" I hear her say, but I don't respond. "What are you looking at?" Those eyes, I thought. "Are you Andromache?" She says my name. "Yes." I manage to say. I can't get my momentum back, but to ask her who she is. "My name's Oli as in Olivia. I bet I have seen you back in middle school." She says without a frown. "You may say that, but I don't know." It's History class, the subject I am most interested in. "It has been a long time since then." What is she talking about? Is she having de javu? "Yeah, it is." I say with a doubt. As soon as the class ends, she suddenly comes to me. Her eyes are still dazzling. If I met her before, I would never regret it to happen again. A thought rushes in my mind and I ask myself: Who is this girl?