Chapter 1-Field Trip
Nov 23, 2010 17:30:45 GMT -5
Post by Hayley FINISHED her story on Nov 23, 2010 17:30:45 GMT -5
Ok, here is the long anticipated Chapter 1! Pssh. "Long anticipated" Anyway, here it is.
1:Field Trip
“Are you coming or not?” Damen yells at me from the top of the stairs. Good old, impatient Damen. People never change.
“Come on, dude. Gimme a minute! It’s not my fault that shoelaces don’t like me!” I yell back. It is true, though. It seems that shoelaces really do have a deep, general hatred of me and my shoes. With my foot hiked up on the sickly yellow monstrosity known as a bus, my hands attempt to maneuver the little pieces of cloth through the holes on the top of my high-top. This just won’t do. If I don’t fix it now, I’ll just trip or something later. After about thirty more seconds of wrestling, the black laces finally decide to stay put in my crimson red Converses. I jog to the door where Damen is still so loyally waiting by the entrance, holding the door ajar for me.
“Why thank you, my fair Damen,” I say in his direction, “your services are greatly appreciated.”A grateful smile reaches my lips.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah…” he mumbles under his breath, but the grin on his face hints the slightest amusement.
I step inside the rickety old museum, and cool air hits my face immediately upon entrance. Of course they would have the AC on. It’s the middle of freaking February in upstate New York. I wonder if they torture the children like that right over the border in Ontario.
I spot Braeden posing between some knight armor for some of the kids’ pictures. With a jerked upward movement of his hands, a row of swords and miscellaneous armor crashes on top of him. That’s what you can typically expect out of Braeden. I grab the two sides of my red wool coat together as I hurry to pull my friend from his pile of armor.
“Braeden, really?” I say jokingly. I stick out my hand, and he thankfully grabs it to escape his metallic near suffocation.
“Aw, come on, Hales. Live a little,” He flashes a toothy grin somewhere past me.
“Hey Damen!” Braeden starts to wave but collapses back into his mess. I look over my shoulder to see Damen emerging from the outside into the building. I turn back to Braeden, and my friend materializes at my side to assist me in my rescue mission.
“Guys, we’re going to lose everyone else,” Damen announces to Braeden and I. He’s right, of course. The rest of the class is already nearing the masquerade section.
“Follow me, boys,” I say with a motion of my hand towards our destination. Damen follows, being the dutiful student he is, and with a few tugs of the arm, Braeden reluctantly drags along behind us.
As we skid to a stop at the end of the line, pretending we’ve been there all along, the tour guide continues speaking.
“In this era,” she drones on with her monotone, high-pitched squeaks, “masquerade balls were quite common for the well-to-do. The guests would wear even flashier costumes than normal, and decorate their faces with colorful masks of different shapes and sizes.”
“Who would want to wear a stupid, itchy mask all night?” Braeden retorts under his breath. I stifle a laugh, amused by Braeden’s unwillingness to enjoy any form of learning. Damen’s not so enlightened. In fact, he’s glaring at Braeden like he did something wrong. If looks could kill…
Mr. Grenich, our history teacher, and the tour guide continue babbling about the most random of facts about this era, practically feeding off of the other’s pure nerdiness, while they drag us throughout the little museum.
“And this,” the guide stops short, gasping loudly in pure astonishment. Her overreaction amuses me, as this must be the millionth and first time she’s seen whatever she’s about to show us. “is the Hanpera mask. According to legend, it has magical properties that enable the wearer to transform their face to look like another’s.” I hear some of the kids near the front suddenly inhale all the air as they’re most likely seeing this “magical mask.” I stretch to the tips of my toes to see if I can see anything, but Matvei Petrov, the gangly 6’5” monster who towers eight inches over my 5’9” dancer stature, is impairing my view.
“Actually, this mask is part of the true quadruplet set.” There are murmurs of question throughout the group. “The other three Hanpera masks were stolen two centuries ago from the home of Sir Damen Pierre of Versailles.”
“Hey, Day, is that your a-bunch-of-greats grandfather or something? The guy your parents named you after?” I whisper as I turn my head around to face him. Hmm. It seems like he’s pretty occupied with Braeden at the moment. Their backs are turned to me and they’re whispering like little school girls. All I can hear are snippets of their conversation coming from their mouths.
“Day,” I try and get his attention.
“Drew,” Maybe calling his middle name will help. That’s what his mom always calls him when she’s mad with him.
“Damen Storm!” I hiss, trying to make sure no one’s looking back here. He’s still whispering with Braeden, not paying any attention to me, whatsoever. My efforts are futile. I slap his shoulder in a last ditch attempt, partially filled with anger and frustration, and for some reason, it brings my friends back into reality.
“Hmm?” they both question in slight unison, Braeden coming in half a second after Damen. Their heads whip around and look at me with blank stares. I bury my head in my hands and groan at their apparent obliviousness to my multiple attempts for their attention.
“What did you need, Hayley?” Damen asks me with questioning eyes. Did? How would he know if I needed something? If he didn’t notice all the name calling and me hitting him, how would he know that I needed something? It was like he knew I was speaking to him, but just didn’t want to respond.
I exhale deeply, trying to calm myself down. My mouth opens to repeat the question I asked so long ago, but am cut off by Braeden mentioning that the line is moving on. Since when does he care? Well, at least I’ll finally get a look at this famous mask.
As I approach the gleaming glass case, I realize the high security: locks of different shapes and sizes lining the bottom portion of the case, its stand most likely welded to the floor. You’d have to break the whole building to get it out. It must be one important mask. I peer into the glass covering and am now aware of what all the hype was about.
All I can say is that it was blue: the darkest, deepest, most luscious midnight blue you’ll never see in your lifetime. Silver diamonds danced along between the eyes and over the bridge of the nose. The top half, over the eye holes, is decorated with curving lines of what looks to be red eyeliner. Underneath the eyes, a lighter, more of a pure sky blue, encases them in wide triangles. Around the left and right edges, black half circles cover the midnight blue almost to the eyes. And to think all of this happened in one hemisphere of the head.
I linger by the case, my fingers lightly brushing the arctic glass. With a minute movement of my head, I sneak a glance at the boys’ faces, and can tell that they’re in awe as well. The only thing is is that there’s something else behind their facades of awe. It’s horror. Why they would be horrified, I had no idea. I’m still drawing a blank.
“You know what, Damen? It’s fine, a-about my question earlier.” I stammer, “Nothing important…”
1:Field Trip
“Are you coming or not?” Damen yells at me from the top of the stairs. Good old, impatient Damen. People never change.
“Come on, dude. Gimme a minute! It’s not my fault that shoelaces don’t like me!” I yell back. It is true, though. It seems that shoelaces really do have a deep, general hatred of me and my shoes. With my foot hiked up on the sickly yellow monstrosity known as a bus, my hands attempt to maneuver the little pieces of cloth through the holes on the top of my high-top. This just won’t do. If I don’t fix it now, I’ll just trip or something later. After about thirty more seconds of wrestling, the black laces finally decide to stay put in my crimson red Converses. I jog to the door where Damen is still so loyally waiting by the entrance, holding the door ajar for me.
“Why thank you, my fair Damen,” I say in his direction, “your services are greatly appreciated.”A grateful smile reaches my lips.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah…” he mumbles under his breath, but the grin on his face hints the slightest amusement.
I step inside the rickety old museum, and cool air hits my face immediately upon entrance. Of course they would have the AC on. It’s the middle of freaking February in upstate New York. I wonder if they torture the children like that right over the border in Ontario.
I spot Braeden posing between some knight armor for some of the kids’ pictures. With a jerked upward movement of his hands, a row of swords and miscellaneous armor crashes on top of him. That’s what you can typically expect out of Braeden. I grab the two sides of my red wool coat together as I hurry to pull my friend from his pile of armor.
“Braeden, really?” I say jokingly. I stick out my hand, and he thankfully grabs it to escape his metallic near suffocation.
“Aw, come on, Hales. Live a little,” He flashes a toothy grin somewhere past me.
“Hey Damen!” Braeden starts to wave but collapses back into his mess. I look over my shoulder to see Damen emerging from the outside into the building. I turn back to Braeden, and my friend materializes at my side to assist me in my rescue mission.
“Guys, we’re going to lose everyone else,” Damen announces to Braeden and I. He’s right, of course. The rest of the class is already nearing the masquerade section.
“Follow me, boys,” I say with a motion of my hand towards our destination. Damen follows, being the dutiful student he is, and with a few tugs of the arm, Braeden reluctantly drags along behind us.
As we skid to a stop at the end of the line, pretending we’ve been there all along, the tour guide continues speaking.
“In this era,” she drones on with her monotone, high-pitched squeaks, “masquerade balls were quite common for the well-to-do. The guests would wear even flashier costumes than normal, and decorate their faces with colorful masks of different shapes and sizes.”
“Who would want to wear a stupid, itchy mask all night?” Braeden retorts under his breath. I stifle a laugh, amused by Braeden’s unwillingness to enjoy any form of learning. Damen’s not so enlightened. In fact, he’s glaring at Braeden like he did something wrong. If looks could kill…
Mr. Grenich, our history teacher, and the tour guide continue babbling about the most random of facts about this era, practically feeding off of the other’s pure nerdiness, while they drag us throughout the little museum.
“And this,” the guide stops short, gasping loudly in pure astonishment. Her overreaction amuses me, as this must be the millionth and first time she’s seen whatever she’s about to show us. “is the Hanpera mask. According to legend, it has magical properties that enable the wearer to transform their face to look like another’s.” I hear some of the kids near the front suddenly inhale all the air as they’re most likely seeing this “magical mask.” I stretch to the tips of my toes to see if I can see anything, but Matvei Petrov, the gangly 6’5” monster who towers eight inches over my 5’9” dancer stature, is impairing my view.
“Actually, this mask is part of the true quadruplet set.” There are murmurs of question throughout the group. “The other three Hanpera masks were stolen two centuries ago from the home of Sir Damen Pierre of Versailles.”
“Hey, Day, is that your a-bunch-of-greats grandfather or something? The guy your parents named you after?” I whisper as I turn my head around to face him. Hmm. It seems like he’s pretty occupied with Braeden at the moment. Their backs are turned to me and they’re whispering like little school girls. All I can hear are snippets of their conversation coming from their mouths.
“Day,” I try and get his attention.
“Drew,” Maybe calling his middle name will help. That’s what his mom always calls him when she’s mad with him.
“Damen Storm!” I hiss, trying to make sure no one’s looking back here. He’s still whispering with Braeden, not paying any attention to me, whatsoever. My efforts are futile. I slap his shoulder in a last ditch attempt, partially filled with anger and frustration, and for some reason, it brings my friends back into reality.
“Hmm?” they both question in slight unison, Braeden coming in half a second after Damen. Their heads whip around and look at me with blank stares. I bury my head in my hands and groan at their apparent obliviousness to my multiple attempts for their attention.
“What did you need, Hayley?” Damen asks me with questioning eyes. Did? How would he know if I needed something? If he didn’t notice all the name calling and me hitting him, how would he know that I needed something? It was like he knew I was speaking to him, but just didn’t want to respond.
I exhale deeply, trying to calm myself down. My mouth opens to repeat the question I asked so long ago, but am cut off by Braeden mentioning that the line is moving on. Since when does he care? Well, at least I’ll finally get a look at this famous mask.
As I approach the gleaming glass case, I realize the high security: locks of different shapes and sizes lining the bottom portion of the case, its stand most likely welded to the floor. You’d have to break the whole building to get it out. It must be one important mask. I peer into the glass covering and am now aware of what all the hype was about.
All I can say is that it was blue: the darkest, deepest, most luscious midnight blue you’ll never see in your lifetime. Silver diamonds danced along between the eyes and over the bridge of the nose. The top half, over the eye holes, is decorated with curving lines of what looks to be red eyeliner. Underneath the eyes, a lighter, more of a pure sky blue, encases them in wide triangles. Around the left and right edges, black half circles cover the midnight blue almost to the eyes. And to think all of this happened in one hemisphere of the head.
I linger by the case, my fingers lightly brushing the arctic glass. With a minute movement of my head, I sneak a glance at the boys’ faces, and can tell that they’re in awe as well. The only thing is is that there’s something else behind their facades of awe. It’s horror. Why they would be horrified, I had no idea. I’m still drawing a blank.
“You know what, Damen? It’s fine, a-about my question earlier.” I stammer, “Nothing important…”
