Take a Risk (wingsonmyheels)

Someone has to stand out in the crowd.
And it sure isn't going to be you.
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I look up from my drawing, slightly annoyed at being interupted in the middle of my drawings and my thoughts. I noticed him sit down, of course. But I was hoping he wouldn't talk to me. People who talked to me usually only did it to see if I really am as rich as I look. I've begged my parents a million times to get me simpler clothes, but they refuse.

The bus? I stare at him blankly for a moment, for the first time in a long while remembering that yes, a bus runs through this district. I blink, and shake my head slightly. "Sorry, I don't. I usually walk. It's better exercise."

I do have a memory of once being on the bus. It is cloaked in a gray and brown fog that a can't explain, and feels like a picture that's been torn and somehow has gathered dust despite how many times it's been looked at. I remember the feeling of my mother's arm around me, hugging me close. The jacket I had been wearing was very worn, and at least a size too big. The arms drooped down slightly over my hands, acting like mittens. Other people crowded around, pressing against me. It smelled, and the air seemed to warm compared to the cold winter air outside. Everything felt dirty, and looked messy. My mom told me that we weren't going to ride the bus anymore after that trip. When I asked her why, she simply stated that the bus driver wanted more money, and we didn't have it. From then on, I walked wherever I went, even after my parents became wealthy. Maybe that's why I can eat whatever food I want but still stay thin.

I shift uncomfortably on the bench, and continue to draw, looking up now and then. Memories fly me to another vision, of when there used to be another bench on that side of the street. My mother used to hug me close during the summer months, and point at how beautiful everything. Without thinking, I sketch a bench into the image, and then a woman and a little girl. She used to sin to me, too.

"...never seen the grass so green..." I whisper under my breath, unconsciously, and my fingers lighten their grip on the fingers. The pencil's lines become lighter, and more delicate, as I draw the worry lines on her face, and then darken the irises on the little girl's eyes.

The songs are distant memories now. My mother is at work most of the time now. She only has time for me at dinner, when we all sit properly and talk about school. A topic that I don't like very much. It doesn't matter, though. Emma does all the talking. About how she got another 'A' on her test. My parents pretend to be interested in my art project, and how my teacher thinks that it's incredible that I have such a talent at such a young age. But they really only care about numbers. Stupid, black and white numbers.

Someone has to stand out in the crowd.
And it sure isn't going to be you.
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His voice makes me jump, and my heart leaps into my chest. The pencil glides an inch of course. I sigh in annoyance, glaring down at the paper. I twirl it between my fingers, pressing the candy pink eraser down onto the paper, rubbing it over the mistake. Brushing the curls of rubber off the image using the side of my hand, I observe the ghost of a mark left with a silent satisfaction.

If life was like that, I might actually be happy some of the time. If there was some magic eraser that could erase all my mistakes, I'd do whatever it takes to get it. But there isn't anything like that, and my mistakes remain. Life is drawn in permanent ink, so you can't wipe away the extra marks. The best you can do is try to make it look like it belongs. Yet, even then, it changes the image forever.

A lot of people would say I shouldn't be complaining. I'm rich. I get decent grades. But money doesn't solve everything. In fact, it only causes more problems. Yeah, it has a lot of advantages. You get a lot of stuff, and make a lot of fake friends. You have food on your plate all the time. But it seperates families, too. We're aliens to each other. When I was younger, my parents knew exactly who I was. Now, I'm just a silly girl with silly dreams that they have to love anyways.

"Where all ideas come from," I say, not regretting the annoyance in my voice. "My head."

But my eyes soften again as my finger brushes over the image, lingering around the little girl's face. Her nose isn't quite right, and I resist the urge to fix it. Instead, I continue to work on her worn, dirty clothes and small, delicate fingers. It's true, she doesn't look much like I do, now. You'd be surprised at what nice clothes and make up do to a person.

"It's supposed to be me when I was younger," I say quietly. "And the woman is supposed to be my mother."

My free hand lifts, and points to the across the street. "There used to be a bench over there where we used to sit all the time."

I brush some stray hair back behind my ear. My fingers linger there, attempting to warm my numb ear. I sigh, and a cloud appears in front of me, tinted orange by the setting sun. I should get going, soon. It's freezing. But at home, the strong smell of perfume and a dress my parents will make me wear to their party. And, to be honest, I'm not ready for that yet. I just want to skip to the part where I trade out my dress for comfy pajamas and watch movies until midnight.

I glance over at the boy. The yellow-orange light casts shadows on the angles of his face. "I'm Namia, by the way."

Someone has to stand out in the crowd.
And it sure isn't going to be you.
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I take one last look at the drawing before sliding my pencil back into the rings on the side of my sketch book. My hand flips the cover closed with one quick movement, and all the memories disappear with it. I'm left in an oddly good mood, even though I know I have to go home to the party.

I stand up, stretching my stiff legs out. An icy cold wind chooses to blow at that moment, and I immediately pull back in, tugging my coat closer. I shift the sketch book so it rests between my side and my arm, and rub my hands together while my eyes follow the spiraling mists created by my breath. I didn't bring gloves, because I can't draw when I'm wearing them. So instead, I shove my hands deep into my pockets and bite my tongue to keep my teeth from chattering.

What will my mother say when I get home, with my cheeks and ears bright red from the cold? She won't say anything, because she'll be busy talking to Emma and her friend. I used to know the names of all her little buddies, but now, it seems she brings a new face home everyday. I'm left confused as they walk away giggling and talking about how I still don't remember her name even though it's her third visit. And then my parents gaze at me sadly as they see I have once again failed to bring my own friend home.

I'll give them some credit. They try to hide their disappointment. They really do. But I see it in their eyes, and hear it in they're late night whispers as I crouch near the door to their bedroom, the light that leaks under the door reflecting off my hurt eyes. At this thought, my hand clenches the fabric of my pocket, and I wish that I could change for them. But the feeling leaves quickly, and then I simply am confused and uncertain.

Suddenly, an idea hits me. I need new friends, so why not bring one home? I'm not sure if you're supposed to invite someone to your house after only exchanging a few words. It seems odd and off to me. But who knows? I haven't had a real friend in a long time. Who am I to say what is and isn't unusual for a friendship.

I gaze down at Red, and my eyebrows raise slightly. "Um, Red, my parents are having a party tonight. A lot of their friends will be there. Would you like to come too?"

I bite my bottom lip in uncertainty. That doesn't seem like the proper way to ask a person to come to a party. I've never been invited, so I wouldn't know. I also don't know what kind of person to invite, but at this point, I'm desperate. Realizing how off topic this invitation is, I quickly add, "It'll be warm there, and I can show you some more drawings if you want."

Someone has to stand out in the crowd.
And it sure isn't going to be you.
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Surprised by his enthusiastic answer, I smile, and my hands relax in my pockets. I didn't think that it would be that easy. And suddenly, I find myself looking forward to tonight. My sister won't shine brighter than me. My parents won't be disappointed. And I'll finally have someone to help me through the night.

As I begin to move, the chilly air becomes less and less noticable. I live in the better, less crowded part of the district. It's not too far, because my parents don't want me to come home to their parties sweaty and exhausted. It's probably a ten minute walk from here to there, and I've used the same trail so many times that the turns just come automatically. Little changes in the district, so I don't usually pay attention to what goes on around me.

"Yeah, I go to school," I say. I leave out the fact that my grades aren't as great as they should be. "I actually just turned seventeen a little while ago."

It's odd. We're close in age, but I don't think I've ever seen Red before. Then again, it's a big district. I can't know every person in the district, even if my parents are convinced they can.

I scrunch up my nose as a sudden burst of smoke hits me. Ugh. I've hated the smell of smoke for as long as I can remember. It reminds me of my past, when the smell of smoke constantly filled out cramped little house. I never found out why, but I hated the smell that made the inside of my nose itch and my eyes water after a while. It's one of the reasons I never want to go back to being poor.

District Ten's population never was very clean. The smells that constantly fill the air bothers me greatly. It was better before all the animals came. Maybe I should be glad our industry changed. But it's hardly changed anything. The district is still filled with geniuses that look down at me.

"It's going to be a pretty fancy party," I say uncomfortably. "If you want to change into something... er... a bit more... I mean... a bit less casual, I'm sure my dad has something you can wear."

It's the best way I can put it. I don't mean to insult his clothes, because in truth, I'd rather he wear those than something a lot fancier. But my parents would want him to be dressed better, and I want to please them.

I hate dressing up for their parties, though. I really do. They're the ones who choose out my dresses, and while I'm thankful I don't have to wear poofy right from the fairy tale kind of dresses, I'm still uncomfortable in any kind of skirt or dress. My mother put it out early this morning, and I glared at it on my way out. It's a shimmering dark purple one that comes down to my knees. She's trying to satisfy me by choosing my favorite color, but the sparkles are a bit much for me. And the necklace...

"You don't have to," I quickly add. "I personally hate dressing up, but my parents make me."

Someone has to stand out in the crowd.
And it sure isn't going to be you.
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I wasn't very good at describing things. Instead of words, colors came to mind. When I think of my parents' parties, I think purple and black and orange. Purple for my dress. Black for the night outside. And orange for the dim lights. I also think of flickering light, which usually comes out of the big T.V. screens all over the house.

The thing I notice most is the seperation. Sometimes, our house reminds me of a big resturaunt. There's laughter and joking, but people are usually in seperate groups. Which makes it akward for me, because I have nowhere to go. My parents always try to get me to go by the other teenagers, but I'm usually a few years older, or a few years younger. It's always akward, and the entire time, I'm just waiting for the party to end so I can go up in my room and watch movies.

I also relate parties to itchy, scratchy dresses. I can't go into a dress shop without thinking of my parents parties. I don't think I've ever seen a woman there who wasn't wearing a dress or skirt. Their clothes are usually far fancier than what I wear, and I feel myself blush. I always go along with my mother when she picks out clothes for me, and although it's hard to change her mind, she's learned that if something is too fancy, I will refuse to wear it.

The smell makes my eyes water. It's a mix of strong perfumes that tickle my nose. The smell changes from flowers to 'natural' to something I can't place as I move from room to room. My mother doesn't like strong smelling perfumes, and rarely wears them. I've become used to it, anyway.

Sometimes, when a more modern, louder song comes on, they'll turn all the lights off, and let neons glow around the house. That's always pretty, because the eerie lights cast shadows all over the room. It's rare for people to dance to these songs, but they all enjoy it either way. That's one of the few things I like about the parties.

The food is on trays all over the house. Cubed cheese and fruit and anything else that can be cubed and eaten is on those trays, along with veggies and dip. Usually, there's a lot left, because a lot of the people are watching their weight. So, despite my hunger, I usually avoid them too, and stuff myself with candy later.

"Um..." I think for a moment. "We have these parties at least once a week. I have to go to all of them, unfortunately. I mean, they aren't bad, or anything. I just got sick of them after a while. There's usually snacks, and T.V., and stuff like that. And a lot of people."

I see my house in the distance, and point to it. In the dim light, it's a bit hard to see. Even I'll admit, it's impressive. It's white, two stories, and huge. The yard is big and the snow matches the house. The light that comes from the inside of the house is dim, which means the party has already started. I swear quietly under my breath.

"We're late," I say. "I'm going to have to change really quick, so you'll be alone for a few minutes. Is that okay?"

Someone has to stand out in the crowd.
And it sure isn't going to be you.
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I smile and walk through the doorway. The sharp smell of perfume makes tears press at the back of my eyes, and it takes all my effort not to gag. The wide hallway is already crowded with small groups of people, but the elegant staircase leading up to the second floor and my room is empty. All the action is down on the ground level, after all. The lights are dim, and the sound of many people's voices fills the air.

"I'll be right back down," I call out over the voices. I don't see my parents or my sister, but I'm sure they're here somewhere. So, without hesitating, I climb up the stairs and turn into my room.

My room isn't as fancy as the rest of the house. The bed, circular instead of square, is shoved up against the wall oposite to the door. My velvet purple blankets lay unmade, and a few clothes are scattered on the ground. The deep violet paint makes the room appear smaller than it is, and the white dressers stand out against it. The wide screen T.V. is on the higher part of the wall across from my bed, almost blending in with the wall.

I grab the dress off the hook on my door, and yank it on. It glitters in the light, and I bite my bottom lip in distaste. The long mirror on my wall reflects my image, and I glare at myself. The dress is the perfect size, with the skirt flowing down to just above my knees. I put on the necklace, and reluctantly slip on the silver shoes before gliding back down the stairs.

It's the same as every other night. When I reach the bottom, several people walk over and smile at me. I remember their faces, but not their names, and when they compliment my outfit, I force a smile on my face and murmur a few thanks. Farther away, my sister and her little friend glance over at me and whispers something to her friend. I grin, excuse myself, and walk over to them.

"Hey Namia," she says politely. "Did you bring any friends home today?"

"Yep," I say, and a look of surprise crosses over her face. To my annoyance, her friend looks surprised, too. What has Emma been telling her friends about me? Suddenly, I'm angry. She has no right to tell them about me. It's bad enough that half the district thinks I'm crazy. I don't need the other half whispering about me, too.

Spotting Red, I make my way over to him, smiling again. "I hope I didn't take too long."