The Pen is Mightier Than the Sword {Gemma}

Actions speak louder than words, even written ones.

That's the only thing I can think of when I spot the notebook passed back to me after it sat there for minutes on his desk, blank and empty. I'm guessing that he was confused; he had no idea what I wanted to talk about. Maybe he did, though, but I won't know. We don't talk. Obviously I don't talk to him, but he never bothers to strike up a conversation with me. It's not like a care, though.

All I wanted was his thought on what had happened earlier. Yes, we both dislike each other, and yes, we both know it, but I wanted him to know I don't like him like that. I don't like him at all. I have the impulse to write something harsh, but I know I shouldn't. He can just throw it away and laugh it off. If anybody is watching me, they'll notice how my eyes are stuck in a glare and my cheeks are burning red.

I could honestly care less about what the teacher's saying. I'll ace the test without a doubt, like always. I feel a slight bit rebellious when I flip to a different blank page and begin to draw. I always pay attention, considering that this class is extremely demanding. Also, seeing Fleet's test scores when I'm chosen to pass out papers makes me do more than laugh. It makes me more determined, more cautious of my answers. It makes me more confident, though, which is something that rarely happens.

I try to look up every once in a while, making it look like I'm taking notes. I don't know if this messes me up, for my drawing has completely changed. At first, I was going to draw a simple field of flowers, but it's been completely warped. The small flowers are people now. They all have some kind of hair that looks like petals, except for one. There's one little flower person in the very back on the field, posing with only a small petal at the top of its head. I know it's me, but I'm not sure if I even noticed myself doing this. I try to pay attention to the teacher and let my hands draw whatever they want, now.

I eye the clock, taking note that we'll be changing classes soon. I force myself to examine my drawing, which is remotely the same. The only difference is that there's a flower person at the very front of the field, all by itself. It has more petal hair than all the others, but it's bent over, withering, on the verge of death. I have no idea what this is supposed to mean, and frankly, I don't want to know.

I rip it out, planning on throwing it away on my way out. I shudder, knowing it has some deep meaning that will probably scare me to death. I bury it deep in my stack of books, concealing it from sight. A gust of wind from the air conditioner blasts me in the face, causing me to shiver and shake. A light above me begins flickering, and I almost wonder if there's a bad storm brewing. I brush away my assumption when I note it's just the usual swarm of bugs waking up for the morning. I count them over and over, only taking a few minutes to count to ten twenty times.

There's still five minutes left and I resist the urge to scribble a note to Fleet, asking for an explanation. Even if he didn't understand why I slipped him a blank page, he could have written something. Even a one word response would be great. He must have a reason, though, since he doesn't even bother to look my way, which causes me to do the exact opposite. I catch Dave turned around in his seat, staring at me. I'm not sure if it's because I keep looking at Fleet or not, but once he notices me looking at him, he turns around. Rolling my eyes, I gather all my books and gently plop them on my desk as countdowns are whispered.

The bell rings instantly, catching the chanting students off guard. Honestly, it confused me too, which means I'm pushed out of the room by the wave of commotion I call my peers. I watch as my drawing flutters to the ground behind me, left for any stragglers. I know a few slow kids are back there, a nerd or two, and Fleet. I close my eyes, for I do not want him to see it. I know if I go back to get it, he would have already seen it. I have no choice but to flee. I won't go out as crazy as everybody; I'll go out with grace. If grace means tripping over the threshold, that is.

I know he's following me; I can feel his anger flowing behind me. I try to pick up my pace at an unnoticeable rate, but it does not good to get him away from me. He pulls me aside into a small alcove I've never noticed before. Is there things hidden in the school that are hidden from me, like this alcove, but in plain sight for Fleet? I'm wondering if he's hidden here before, for it is a nice spot to get away from the stress of your peers. I watch the people flash by, getting glimpses of the beautiful colors swirling in front of me.

He takes me away from the magnificent site, though, by gripping my arm. I can feel the mixture of shock and anger forming on my face. Who does Fleet think he is, grabbing my arm like I'm some kind of criminal? I cringe and try to twist my arm out from under his grasp, but this only causes him to tighten his grip. I let my eye flit to his for a moment, and I can already feel the string of angry words he'll fling at me. I dart my eyes to the floor; I would rather not make eye contact with him when the first syllable hits my ears.

“I don’t know if you know, but whatever little trick you had going back there is wasted on me. I can’t read. I can’t write. I have no idea what this is, but I won’t be mocked. I won’t stare at meaningless symbols and be frightened by a girl who is younger than me. Understand? There has to be a way for us to talk. Not that I want to. It’s just boring to see you standing there, unable to reply. Fight back!”

Every last letter rains down on me, shock spewing from all sides of me. He can't read or write? How has he been passing through the grades what seems like year after year? Yes, I'm sure he's been held back at least once, but if he can't read nor write, how can he have even passed kindergarten? He can't do any work at all. The only thing I can think of is, yes, he doesn't do his classwork, but somebody does his homework for him. His projects, anything extra credit, any reading assignment, has never been done by him, but for him. This explains why he never even picked up the pen.

His last two words hit me hard. Fight back. Fight back... I know what I can do, though. As he releases my arm, I take the paper from him, slowly unfolding it. I hope he can read lips, for if he can, I might have found our only link of communication.

"This," I point at the picture, being carefully to slowly mouth the words."This is a picture. These are flowers. Or... at least I think they are... They kind of look like people, don't you think?"

Though no sound escapes my lips, I know he has heard me. I might have insulted him by going at a slow speed, but I wanted to make sure he saw every last bit of it.

I realize how close we are, how provocative our position could be to a passer-by who doesn't know us, considering the halls are now empty and they could see us from yards away. I take a step back, still holding the picture. I'm hoping he won't leave at the thought of me trying to communicate with him. He's the first person I've ever tried to talk to using my lips, and it sparks something in me. I want this kind of conversing to be just between us. I want everybody else to think my only connection to Panem is through a notebook and a pen. maybe, just maybe, he'll be willing to keep my secret. I can't count on it, though, for Fleet is already aggravated with me.

I watch him closely as he examines my drawing, his eyebrows furrowing, lines in his forehead creasing. Even though we dislike each other, I would love to paint a portrait of him. His face has so much more detail in it than most people. I wonder what he makes of the two flowers that stand out in the crowd.

“I guess they look like people. But you’re the one that drew it, you should know. Why are you showing me, anyway?”

I want to spit in his face, but only because I understand art better than him. Just because I drew it does not mean there isn't something the viewer can't imagine. Maybe I did intend on the flower-people to be flowers. Somebody could look at the picture and say that they look like they are people, actually. The meaning of a picture is yours to take, yours to create.

I won't tell him why I am showing him. He can figure it out for himself by my actions. Rolling my eyes, I fold my paper back up and shove it deep in a binder. The later bell rings, causing both me and Fleet to jump. I almost start panicking. My class is so far away; there is no doubt that I'll be another five minutes late. I turn to leave, but I can feel Fleet's eyes on the back of my head.

"Meet me there again at break; I’m not finished with you. And if word gets round that I can’t read or write, I’ll know where that lie came from. And I’ll be able to stop any more from spreading.”

I snicker as he walks away, even though nervousness bubbles up inside of me. The second he disappears from my sight, I run. I rush to my class, trying to think of a reasonable explanation for why I'm so late. I feel sweat dribble down my forehead and slow down. I wipe away the salty beads, the click-clacking of my shoes only making me more nervous. I reach the door, not even remembering if this is the right room. I squeeze my eyes shut and push down on the handle.

The sound that fills my ears is one I don't expect. It's the sound of twenty or more kids chattering away. I experimentally open my eyes, noting that the teacher isn't even there yet. A smile breaks out on my face before I make my way to my seat.

**********

The bell to change classes rings before I expected once more. The teacher never came, so my rushing actions were not even necessary. I'm going down a more hidden hall to my third class of the day when Fleet's words fly into my brain. Frustrated, I turn sharply on my heel, causing me to get a scratch across my face from a well-hidden object. Half of a rusted metal coat-hanger lies in a small hole in the concrete wall.

I put a finger to the wound, fear sweeping over me. When I dare look at my finger, only a thin trail of blood lies on my finger. Shuddering, I force myself to go to the direction of where Fleet wants me to be. I wedge myself between a large blob of teens, making sure to "accidentally" rub my bloody cheek on a sleeve. I think about heading back and going on with my day normally, but I know Fleet will find me somehow.

The halls don't seem to clear out like they did last time. Don't these people have anything better to do? It takes me a moment to realize that the hall earlier only cleared out because it wasn't used as much. Making my way to the nook, I count only three people in the hall, and none of them are Fleet. I slip into the nook, wondering why it is taking Fleet so long. His class had to be closer than mine was by a long shot. I slide down the wall, wishing that I could just leave.

I'm trying to keep the anger on my face noticeable, but when he grins and waves to further my anger, I clamp my hand over my mouth. My eyes twinkle, and my heads slightly moves up and down. Its the closest I can get to a laugh. Noticing how awkward I probably made it, I remove my hand, my smile slipping into a frown. I ponder the idea of him even coming. He could have have gone to his next class and left me here looking like a fool. It leaves me clinging to the slippery wall of sanity. I've question all his actions today, and so far none of them were answered.

It all started because he didn't hurt me. It was so simple and plain and right there that it bothers me to the core. Why didn't he say anything earlier today, in homeroom? Why didn't he even move or laugh? Why did he just sit there, silent and still? Questions roll and rattle all throughout my brain, almost causing me a headache.

“You’re smart, showing up. So come on, why did you even show me that picture you doodled in class? You didn’t really think that I’d have anything constructive to say. All I know is fishing and fighting. School’s a waste of time; I could be out at sea right now, earning a living and actually enjoying myself. But I suppose life’s a mystery, which brings me back to my question. Why?”

I wrinkle my nose at the thought of all those words, strung together in a jumbled mess. So many questions spill from his mouth, but the same one sticks out just as it had earlier. Why? Why had I shown him the picture? The answer was simple, just return the question with a question. Why didn't I shown him?

I assumed that Fleet was like every teen. When they pick up something, they want to know what is inside. I thought Fleet would be curious and want to see what he had discovered. I showed him because I thought he would want to. It was just that, nothing more. I won't tell him, though.

"So, Fleet, listen. You've seen what I put on my papers, and I'm pretty sure I know what's on yours. Nothing," I begin to mouth. I pause, letting it sink in. "Admit it. You aren't going to get out of school this year unless you fix your grades. I know that you would rather be training or in the water instead of in school. So, here's a deal. I'll teach you how to write, and you can... you can... you can... hmm... You can choose what will be your end of the deal will be. Okay?"

I'm not sure why I've done this for him; I'm not sure why I've suddenly taken pity in this boy. More questions tumble into my brain. Just as I think that the questions have stopped, one more pops into my mind. Why did I give him free rein? It takes me a minute to gather up all the details, but I finally get an answer. It's because he reminds me of me.

All he's known is fishing and the sea and the beach and fighting. That's practically all I've ever known as well. The fighting part is different for me; the fighting is nonexistent in my daily schedule. I'm pressured everyday to become a career. I've hated fighting normally, but recently I veered into the woods and ran into a fight. I was quite good at throwing knives, and now, the ambition to become a career beckons me. An idea seeps into my brain, hiding among the questions.

"Wait. Scratch that. If I teach you how to write, then you have to teach me how to fight. It's a fair deal right? Something I know well for exchange of something you know well?" I grin at my new deal, hoping he caught every last formation of my lips.

.·.·.·.·.·.·.·.
You don't have to feel like a wasted space
You're original, cannot be replaced
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He's smiling a sly grin, and I can only imagine the images of me trying to fight floating through his head. I try to imagine me trying to teach him how to write. I can't say that I'll be satisfied with my work, though, considering I never learned how to properly hold a pencil. I know Fleet will be frustrated if it takes him time to learn a certain shape, but I think I'm up for the challenge. Of course, he has to agree first.

“It’s a deal,” he says.

He sticks out his hand, and I grab it. His grip is so strong and firm compared to my shaky, weak one. I have the impulse to massage my stiff fingers when he releases my hand, but I realize if I'm going to be a career, I cannot show any weakness.

“Now you can run along back to class, or sneak into the gym with me for an early start. You can teach me after school; my uncle has been nagging me to bring a girl home for years. Too bad it has to be you.”

I smile at the thought of being presented to his uncle as if I was a girl he loved. It would probably frustrate Fleet that anybody would ever think he loved me, but it would be hilarious on my part. I can't imagine us skipping class together to go sweat to death in the gym either, and I doubt he can imagine that as well. I know he was serious now, for I see him force himself up and towards the gym. "... you can run along back to class, or sneak into the gym with me..." Are you kidding me, Fleet? I've never skipped a day in my whole life!

I realize, though, that I've never skipped because I've never had a reason to. For one thing, I don't have any friends who skip. I suppose I'm a bit of a goody-two-shoes as well, but I would never admit it. Ever. The way to start is to give Fleet the opposite of my thoughts.

I walk toward him at a fast pace, quickly catching up to him. Once I get a few steps ahead of him, I turn around, carefully walking backwards in front of him. I know this way we can keep moving and he will be able to see the words he will never hear.

"Are you kidding me? Do you really think I would give up the option of skipping? Even if I have to spend my time with you.

A smile spreads across my lips, and I turn around, taking a place next to Fleet's right. My only worry now is disappointment. I don't want to seem like a complete failure to him; I don't want it to seem like he won't be able to work with me. I don't care if we will get caught; all I care about is learning how to fend for myself. Also, I can't wait to see Fleet doing one of the few things he can excel at.

I don't know what kind of fighting his has in mind, though. I didn't specify on what kind of fighting I wanted to be taught. It could be anything from hand-to-hand combat to blades to... anything really. He'll probably teach me whatever kind he's best at; it will most likely be what he trains in. But what does he train in?

I have no idea where to even start, for I've rarely ever seen Fleet outside of school and the mandatory things. I hope it's not throwing knives. Of course, like I had mentally mentioned earlier, I did fairly well with them a few days ago, but I wanted to be prepared for the unexpected. For example, if I run into trouble and don't have any knives, I'd like to be able to defend myself with more than just my bare hands. Really, I just want to find my strengths.

.·.·.·.·.·.·.·.
Maybe a reason why all the doors are closed
So you could open one that leads you to the perfect road
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The closer we get to the doors, the harder I clutch the books and binders in my arms closer to my chest. There's a look in his eyes that I can't quite describe. Pride, maybe. Recognition, success, excitement. It could be any of those, really. I see Fleet smile, and this time I can't imagine what thoughts are running wild in his mind. Maybe they are thoughts of finally being able to do well in more than one subject.

Fleet hesitantly puts his hand on the door. I figure out why before I bother to question his action. There could be a class in there. One of my knees almost give away at the thought of bursting in on an open class. Fleet seems to detect no presence in the room, though, and pushes the doors open. I bring my hand to my nose buy instinct, but I quickly it drop it, knowing that I have to start toughing up.

Beside me, Fleet mumbles something softly that I can't quite pick up, but I do hear the word home. He coughs and strides over to a supply closet. I'm not sure what he plans on getting, so I stay behind. I watch him stumble into darkness and grasp for the light switch. I hear a lot of noises, clanks from metals hitting each other, items falling to the floor, and the simple shuffle of thin objects. He finally exits the closet, his arms full with a giant bundle of items.

I help him set them down and examine each item. I find a net, a long, wooden pole, and some hand weights. I raise an eyebrow, but I know I must let Fleet be the leader here. While it's quite cool in the gym, he begins to unbutton his shirt, causing me to groan in disgust.

“You’re not going to become a Career overnight. Let’s start by building some muscles on those skinny arms of yours.”

He hands me a weight for each arm, and, not realizing their weight, I almost drop them. I haven't ever bothered to hold weights in my whole life, let alone actually use them. I try to lift them up and bring them back down before Fleet speaks again.

“You’ve got to build some strength before I let you near any weapons, especially blades. Have you any idea how heavy they are?”

A sly grin creeps up on my face. Of course I know how heavy some blades can be. I just recently got back from a fight I lost quite a lot of blood in. Does Fleet need to know that though? It doesn't take much time for me to think about it. The answer is yes. He should know about any strengths I have so I don't have to spend hours working on something I already know how to us.

"First of all," I say, setting the weights down at my feet. "This bothers me."

I cock my head a little towards his unbuttoned shirt. It doesn't distract me or anything, but it just makes him seem like he is too cocky. I don't know nor do I care if my answer makes much sense in my brain, but I travel the few steps towards Fleet. I know I'm not going to stand there and button up his shirt like I'm his mother, so I reside on buttoning one button. I know that a button in the middle will work best. I try not to touch Fleet at all while I slip the plastic button through the small hole in his shirt. I take a few steps back when I finish, ready to tell him my story.

"There. Anyways, yes I do know how heavy some blades are. Just knives really, but they are still blades. I wandered off into the forest one day, trying to get away from the low lives who have nothing better to do than train teens to kill. I ran into some company, and I have to admit I was afraid. I attacked some, and actually got some good hits.

I try to recall the memory of that day, the blood that was spilled, the weapons that were thrown.

"One girl I threw a knife at and it was stuck deep in her chest. Let's see, I threw another knife at her and it opened up a large wound on her cheek... And then there was this other girl, and one of my knives produced a deep gash on her thigh."

I only tell him the good wounds. He doesn't need to know of the misses or the cuts that barely drew any blood.

.·.·.·.·.·.·.·.
You just gotta ignite the light and let it shine
Just own the night like the fourth of July
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