Sheen

“Hey dull-eyes, get out of my car,” my Aunt spat.

Her sheen was red. I thought it matched her personality fittingly.

My Dad said the moment the Doctor dropped aqua-sheen in her eyes, they turned red as a tomato.

Red indicated strong beginnings, but hard downfalls. The sheen was never wrong.

Scrambling for my bags, I hopped out of her white Atlas-Roader and watched as she peeled out of the parking-lot.

I knew she wouldn’t be coming back once I graduated. This was her one chance to dump me on the streets and not get in trouble for it.

Surrounding the lot were the towering buildings that made up St. Vincent Finishing Academy. I would remain at the place for my last six years of school. It was daunting.

The place was larger than a warehouse, and the entirety of zone 8. Each sector seemed to have a color scheme, all attributed to various sheens.

I frowned. Part of me hoped I wouldn’t face what I had in Central Education’s grasp. That was wishful thinking on my part.

I walked towards the School’s common area. It was littered with students.

I shirked my pleather bag and scrambled for a particular pair of glasses. Through the whiskey-colored lenses, I trudged on.

In the chaos of student bodies I could get lost. But, I had things to do. So I swerved, I ignored, did all that I could to quickly reach the front doors. It was going to be a lonely, beer-colored six years. Yeah. I knew what I was in for, at least.

Maybe if I was normal I’d care a little more. Maybe it would bother me that I’d be, at the very least, an entire year older than my first-year classmates. Maybe I’d be bummed that my only redeeming facial feature, my brows, would be entirely obscured while I studied here. Maybe those things still did kind of bother me.

The doors were already opened, fully displaying the inner-workings of the enormous building. When I reached the final step I could already picture the connected hallways. Where the classrooms would lay, and an outdoor area filled with students, a pool on the lower floors. It would be something like that.

For a few long moments I just stood there. It was hard not to marvel at the Iron Parquet floors, the high ceilings. Everything was so lavish. I wasn’t yet used to it.

I was thrilled to be at St. Vincents. Multi-Ed was one of the few studies that did not focus on one specific talent. It would be all-encapsulating. I wouldn’t have to worry about being singled out. At least, that was what I was told.

I absentmindedly entered the building. My vigilant nature made me constantly worried I would be discovered. So I kept moving, though I wasn’t really sure where I was heading.

Walking through the halls was exactly how I had imagined it would be. I followed my imaginatory map to see where it might lead me.

The layout was predictable. As it were, I could not be surprised by these odd guesstimation skills any longer. I came to the conclusion that it was because of my insurmountable shortcomings that I was able to fill in the gaps where I lacked knowledge. It was strange, though, that being less-than was often my strongest asset.

Outside of my puzzled mind I caught images of a physical altercation in my peripheral. I swiveled around where I stood to address the issue.

There was a group of students watching two men fight in the courtyard. They didn’t seem at all bothered by it. Instead of inserting myself I had to blend in. So I only watched from the outskirts of the concrete lip surrounding the area.

One of the two was noticeably taller, broader, and overall more menacing than the other. He had sharp facial features, tan skin, warm, brown hair, and an indistinguishable sheen. It might’ve been a multitude of different colors. I really couldn’t tell. From a distance it nearly passed as an illusive, spectral sheen.

The other was not necessarily short, but average height. He had similarly sharp features, with brown skin, dark, curly hair, and an orange sheen.

I couldn’t help but admire their technique. Whether or not they were sparring was unclear to me.

“Who’s your pick, firstie?” asked an ultra-feminine voice from beside me.

I hadn’t noticed someone sneaking up on me in my state of distraction. I turned slightly, still watching the fight.

It was a woman with straight, black hair, olive skin, and almond eyes with a jade-green sheen.

The color was something I had not seen before, and it caught me a little off guard. Bright greens were very common, but dark greens were not. It was likely because of what green meant, selflessness, and those who had it tended to work in healthcare, like my Grandmother. Darker sheens implied a sinister layer to each color’s meaning. I wondered what that meant in her case.

“If you’re asking who will win, I’m betting on orange,” I replied.

The woman laughed. “I meant who’s hotter, either way you’re wrong,” she nudged me and pointed to the larger guy, “Maliel is basically the King here.”

I shook my head knowingly. “My answer is still the same, it takes skill to keep up with someone bigger than you. Fighting down isn’t attractive. Hot take?”

She smiled. “Course’ not, I get it,” she held out her hand, “Sirca.”

In fear of being awkward, I took the hand and gave it a shake. “Alara.”

At that moment I felt eyes on me and I panned the room anxiously.

The fighting stopped, and the big guy, Maliel, was on the floor.

I was half-wrong. His opponent, too, was flat on his butt. They were both panting.

Maliel in particular had his eyes set on us. He swiftly got up from his arse, still locked on the two unassuming girls in the door frame as he exited stage left.

Sirca appeared shaken. “Do you think he heard us?” she asked.

“I don’t think so. My guess is my lack of uniform disturbed him,” I joked.

Sirca then looked me up and down, and her eyes widened. I wasn’t exactly wearing the most saintly of clothes.

Short-shorts, a cropped, orange sweater-vest, and lace up boots were probably against dress code. At the very least, I looked like a harlot compared to Sirca.

She picked up a backpack with frilly lace that was set on the stone lip next to her, pulling out a piece of paper. “If you don’t have a uniform, then you probably haven’t gone to admissions,” she mumbled, handing me the paper. It was a map of the campus, marked up and crumpled from usage. “How about I walk you there?”

I nodded after much thought. As soon as she walked me there I would avoid talking to her. Friends became enemies very quickly when they found out I wasn’t like them.

We traipsed through the sparsely decorated, blandly off-white halls, and I paid attention to the behavior of the students.

There were those who bragged of their high marks within their program, and those who did not talk to others outside of their area of study. Blue sheens with blue sheens, red with red. Unfortunately, the place reeked of elitist favoritism, which is exactly what I wanted to escape from. But it was far too late to change course.

“Here we are,” Sirca announced as we rounded a corner. There stood a tall, looming set of doors that were opened at the request of a buzzer. I cautiously hit the button and waited. Sirca put a hand on my shaking shoulder. “Only an office, Alara,” she reminded me.

I flinched while the sound of the door parting open screeched along the tile.

Only an office, right. So why did it seem like I was going to war?

Stepping through the daunting doorway, I spared one last glance at Sirca. She smiled. Without a word she walked off, leaving me to my own devices.

Deep breaths. One. Two. Three. I can do this. I can be social. It’s not the end of the world if I embarrass myself, right, right?

The doors began to close behind me. I jumped forward to avoid the flattening of my arse. When I turned back around I registered the situation. In the office were myself, the admissions counselor, and the King, so they called him.

Oops.