CHAPTER ONE
Untitled
| GISELLE CRAMER DID her best to ignore all the shouting and chattering in the halls as she dodged the moving students, folded note in hand. She looked around the sea of people and finally found who she was looking for.
"Psyche!" she called. "Psyche, over here!" The blond-haired, blue-eyed coed talking with three others stopped and gazed in her direction. Giselle waved the note. "Over here!" Psyche excused herself and went over to Giselle, who brushed aside her arrow-straight brown hair in her usual slightly nervous manner. "Here, I got a note for you," she mumbled, handing it to Psyche. "From Trina." Momentary anger flashed in Psyche's eyes. "What's that snot want?" she said, opening the note. She looked at it for several minutes, then threw it to the floor and stormed off. Giselle picked up the note, almost gingerly as if it would bite. She read it. It said: "Dear Psycho, I hope I spelled your name right. It does end in O, doesn't it? Anyway, I was wondering if you had a date for the dance. I already know the answer is 'Of course not,' but I'm sure that you knew I knew because of your 'psychic powers'! Why don't you get an interview with one of those trashy tabloids? You know, ones that have headlines like '80-Year-Old Man Gives Birth to Twin Martians'? I already have a headline for you: 'Drop-Dead Ugly Psychic Refused Date for Dance'! See you and your dork friends later! Chao! Love, Trina P. S. Sorry you have no date like I do." Giselle stared at it for a moment, then threw it away and went off to find Psyche. Her friend had gone off to the gymnasium at the other end of the college building. Little Rock University was not very big, but it did for some four hundred-odd students of northern Michigan. Many of them, though, had come from other states or even countries. Psyche was thinking of none of this, however, as she pushed open the big doors and entered. Some students had congregated there, already preparing for the upcoming dance. Sitting up on the stage, once in a while calling out orders, other times checking a list, was a young man with his sandy blond hair pulled back into a short ponytail. On seeing her he raised one finger straight, then slowly curled it up. It was a personal joke, but Psyche didn't mind it much as she had known him since kindergarten. He spoke up as she approached. "Why, if it isn't old Spoonbender," he greeted, curling all of his fingers this time. "Stop it, you're killing me! My bones--they're turning to molten metal--" "Oh, shut up," Psyche said. "I'm not going to bend your bones. I just want to bend your ear a little." The man clutched at his ear. "Oww!" 
END |
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