Wondering About Annie

I wonder what it�s all about� all these colours and symbols and great, grand big words that I will never understand in my life.

I wonder why that woman is staring at me. Does she think I�m some kind of freak? Does she expect me to turn flips and perform acrobatic tricks? Perhaps she sincerely believes that I can breathe fire out of my mouth. Or maybe she is under the impression that I am an alien � sent ahead of my kin to observe the human race before we annihilate them. I assure you, I am none of those things. I can do none of those things. Though you may choose not to believe me and I cannot change your mind beyond this point, though I hope that it is not the case.

I wonder if the girl who sits in front of me everyday in English will ever acknowledge me. She�s quite pretty, she is. I even know what her name is. Annie.

I wonder what Annie thinks about �The Tempest�. I wonder if she�s ever listened to Radiohead. I wonder If she abides by fashion rules set down by her clique. I wonder why she wears jeans during spring when she looks better in skirts. I wonder if she has a crush on anyone. And I wonder who that person is. Do they know that she likes them? I wonder if she gets along with her parents. I wonder why she cried on Tuesday. Was something horribly wrong? I wonder whether, when she was small, she had pink bedroom walls. I wonder if she believes in God. I wonder if she thinks that I am strange.

I wonder if some day I�ll ever stop wondering. I wonder if I�ll ever stop wondering about Annie.

*

She sat in front of me, she does everyday in English, awaiting the arrival of our ridiculed teacher, reading a note that Jennifer had passed to her a moment ago. She reached into her bag, but then withdrew it suddenly with a sharp mutterance of annoyance. She was probably frowning, her rose stained lips turning into her expression of irritation. She turned around, black hair whipping behind her. �Evan, do you have a spare pen?�

I looked at her in astonishment. She knows my name.