Anonymousの小説

Amy stumbles out of Mrs. Brampton’s class, muttering. After nearly an hour, the most part of it spent chastising Amy (mostly) and the other students about time-consciousness and punctuality, Mrs. Brampton had finally gone on to teach them poetry. Amy is beside herself with something akin to rage. Her face is flush with colour, but so are most of the other students who are leaving the class. At least, she didn’t get any after-school. She couldn’t imagine another minute in a space with indomitable, rigid Mrs. Brampton. Today of all days. Today. Perfect! The walk to her locker is short, mostly because she stomps nearly all the way, swinging her short legs without care; Kosi is nowhere to be found, probably having one of her own classes. It does not bother Amy that she might be late for her own class—no one is ever early to Music class. Except you’re Travis. Beautiful, magnifi

Amy stands in front of her locker, cussing and muttering as she wipes the remnants of the tomato off her book. She has cleaned the juice that was splattered on her face as she walked into the school, but her book had been the one that had taken the brunt of the assault. It was lucky that her reflexes were fast else she’d have been well on her way to being named Tomato Pie before the day ran out. She pulls another tissue from her locker, groans, and begins to wipe the book. It is no good, she knows, because the book is already soaked through. Nonetheless, she hopes to at least eradicate the red stain on the book. When the cover page of the book sloughs off because of her vigorous scrubbing, she lets out another groan in anger and bundles up the tissue into a soft, soggy ball and throws it down along with the other tissue papers she has wadded up. She groans again and stands staring from book to pile of soggy tissue to bo

The moon is bright tonight. Not for the first time in the week, Amy gazes up at the glowing ball of light in the sky, wondering… marvelling. “Penny for your thoughts?” a voice interrupts her gazing session. The shock breaks her reverie and she turns back awkwardly, stepping on her gown in the process and tripping headlong to the leaf-carpeted ground. Her father grimaces and shakes his head. “You always were one to fall…” he kneels down beside her, offering a hand which she accepts gratefully and rises up, brushing off dry leaves from her gown and doing her possible best not to be redder than the decaying leaves. “I was just—” she mumbles. “I know—it’s fine. It’s my fault, I shouldn’t have creeped up on you like that.” Her father smiles, and she joins him too, grateful for his presence.