Roots of Fire

I admire her beautiful hair. It twists and waves, curling and bouncing all the way down to just below her shoulder blades. It’s full, thick, and healthy yet tangled and untamed, naturally sprawling in all directions, but not in a distasteful manner. I suppose she reminds me of a female warrior somewhat—you know, the one in the stories who boldly challenges the male adversary and always wins renown by defeating him with her strength and cunning. She achieves all of this without forgetting, but rather embracing, the power of her womanhood. Homer discovered it in the soul-consuming sirens since a woman's allure doesn't require sight. They’re distinctly defined by their sex. Yes, self-made heroines; not heroes. Invincible she-champions. And they are naturally beautiful with hair like this girl—stunning because it’s wild. It’s barbaric in a sense.

I wish I could observe her somewhere other than this four-walled class room. I wish I could see her in another world; one not so structured and formulated. I’ve never even seen the whole of her face, and the only chance I get is when she rises from her desk to leave, but then the long strands of her hair sweep over and obscure her features. Besides, the same five girls orbit around her like she has a magnetic attraction. I did catch a glimpse of her right cheek once. It was blemished slightly with a splotch of red reaching out in miniscule veins, but it’s not detrimental to her beauty, I’m sure. Boys are constantly courting her or lusting for her with their goggling eyes. Their voices are mute though, writhing in doubt under the weight of her intimidation. The most attractive girl in our school has endless suitors yet no dates. That is the woe felt by this heroine, but even the mythical goddesses had lovers and feel pangs of solitude, jealousy, and want.

I have few suitors, and, well, no dates, but I wear mismatched socks and vintage skirts inherited by my mother. The heroine wears form-fitted t-shirts and complexion-complementing colors. I limit myself to mascara and eyeliner on my good days. She routinely wears her DNA make-up which is enough to stop all the senior boys in their tracks. My shirts look as if my torso has been regurgitated on while her heels lengthen her slim legs. Sneakers for me please. I often wonder what she’s like apart from what one could assume only form her attire. My friends swear on their lives that she must be spoiled, rich, high maintenance, and evil to the core. “She’s too vain to care about anybody else. Why should she? The girls envy her and the boys want her. The world is in her hands, and she wants to squash the rest of us like we’re worms. Look at the way she carries herself. Always smiling as the rest of us try to survive every new day of high school without becoming him!” By him they meant Bernard or the “quiet kid” as he has   as. You know what I’m talking about: the “quiet kid” who is misinterpreted as the weirdo and sits alone with nothing to say to anyone. It’s a coincidence that my friends should mention him and her in the same conversation because I’ve witnessed something they would find, in record time, a delusive reason for.

Despite all the rumors they’ve concocted about her, she held the door open for Bernard when his arms were full of two-inch thick books. And get this, she smiled at him. Not a feigned smile, but a genuine, good-natured smile; the kind you can see in the eyes. Poor Bernard scuttled past her with bowed head and shut mouth, and then I noticed something even more inspiring. Her expression was one of sadness. She was at least expecting some kind of eye contact that would give her a chance to befriend him, but it wasn’t granted. He was too accustomed to false civility, and she was weary of invidious presumptions. I have hopes for her yet, though. In fact, I pity her in some ways like I would a bird in a cage, but she’ll break free. She’s not among the ordinary. She has no choice really. She was born a redhead.