She sits in math class. Geometry class, actually. She sits in geometry class and waits. The clock on the wall never moves fast enough for her. It never moves fast enough for anyone.
She isn't patient. Not in the least. She drums her long elegant fingers on the desk to the beat of her heart. Or maybe it's to the rhythmic tick-tock of the clock on the wall that never moves fast enough for anyone.
This girl isn't pretty in a conventional way. But she is more striking than anybody else you will see on the street. It's the secret that she holds longingly in her heart, the one that lights up her eyes. Her secret is what makes her different. It keeps her going through the day. It's the smirk lingering in the corner of her mouth and the thought behind holding her posture up so confidently. It's the thing that makes her fingers dance across the desk to the beat of her heart or the tick of the clock that never moves fast enough for anyone.
Nobody knows who she is or who she will be. Only a sophomore, but she knows. Only a little girl, but she knows. She knows enough to get her through the monotonous drone of geometry. She knows enough to keep her special secret to herself. She knows enough not to look jarred by the bland instructor's grating voice finally piercing her thoughtful reveries.
“So, if you multiply x by 45“

She knows that she will not be going to her next class.

“And divide by the sum of the reciprocals“

She knows that she will not be noticed sneaking into her car.

“Then add that measure to the other angles”

She knows that she will meet him there, like always.

“Then you have your answer.”

She knows that she will not get caught. She never does.





She sits in her old chilling house, remembering the good times. The happy times. The youthful times.
She doesn't have anything anymore. She doesn't have anything, and she doesn't have anybody. This sparse house, creaky and decrepit, is where she lives alone. This sparse house, where all she can hear is her own heartbeat, and the ticking of the clock that never moves fast enough for anyone.
“Seventy-nine, “she thinks, accusatorily staring out the grimy window at the richly tinted fall leaves, “Seventy nine years since I was a sophomore, since I was a little girl. Seventy-nine years ago I knew who I was and who I would be. I was foolish, I was a child. I could never see myself here right now. I could never see myself, with everything I love stolen from me”.
She gazes at the shabby room in disgust. So many emotions, such a story she could tell. No more is she striking…beauty always fades.
But with a crooked grin, she remembers. She remembers, and sits up with a raspy snicker that builds in to obnoxious laughter; laughter that nobody can hear. She looks out the window again, a window that is brightened by her sick, maudlin reminiscence.
For she remembers. She has a secret.