[Six Years Later]
[The 6th Year of the Great Sacrificial Era]
[Preole Grye has undergone its 7th relocation]
[North Precinct, Silvester School. . .]
"Alright, everyone! Just three more minutes, then you're free to go!"
"Yes, Ms. Lovett!" the schoolchildren collectively replied.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Dong! Dong! Dong!
"Yay!"
With kindergarten concluded for the day, it was time to play until the parents arrived. For six-year-old Emory, this was the zenith. It was only now he got to play his most beloved playground game,
"Grounders!"
The rules: players raced to the top of the play structure's bridge. The last one to touch it would be "it." The person tasked with being "it" had to close their eyes, stand in the structure's entrance, and count to ten. After the count, the game started.
The objective: with closed eyes, tag every person on the play structure!
Fortunately, as the fastest one in his class, Emory wasn't forced to be "it." That burden was left for his classmate, Simonis Rebane.
"Haha! Simonis is 'it' again!" a boy yelled from a few feet away.
"Sucks to be the slowest one in the class!" a girl jested.
Simonis looked on the verge of tears. She sniffed, clearing her chubby, button-shaped nose, and went to the entrance platform. The countdown commenced through a whimper, "One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten!"
Children scattered throughout the structure. Some hid behind the slide, others in a connected tube, and a couple on the rails—a dangerous choice!
Emory's plan was to hide right next to the entrance, a strategy he'd only devised the night before. The person who was "it" would never think of anyone standing so close. They usually ran full speed ahead to the bridge, only slowing down there to put their arms in the air.
And for someone like Simonis, who wasn't the brightest of the bunch, Emory suspected this would be perfect. A cheeky smile grew on his face as he tiptoed to Simonis's platform.
She held onto the rail with one hand while the other groped the air, trying to find anyone close by. Emory adjusted his body and ducked. Successfully dodging Simonis, he made his way to the entrance and quietly waited. The win was secured.
He watched the young girl slowly ascend the metal steps with shaking legs.
From afar, he heard snickers and whispers, usually consisting of mean words aimed at Simonis. Sometimes, the schoolchildren called her names that even Emory didn't know the meaning of. Not that he would have done anything to stop them, even if he had.
It wasn't that Emory disliked Simonis—she was bubbly and kind—but a little too much for him. His father's emotional attachment was already enough; he didn't want to befriend someone else like that.
On some occasions, Simonis contemplated walking up to him, a hesitation Emory noted from the corner of his eye. He waited for her decision and was relieved when she went the other way.
Friends weren't inherently useless, but they weren't really useful either.
"Grounders!" Simonis meekly shouted, checking to see if anyone was on the ground. If the person who was "it" called "Grounders" while a player was touching the ground, that player became the new "it."
"Nobody!" the group replied.
"Hmph." Simonis clutched the railing and went higher to the area next to the twin slides. This place was a haven for players, as it was easily the most dangerous for the one who was "it."
Since there was no cover on the left wall, the susceptibility of falling greatly increased. Emory acknowledged the issue and decided never to go near it, whether he was "it" or not.
Simonis had taken a giant leap of faith this game!
Currently, three other children were next to the blonde kindergartener. They clung to the corners of the towering poles, holding their breaths.
Emory noticed Simonis's eyelids quiver, likely meaning she was battling to keep them shut. He empathized, knowing how difficult it was not to open them. If she did, Simonis would hear a joint yell, "Broken dishes!" and be ridiculed endlessly.
Grimacing, the long-skirt-and-blouse-wearing Simonis extended a hand and just barely missed a contestant. Hearing a sigh of relief, she twisted her body absurdly fast and tagged the girl.
There was a pause.
Gasps escaped everyone who had laughed at her.
Emory's mouth gaped as he stared at Simonis. She had pulled off a victory for the ages!
Two glistening blue eyes opened. She saw three players next to her, one of them furious: the girl who had made fun of her earlier. Simonis backed away. "I guess. . . It's your turn?"
Multiple voices rose up. "Yeah, Jane, go to the platform," "Jane got tagged, by Simonis? Hahah!" and "Maybe Simonis isn't that bad of a player. What a crazy girl!"
Jane huffed and frowned. "No. . . you cheated!" She grabbed Simonis's shoulders, making the younger girl pale. "You opened your eyes! I saw it. . . I did! Cheater! Cheater!" She cocked back a fist, readying to hit her.
". . ."
A boy with black hair and crimson-colored eyes grabbed Jane's wrist. "Stop." Jane and Simonis turned to face Emory, who gritted his teeth. "Let go of Simonis."
Jane's anger ignited. "No! She cheated! She should still be 'it!' I would never be caught by a slow fatty like her!"
Ironically, Simonis was skinnier than Jane. Emory's eyebrow twitched. "If she cheated, why didn't you call 'Broken dishes'? Admit you lost and move on."
The logical question stumped Jane, and she reluctantly let go of Simonis's shoulder.
"I'm going home!" Unwilling to admit defeat, Jane left the play structure teary-eyed. The boys enthralled by her, whom Emory mentally called "braindead," sprinted after, crying out, "Let's walk home together!"
They stopped when she glared angrily.
After Jane's departure, the rest of the group dissipated. Emory rolled his eyes at the sour mood; only he and Simonis were left. "Should we head home?" Leaving her alone felt too heartless.
"You can go, I'm sure your dad is waiting for you."
Charles Vaughan had made himself quite popular throughout Kindergarten Class A, known for the. . . colorful lunches he packed his son. "Papa won't pick me up today, I'm walking home," Emory revealed, regretting it instantly.
Simonis twirled her fingers and looked away. "Oh. ."
"Simonis, let's walk home together." He reached a hand out, a naive feeling deep within his heart telling him not to leave her alone.
It took a full minute for Simonis to reciprocate, but that was alright—he had all the time in the world.
As they passed Silvester School, named after the great Houtisian adventurer Francis Silvester, the pair ventured deep into North Precinct and headed home. On their way, Emory heard the young girl mumble to herself repeatedly.
Is she hungry?
He tried to deduce her signs. When he was younger, Emory remembered crying until Charles fed him. Now, hunger was more of a mumble and groan. Unsurprisingly, it was also what he did when he needed to. . .
Does she need to poop?
"E–"
"We're almost at my house. If you need to poop, you can go there."
Emory assured her without worry. "I can poop. . ?"
". . ."
Simonis's face flushed.
"I–I don't need to p–poop! No!" She covered her steaming face and looked away. "H–How could you say something so embarrassing?!"
Emory tilted his head. "You're mumbling and moving pretty weirdly. Are you sure you don't need to poop?"
"No!" Simonis cried. "I wanted to a–ask you something. . ."
You should have said that, then, Emory thought. Efficiency hadn't clicked with this girl at all!
"What do you need?"
"Well. . uhm. . ." She stopped in her tracks. "Why did you h–help me today? You know. . when Jane grabbed my shoulder."
Emory didn't need to think much for his answer. "Why not? We're all the same. Every person in this world should be treated the same." He put two hands on the back of his neck, elbows up, and sauntered forward.
It was one thing for Emory to say this, but another thing for him to apply it all the time. He knew deep down he wasn't the best person for letting the children bully Simonis.
But, oh well. Simonis didn't know that, so he wouldn't make it clear either.
"Papa said Mama was like that, so I want to be like her." Emory smiled, thinking of his mother.
He'd seen the images Charles showed him of the freckled, benevolent Isabelle. He knew his father loved her dearly, and in return, he felt he should love her too.
Albeit at this stage, loving someone he'd never met was a work in progress. One day, hopefully. He would love her one day.
"Oh. . ." Simonis said. "Your mom is really kind."
Emory grinned. "I know, that's why she's my Mama."
The two continued walking. Simonis's eyes latched onto the mini-market, indirectly begging Emory to buy her something.
". . ."
She happily sucked the ice cream. "Fank you."
Emory lamented his empty pockets. "Don't talk with food in your mouth, that's yucky."
Simonis muffled an apology.
From a distance, both children could hear an old woman and a man conversing. The woman said, "I haven't seen him in ages, oh I hope he's doing alright!"
And the man, whose voice Emory instantly recognized as his father, replied, "He should be back from kindergarten soon. I trust nothing bad happened to him."
The old lady reassured, "There you go worrying again, Charles. I'm sure nothing of the sort happened to little Emory." Her voice was grandmotherly, immediately lulling Emory.
Simonis slowed down and shyly clung to the boy. "How far is your house?" he asked, moving in front of her.
"Pretty close. . . I think." She stared at Emory's chin. "C–Could I maybe. . ."
Emory, dumbfounded by her hesitation again, annoyingly said, "If you need to poop, just say so!"
Before Simonis could respond, Charles's voice yelled out, "Emory? You're back!" A surge of joy rushed through the little boy as his father ran toward him.
Emory could see the old woman clearly now: she wore a light-blue cardigan, soft jeans, and had a pearl necklace. Old. . . Emory thought, staring at her wrinkles.
Charles stopped in his tracks and peered at Simonis. "You are. . .?"
She ducked and whimpered. Her brave classmate took the initiative to answer. "I walked with her today 'cuz I felt lonely. Is that alright, Papa?"
Charles immediately smiled. "Of course, son." He bent to the young girl's level. "What's your name?"
"S–Simonis. . . Simonis Rebane."
"Simonis Rebane, that's an awesome name! Where exactly do you live?"
"She lives close, Papa. I'm gonna walk her home," Emory answered.
"Wow, he's grown up to be such a gentleman." The old woman joined the conversation. "I guess I should introduce myself. I'm Amadea Bersebus. You probably wouldn't remember me; it's been quite too long."
She was right; Emory had no recollection of the woman.
"Mrs. Bersebus and I talked on the day of your birth; she helped me deal with your mother's death," Charles reminded the clueless boy. "I saw her through the window and couldn't help but say hi."
"Wow." It failed to fully grab Emory's attention. Such boring adult talk, even if it had to do with his mother.
"Well, I should be going now. It was nice seeing you, Emory. What a wonderful change of scenery."
Emory shyly bowed his head and grabbed the exasperated Simonis's hand. "Let's go." Behind them, Charles and Amadea chuckled, the woman commenting on how "cute" they looked.
Emory tsked. He didn't want to be with a girl who couldn't admit she wanted to poop! Simonis, however, seemed like she didn't mind their observations.
What a confusing girl.
"A–Alright," she answered, and they both walked to her house, hand in hand.