To Be an Outcast by Timandra Richardson (romantic story to read txt) 📕

Everyone is oblivious to everything.

Everyone has something to say.

Everyone is feeling one thing or another.

We "eat to live", not "live to eat".

 We most often like the opposite sex, while some others, don't.

We're human. Feeling depression is human. Wanting to eat is human. Standing up for your own rights is human. Being oblivious to the boy next door having a crush on you is undeniably human. And liking that boy is human.

But not for us--not when you're living in the year 2799. Something was very wrong.

I stared at the front of my classroom, bright, wide-eyed, and inspecting and dissecting every word the professor planted on the digital board in front of us.

The professor called our generation genetically improved from the ones before--we were "genetically" smarter, faster, more attractive, and unemotional. Professor said we were perfect. He said we couldn't feel, and that was the best thing we could ever do. It would keep us from heartbreak, from anger, nervousness and etcetera.

"Elise Boardman?" Prof. said speculating me behind his hexfocals. "Did you hear the question?"

I stared. "No. Please repeat it again," I answered quickly.

For some odd reason, my brain was only on the boy behind me. There was something about him that put me on edge. He lived next door from me, and just a few days ago, he told me he..."liked" me. Was that even physically possible? Or, rather, mentally?

"Miss Boardman, I asked if you would come up to the board and subtract the two polynomials I wrote here."

Prof. was a fairly old man. He had to be in his early hundreds or so, but somehow, he was the most attractive teacher we had in the school.

"Yes, Professor," I said, just beginning to stand.

"Thank you, Miss Boardman," he said, moving out of the way so that I could get to the problem. He smiled and sat at his desk. "Please, if you will, before you answer the question, present yourself to the class."

It was December the 22nd, the first day of a new school year. Today I wore a suit jacket, tailored to fit on me quite perfectly, and pants. I was the only girl in the class who'd decided to wear pants, so I was already an outcast.

I nodded to the professor and faced forward, immediately avoiding the heart-wrenching contact of eyes with the boy who lived next door. I swallowed unnoticeably, and stated my "case".

"As you know, I am Elise Boardman. I am seventeen next year this coming January. I specialize in 3-D graphics and animation. I've been accepted into Columbia next winter. I am mixed with Egyptian and English roots and have been told that I work well with others." I flashed a slight smile before turning back to the professor. "May I begin?"

The professor watched me with a tilt of his head with his legs crossed. "Ahead you go, Miss Boardman. Proceed."

I raised a pointed finger in the air, and began writing, finishing almost as soon as I started. Pleased with myself, I backed away, and waited for Prof. to approve me.

"Good, you can take your seat," the Professor said, standing back up again. "Now, who can simplify this answer?"

I dropped dead in my seat, feeling a sudden rush of embarrassment, the right half of my brain taking complete control. What have you done? You didn't simplify! Now you're a dud!

I bit my bottom lip and snapped out of it. It's an honest mistake. Anyone could've forgotten to simplify. Anyone.

But somehow, everyone else raised their hands. What an inhumane mistake.

I withheld a sigh. "You, James Rodney," Prof. said, giving a brighter and more genuine smile than he'd given me.

There was a screech of a chair and the sound of footsteps coming from behind me. Luckily enough, it wasn't the boy next door, whose name I haven't bothered to learn yet.

"My pleasure," a deep voice said as the boy sauntered to the front of the classroom--and...and shook the professor's hand, as if they were friends. What was this?

The professor sat down again and crossed his legs. "Please, present yourself to the class."

Then he turned to face us. "My name is James Rodney," he said, folding his hands in front of him comfortably. He had dark brown hair, green eyes, and dark pink lips that were curling up into a smile. And he was unimaginably tall for someone of our generation.

 "I'm seventeen and plan to major and minor in law and physics at Princeton University. I just came over from England before this school year started, so that's where the accent comes into play. I, too, have been told that I work very well with others, Miss Boardman, so we might get along easily."

I gulped again--then I nodded.

"May I begin, Professor?" he said.

The professor smiled. "Thank you, Rodney. Proceed."

James turned quickly to the digital board and erased all of my work, and suddenly I felt immersed with shame. He then rewrote the problem, used a different technique than I did, and found the right answer without having to simplify at all. No wonder he was getting into a better school than mine.

He turned to the class as the professor made a speculation. He nodded satisfied. "A fine job, Rodney. Thank you. You may return to your seat. Does anyone have any questions?"

A hand rose beside me, of a blonde girl with a tight smile, and the professor called on her. She opened her mouth confidently and spoke. "James Rodney, how tall are you? We rarely see men in America surpassing six-two, so it's hard to say."

James stopped right in between us, his hand on her desk, and his back facing mine. "Six-four," he answered. "It's interesting to see someone concerned with height."

"Oh," she said, and I bet she was feeling kind of naked, having a conversation in front of the whole class like this—but maybe I was the only one who'd ever feel like that. "I'm asking because I'm majoring in history, and your height is almost record-breaking. I find it very interesting."

Then I froze. I just then understood what she was doing. She was evaluating him, and by the way he slowly walked away without answering, he knew it too.

I may've forgotten to mention, but it wasn't necessary before.

All individuals, at the age of 18, would be assigned a mate. It was mandatory. She was evaluating him as if he was a subject of interest--for mating.

"That was slightly inappropriate, don't you think, Miss Hallie?" Professor said, standing again.

She looked down. "I wouldn't say it's inappropriate. He's an amazing candidate for mating. Women want someone large--it makes for greater fertilization and shows for health and longevity. And offspring would be dominant in the next generation—"

"That's enough, Miss Hallie," the professor said, right before the class finally ended. "Please exit in an orderly fashion."

Chairs screeched as we all stood, and I pulled on my duffel bag. The boy from next door crossed my path, and gave me a look, stealing a single glance, before exiting out of the classroom. Something about that—him—all of him—made my stomach flutter.

He was five-eleven, blonde, and average-looking. Somehow, I had these weird feelings about him, and they wouldn't just easily shake off. I never had feelings like these until he told me he, unexplainably, "liked" me.

"Greetings, Spock," a voice said coming from behind me.

I gulped again—Oh, God, stop gulping, Elise! my right brain screamed. It makes you vulnerable.

I turned slowly to see this James staring me down from his aweing height. "Who is Spock?" I said lightly. "My name is Elise Board--"

"Don't tell me that you've never watched Star Trek before," he said, passing me to leave the room.

Was I supposed to follow? Without thinking, though, I did. I followed. "I don't watch films of any kind, so no."

"Then we have to watch it sometime," he said. "As an informal date. I'd like to get to know you, you're very Spock-ish, and I happen to find it distasteful, and so do the many around you. Human beings shouldn't be like Spock at all."

We exited through the door. "That's very unprofessional of you," I commented shakily, "to hand me criticism like that and then invite me on an informal date to look at a distasteful character that reminds you of me."

"No, not really. I'm actually being quite friendly. You, on the other hand, don't even try, or seem to know the definition. What was unprofessional was that "Hallie" girl who brought up fertilization and mating in class. Blondes are very outspoken, aren't they?"

I paused when I gave all of this some thought and slung my duffel bag on my shoulder as we walked through the hall. I scoffed slightly. "Why are you talking to me?"

"Because you're a prude, Spock," he stated easily.

"What--?"

"And my friend, Brandon Charles, happens to find you extremely attractive, because he's a prude as well, and is afraid to talk to you in person. So I'm doing it for him." James stopped in his tracks just to turn to me. He laughed. "Prudes! I love that word!"

"Shhh!" I yelled. "I'm not a-a..." I began to whisper. "I'm not a prude."

"Oh, but you are. That's why you won't talk to him."

"Why are you so loud? Do you want anyone to hear you?"

"Now, Spock, before you freak out, I am highly intoxicated, and I just need you to talk to him, 'cause he's freaking out about you, and you are obviously freaking out about him. So when can I set up a date between the two of you? Tonight? Tomorrow night?"

"James!" a yell came from across the hallway. I stared into this guy, feeling a rush of embarrassment stir up in me. This was harassment.

I turned my head, and so did James, to the blond kid from next door. He rushed over and hooked onto his friend's arm. "Elise, I'm so sorry," the boy said. "My name is Brandon Charles, and I may've spooked you the other morning with what I said--"

"Brandon, back off," James said. "I have this."

"No, you were making a scene. We need to get out of here. Maybe we can talk more tonight, Elise? You can come over, you know? If, you know, you wanna talk more about this. I know you're probably very confused."

I tightened my grip on my duffel bag, stuttered a couple of words, and without a second thought, paced away, towards my next class.

The rest of the day was a series of pen-biting, nail-tapping, and hourless hours. By the time history was over, I'd finally cooled down. The worst part was, I had no one to talk about this to. I couldn't say anything because it's considered...unusual. If I had a mother, she'd be the first person I would tell.

I lived in apartment 108 on Coelstry St. It was a jumbled mess of brick buildings in a poor city that was all nudged together and packed tightly. So my next-door neighbor's window was literally centimeters from mine.

I knocked on the door, and a series of screaming sounded. Like I mentioned, if I had a mother, she'd be the first person I would tell about my problems. But my mom was gone, ever since she’d been diagnosed with schizophrenia, and has been hearing voices and seeing things ever since.

"Who is it?" a weathered voice said on the other side of the door.

"It's me, Mom.