"Yo, this is a set up right there."

Naiire is just new to Beach Channel, and even though she was force to, kinda, she's still ready to show her character, to this new school. You know, with curled up Spanish hairdo, the orange eye shadow, the red lipstick, paint-stained, faded jeans, and the big, overstocked rainbow bag. She knew she wasn't skinny, model-type, in fact, she was pretty big but she didn't care, she was still a fashionista of her own kind.

Either way, she wasn't ready for whatever it was that Beach channel holds.
Don't get me wrong, she is still from new York city, so she's pretty well used to the pants-low-to my- knees sag, the b****-please talk, and the I’m all that attitude.

But Beach Channel was different all together. From the weird smoke like smell, the milk stained windows, to the embarrassingly loud screams and hollers of students and teacher.

She knew this was a bad idea, even the road under the train seemed to say so as she was coming in from home this morning, as it trembled and roar over the sound of its own complain.
So if anything happens, it wasn’t her fault, she was forced to.
Kinda.

Naiire arrived at school early, way early than she though necessary, as she entered the school through screeners that intelligibly yelps out stuff like:

“No! Go back,”
“Hey take off that belt,”
“Take off those fake earrings, little girl”
“They better not put any wet umbrellas in my machine!”
That last part punctuated with a little roll of the head from one side to the other.

But just as farther into the halls of the buildings, the sounds starts to fade, and for the next 10 minutes or so, a very short time comparatively, the halls reflected nothing but the hums of the sea, and the ruthless , forward, but distant cries of birds.

So she walked.
Walked the halls, calculating every fracture on a ceiling, touching every door knob, every stair handle, knowing that the sticky texture of it is made from possibly…anything but water. She imagined that this is probably the best possible shape it could be in, the school that is, considering not a lot of people is here yet.

But just to her luck, to anyone’s luck really, the school seemed to fill in.

× × ×
But noon came, the day wasn’t a bliss, but it wasn’t bad. For the people wasn’t so bad. And the teachers weren’t tyrants. So he packs her mind and thoughts, to head home
× × ×
And the tract roared over the sound of its own complains, much to its demise really, it crashed and trashed. And down it came, down she fell. And she was just one of many objects crumbled to pieces. But the tract stayed, you see, and so did she, in another form that is, forever to wander the halls of Beach Channel.

So she wanders.
Sealing every fracture on a ceiling, closing every unclosed door, wiping every stained handle. Forever to fix what is broken, in the halls of Beach Channel.
× × ×