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Description
       She’s always been sitting there, watching all the children. Nobody can really see her, and those who can never admit that they can. Still, she is there, in the corner under the tree. Over by the basketball hoops. Can you see her? I can. I’ve seen her since long before I was smart enough to attend school here. I looked up stories about girls who went to the school, girls who looked like her: a pretty girl with curly hair that was probably once red-brown who wore what was probably once a blue and white dress with a poofy skirt.

       But there’s no record of a girl like that.

       I stop to look at her every day during lunch. She looks at me and I look at her. Sometimes, she smiles at me. Other days, she nods at me. I always nod back, though sometimes I do smile. A small one though. Can’t look too suspicious.

       Once, I even sat down next to her. The air around her is always cold. Like all the life around her is gone. She’s not even in full color. Just shades of black, white, and grey. Some days, she looks more like those old brown-ish photos people see in really old homes and museums.

       In al the time I’ve seen her, she’s never talked to me. I don’t talk to her either, but when I look at her, it’s like I know she’s not going to speak to me. Almost like. . . she can’t speak to me. Like she’s forgotten how to talk or something.

       Four years pass in this school. Four years of going out to the yard during lunch. Four years of seeing her. Four years of her seeing me. Four years of long stares and passing glances. Four years of wondering whom she is.

       When I graduate, I walk back to the schoolyard. She’s there in her corner, looking up at the tree. I still have my gown on from the ceremony.

       “Hey.” It’s the first word I’ve ever said to her.

       She looks down and focuses her gaze on me. Her eyes are really wide, like she can’t believe I’m talking to her. I smile and wave hello. She tentatively waves back.

       I walk forward until we’re only about two feet apart. “My name’s Bernadette.“ I tell her. “What’s you’re name?” Her pale eyes look up at me. Then she smiles.

       Her voice doesn’t carry in the air like mine does. Instead, it sounds in my ears like a secret whisper from another time. “My name is Annabelle.” That’s what her whispered words tell me.

       Surprising me, Annabelle stands up from her seat in the corner. She smoothes out her skirt and all at once becomes this beautiful woman. All of her is in color now, rich vibrant color. She’s a little transparent. Turns out, she had hair that could only be described as strawberry blonde. It framed her face in soft curls, kissing her cheeks. The eyes that had often stared into mine looked like they were very, very green. And her dress, oh her dress! It had turned into this long skirted gown of reds and browns that pooled at her feet like water!

“Wow. . .” The word came out of my mouth in a whisper.

       Annabelle curtsied and said, “Thank you Bernadette.” Before fading into the afternoon sun.

Description
       She’s always been sitting there, watching all the children. Nobody can really see her, and those who can never admit that they can. Still, she is there, in the corner under the tree. Over by the basketball hoops. Can you see her? I can. I’ve seen her since long before I was smart enough to attend school here. I looked up stories about girls who went to the school, girls who looked like her: a pretty girl with curly hair that was probably once red-brown who wore what was probably once a blue and white dress with a poofy skirt.

       But there’s no record of a girl like that.

       I stop to look at her every day during lunch. She looks at me and I look at her. Sometimes, she smiles at me. Other days, she nods at me. I always nod back, though sometimes I do smile. A small one though. Can’t look too suspicious.

       Once, I even sat down next to her. The air around her is always cold. Like all the life around her is gone. She’s not even in full color. Just shades of black, white, and grey. Some days, she looks more like those old brown-ish photos people see in really old homes and museums.

       In al the time I’ve seen her, she’s never talked to me. I don’t talk to her either, but when I look at her, it’s like I know she’s not going to speak to me. Almost like. . . she can’t speak to me. Like she’s forgotten how to talk or something.

       Four years pass in this school. Four years of going out to the yard during lunch. Four years of seeing her. Four years of her seeing me. Four years of long stares and passing glances. Four years of wondering whom she is.

       When I graduate, I walk back to the schoolyard. She’s there in her corner, looking up at the tree. I still have my gown on from the ceremony.

       “Hey.” It’s the first word I’ve ever said to her.

       She looks down and focuses her gaze on me. Her eyes are really wide, like she can’t believe I’m talking to her. I smile and wave hello. She tentatively waves back.

       I walk forward until we’re only about two feet apart. “My name’s Bernadette.“ I tell her. “What’s you’re name?” Her pale eyes look up at me. Then she smiles.

       Her voice doesn’t carry in the air like mine does. Instead, it sounds in my ears like a secret whisper from another time. “My name is Annabelle.” That’s what her whispered words tell me.

       Surprising me, Annabelle stands up from her seat in the corner. She smoothes out her skirt and all at once becomes this beautiful woman. All of her is in color now, rich vibrant color. She’s a little transparent. Turns out, she had hair that could only be described as strawberry blonde. It framed her face in soft curls, kissing her cheeks. The eyes that had often stared into mine looked like they were very, very green. And her dress, oh her dress! It had turned into this long skirted gown of reds and browns that pooled at her feet like water!

“Wow. . .” The word came out of my mouth in a whisper.

       Annabelle curtsied and said, “Thank you Bernadette.” Before fading into the afternoon sun.