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I threw open the door and ran. I got in line just as class let out. On any other day, I would have been proud of myself, but Sylar had changed that. At least I was sixth in line, that I wouldn’t have to wait that long. When I got to my table it was still deserted. So I sat and started eating my pizza while I read one of my books, so I wouldn’t have to think of him. Even though I’d have to set it down in a few minutes since my guy friends banded books from me if they were there. They set a rule a year back that I couldn’t read while we were at lunch. They said that I was to quiet and everything. Idiots, but they were right, I needed to open up a bit. Five minutes later, lost in the moment of the magic from the book, I was no longer alone at the table. In mid-sentence they yanked the book away from me. ‘Hey! I was reading that!’ I yelled in protest. ‘No! Books are bad!’ Matt yelled back, but only jokingly. He took my bookmark and put it where I had been reading and sat the book way. There were hedges, paths, fences and fields stretching in every direction: from the imposing gates that threatened to close at some mysterious mythical hour to the bandstands that sometimes presented the latest pop sensation to a remarkably small audience. And onwards to statues of commanding and impressive figures of authority of which the most disturbing feature was that none of the men these statues represented, in a sense barely understood at all by me, were any longer living: in fact they were in a state of incomprehensible non-being known as death. And amongst these statues—some with a noble gaze set to a far distant horizon, some abstract in form and at all times both pregnant with and absent of meaning—there were statues of women startlingly different from real-life women. These statues were of women who were not the pink, brown or black skinned women with handbags, open-toed sandals and a ready supply of tissues that a young boy might otherwise encounter in Erewhon. Nor.
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