Fan Fiction ❯ Angel's Art ❯ Chapter 4

As Angel climbed into the car with her mother, she held her prized new drawing tightly to her chest.

"What have you got there, dear?" her mother asked curiously.

"A picture," Angel replied simply. "From class today." She wanted to talk more, to tell her mother all about how she had to think and concentrate while she was doing it, really concentrate instead of letting her mathematically calculations completely dominate her thoughts. It was... a challenge. And it was exciting. But if her parents thought she was becoming too involved, they might pull her from the class. Both of them already had high hopes of her graduating in statistics or some other field in which her special talents could be put to the best use. It would be a waste, she argued with herself, to pursue a field in which her extraordinary abilities would be of no use to her. But for the time, at least, the class was becoming fun.

"Doing calculations?" her mother asked. Angel snapped to attention. Had she been daydreaming?

"No, why?" Angel asked.

"You just got that look on your face your usually get when you're estimating something, usually my driving speed." She giggled a bit and Angel joined her. Glancing out the window at a tree they just passed, she began counting the milliseconds in her head until they reached the next one, which she knew to be exactly twenty-five feet away from the first.

"43.6 miles per hours," she informed her mother.

"Is that so?" her mother asked smiling, a longing gaze in her eyes. "Well, I should watch myself then. I'd like to see your picture later when we get home." It was a rather out of the blue request, it caught Angel off guard a bit. But nevertheless she smiled and nodded.

"I'd be happy to show you."

At first, Angel figured that pointillism would be a new concept for her mother, but when she showed her the picture, she seemed at least vaguely familiar with it.

"Looks like this class won't be such a bad thing," she said, trying to be uplifting. "I'm glad you're able to get something out of it. But don't worry, it'll be over soon enough."

"But I don't want it to be..." Angel began to say. But then she remembered that her parents told her often (often defined as more than twice a week) that it was rude to start an argument, especially with one's parents, so she kept her mouth shut and politely excused herself upstairs to her room, folding the paper together as she went.

The room was boring, as one would expect it to be, she supposed. It had never occurred to her to jazz it up after they moved in a few years ago. Well, the shelves did have an assortment of objects on them, three-dimensional models, shapes that her mind found interesting to contemplate. The most noticeable thing in the room was the computer system, a state-of-the-art modern machine that rivaled anything one would find in a professional setting. It was off now, resting quietly in its corner, but a single glance from the small girl caused it to boot up on its own. There was no additional equipment attached to the machine either, save for a printer. Anything that needed to be imputed to the system, Angel was capable of doing via the infrared censor on her forehead. A scanner, even mouse or keyboard, were inefficiently pointless.

"Looks like you've been sitting there a while without me," Angel said to the monitor as she sat down. Not that it actually talked back, but there was no one else in the room. Angel sighed as she unfolded the paper in her arms. The computer and herself might have had some things in common, but it was certainly no conversationalist.

"I hate this," Angel sighed softly and she opened the scanning program with her thoughts. She then glanced down at the picture in front of her and concentrated on it. The gem-like sensor on her forehead glowed as it sent the information in it. An image appeared slowly on the screen. Good colors, but it looked a bit blurry. Not surprisingly, Angel touched her eyes to realize they were wet.

The next day, Angel spent most of the morning and afternoon with her father going over college applications and interviewing with one of her potential school's presidents. She was already well on her way to completing all the requirements for a high school diploma, save the art course that Ms. Portrait was teaching. Her father guessed that with the town miracle girl looking for a higher education, universities and highly-acclaimed schools of all kinds would be clamoring all over them. This was no exaggeration. The only real problem Angel foresaw with her getting into college would be the essays. She knew words and what they meant, but putting them together to argue a point - it was something she needed work at. Of course, the presidents and professors and scholars didn't want to hear essays, they were just amazed by the mathematical calculations she could put together in her head. Apparently that was enough to let the rest of it slide.