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A week had passed since a cloud was seen in the sky.
I was going mad, waiting for the next time the stratus clouds would obstruct the blue.
I dare not express this impatience in front of my parents.
What would they think?
They already found it unusual that I only set off for the park on cloudy days.
Lately, they have been trying to keep me away from the park.
The last time I was prevented from going, I locked myself in my room and cried silently.
What was this boy doing to me?
I didn't know him, hadn't said a word to him in my life.
However, I felt that, strangely, I did know him, in a way.

In a sour mood, I lounged on the couch.
Hearing the news was only making it worse.
“So, we can look forward to blue skies and lots of sunshine this weekend.
Back to you, Kelly,” the weatherman said cheerfully.
The anchorwoman took over. “Thanks, Lewis.
A devastating shooting in New York leaves four dead and two wounded today.
A riot evidently broke out during a rally held by local punk individuals
when they tried to attack civilians on the street.  Police were forced to intervene.
Three punk individuals and one civilian were killed when police opened fire.
Two more punk individuals are in critical condition.”
A video of the riot replaced the anchorwoman on the screen.

The video showed a group of people covered in plaid, leather, and denim standing together on a sidewalk.
Most had eccentric hairstyles, like the object of my obsession.
I recognized one style I had learned of called “liberty spikes.”
The punk people were talking to each other and laughing, some holding up signs.
I made out one of the signs.
It read: SAVE THE STYLES.
They all looked very peaceful, even happy.
My mouth fell open, then.
A passerby stopped by one of the young punk men and shouted something.
The shouting man then pushed the punk man who stepped back and held up his hands in defense.
More passersby gathered and joined the first man in his ridicule.
It wasn't long before the normal people were physically attacking the group of punks.
Several police officers ran up to the mass of people, and more arrived in squad cars.
I covered my mouth to stifle my gasp when the officers fired, clearly aiming at the punk inviduals.
And the story was that the punk people attacked the civilians?!
The punks weren't causing an ounce of trouble, and now three, possibly five, were dead.
Is it bad that I was happy to see the civilian who started the fight get shot?

Click.  I shut off the television set and got up off the couch.
“Mom,” I called.  She was in the kitchen. “I'm going into town."
“Alright, Colette.  Be back for dinner,” she yelled back.
Angry, I slipped into a pair of the required plain black flats and grabbed my car keys.
My car, of course, was one of the three models people could legally drive nowadays.
It was black, better than than the silver or white, in my opinion.
Those were the three colors we could legally have on our long, sleek vehicles.

I had a good amount of money in my wallet.
I was considering picking up a new pair of jeans at the clothing store.
The seat on one pair of mine was getting worn from sitting on that boulder all the time.
I could just stop watching that boy, but I'd rather just buy a new pair of jeans.
I stopped into the nearest clothing store and purchased one more pair of the standard blue jeans.
The feel of the denim on my fingers made the vision of that boy swim into my mind.
Those silly knee-length jeans with the cuffed ends...how would something like that look on me?
I shook the image out of my head, determined not to be corrupted.

I stepped back onto the sidewalk and opened my bag to drop my wallet inside.
The wallet slipped from my fingers and landed on the pale concrete.
As I reached down to retrieve it, another hand reached toward it.
The wrist above that hand wore a black, leather band covered in spikes.
I straightened up slowly and met eyes with a boy.
A boy with a purple-tipped black mohawk that reminded me of the plume on a Trojan helmet.
A boy with a spiked collar around his neck and black and white “Converse” shoes.
The boy I had been watching from afar for the past few weeks, but only on cloudy days.
My boy.

“Here,” he said, his face devoid of emotion.
His voice was not too deep, but not too boyish...so pleasant, though emotionless.
I had never seen his face before then, and now I couldn't look away.
He had the brightest, most stunning blue eyes I had ever seen.
Two rings adorned one perfect, black eyebrow.
Two black, metal studs showed below each side of his bottom lip.
One more stud decorated the left side of his nose, and his ears had a total of ten rings and studs.
Everything about him was weird, different...beautiful.

With a trembling hand, I took my wallet from him.
“Thanks,” I muttered with wide eyes.
He nodded once and continued past me.
I turned to watch him amble down the sidewalk, one earbud in his ear, black iPod in hand.
The back of his black jacket (a hoodie, as I learned in history class) read “CHANCE” in white letters.
I didn't pause to think of why it said that; I was too busy suppressing fluttery feelings in my chest.
How could someone that flawless be labeled as a freak?