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She treads through the halls with an air of precision, careful to remain melted into the background, her books and papers and pencils neatly placed in her arms. She’s late for class-very much so. She doesn’t know what the teacher will say to her on arrival, how much reprimanding she’ll get, but she knows what their stares look like, all those faces in class who are her classmates. She knows exactly what their snickers sound like, what their rapid whispers and passing comments sound like. That’s good enough for her to go more slowly, because she wants to avoid them all.
Her auburn hair falls in her face as she looks up at a clock mounted on the hallway wall. She’s five minutes late, and while she doesn’t want a call home and harsh, biting criticisms, there’s all the people, those spiteful, awful, horrible people…
Even when she’s right on time, her books and papers and pens laid out neatly are carefully in front of her, all those people who are her classmates, they’re still there, always there, ever so conspicuously, their jeers and whispers flowing freely. And her burning gray eyes and her throat do nothing; no, they only serve as fuel to the flames. At home, it’s no better. Her mother, her catty, nagging mother, is always there with a fresh pile of criticisms. There is no solace, not for a while anyway.
But since she has no time to ponder over her life and wallow in self-pity, not right now anyway, she quickens her measured pace.
She is who she is, always has been, and so the luck she has runs dry-it always does, and she bumps into a figure clad in brown. Her books and papers and pencils and all else, they spill onto the blue tiled floor in a jumbled pile. The hallways are empty and still and silent, except for this brown clad figure. She starts to pick everything up rapidly, rapidly, rapidly; she needs to get to class-
“Here, I’ll help you there,” says the brown-clad figure. She’s never seen him around before, and she’s not sure who he is. He has the most perfect hairstyle-and that’s as close as she can describe it. He’s in a trench coat (who wears those?) and a brown suit and red converse sneakers. His fashion choice is-well, she doesn’t know what to think about that, too.
“Thank you,” she says to him as he picks everything up for her.
“Oh, no of course.” His brown eyes are kind, and they search hers. Someone bothers to notice her for once. Even though she doesn’t notice it, she’s growing sour, but he does. “As for you, you are…oh wait! It’s there!”
“I’m Donna Noble!” she says brashly. Who does he think he is? How on earth does he know her?
“Oh right, that’s right,” he says, almost dismissively.
“I think I ought to ask who you are,” she demands. “So, who are you, then?!”
“Oh, me?” says the brown clad figure.
“Yes, you!”
“You said you’re Donna Noble, right?”
“Did you think I was Queen Elizabeth or something? Yes, I’m Donna Noble!”
“Oh, well, then you’ll find out who I am soon enough then,” he replies, grinning broadly. And then he disappears, leaving her to wonder what in the world just happened.