Olive Faye

She was new in town. She was a dreamer, a listener. She walked with her eyes shut and her face tilted up, letting the wind blow wisps of dark brown hair out of her face. She would sit out at night, staring at the stars and humming a soft tune to herself. She played the guitar on the street corner, usually folk music that hadn’t been played in centuries. 

Olive Faye. That’s what her name was. I don’t know how I found out. Probably from the rumors, from the talk that spread around town. A strange name for an equally strange person. And in our town, strange things didn't fly. Everything was in order, everyone the same. There wasn’t a person who stood out, good or bad. Nobody committed crimes, nobody won awards. There was no social class, no popular crowd. We just were. 

But then Olive Faye came. I hadn’t heard her talk once, not yet. I saw her once though, skipping down the stone pathway as her pink and grey skirt swished around her knees, with a flower crown in her hair. I stared, I couldn’t help myself. The sight of her confidence, her nerve, was overwhelming. I kind of thought that she was a real, honest-to-goodness angel, come down to Earth. In the midst of her turning, she saw me. She saw me, with my curly blonde hair unruly, my jaw dropping, my eyes open wide. She blinked, her long eyelashes shimmering in the moonlight. One corner of her pink lips tilted upwards, and she winked at me, dark eyes shining, before returning to her unearthly dance. 

I’d walked home that night in a stupor. A trance-like state of memory, the image of Olive Faye ingrained in my numbed mind. Suddenly, the pale grey of my walls seemed dull, the fluorescent lights too still. There was something magical about that Olive Faye, something that hadn’t ever been seen in this town before. I knew that people would start talking. And I didn’t know what Olive Faye would do. But I knew it would be important. 

“Did you see her?” Sure enough, the words began to float around at school the next morning. The girls were huddled into a corner, muttering whispered rumors. They wore the same thing, give or take a hue or two. Their hair was done up the exact same way. I found my mind drifting back to Olive Faye’s long brown hair, floating around her like a halo, the tips touched with silver. 

“Who does she think she is?” The boys were even discussing the terrors of change. I guess this was too important for them to stay in their everyday state of grumbling and half-hearted conversations. Olive Faye’s lively eyes found their way into my vision, the deep black worming into my soul. 

“I would advise staying away from her.” The teachers told us, trying desperately to keep things under control. I saw her swirling, iridescent skirts. 

I didn’t tell anyone about my encounter with Olive Faye. It still barely seemed real to me. Was it real? Or was it just a vivid dream? But I knew nobody could dream up something that entrancing. 

I walked the same way back home that night. The visions were hazy now, a rough memory that I wanted so desperately to come back. I couldn’t hide the truth from myself, no matter how grey my mind and heart had become. I wanted to see her again. Just catch a glimpse of the light that I wanted to return. 

Sure enough, she was there again. This time she was singing. It wasn’t in a language I knew, but an old one. There might not have been any words, just heart-filled notes, and rhythms that Olive Faye danced to. Her dress was blue today. Shimmering waves of cobalt and seafoam that fell in an ombre to her bare feet that couldn’t seem to stay still. I stood on the street corner, just out of the light from the lamp, waiting, watching. But I couldn’t hide from Olive Faye. 

“What are you waiting for?” Her voice was like a wind blowing through a field of flowers, sweet and airy in a way that sounded like sunlight itself. Olive Faye reached out a hand, and, without thinking, I took it. She pulled me to her porch and sat down in the grass. Barely remembering to blink, I did the same. It might have been my music-filled mind making up things, but I could’ve sworn there was a glow around her, filling the air with the smell of summer. As I looked at her, I tried to figure out how old she was. She seemed so young, young, and full of life, but her eyes were old. Old and wise, as if she’d already lived through a dozen lifetimes. 

“I, um.” I started to speak, but I couldn’t get out any words. My throat was stuffed with cotton. Olive Faye laughed, and her laugh was more powerful than anything I’d ever heard. 

“Who are you?” She asked, her eyes dancing with amusement. My voice came back to me, and I responded timidly. 

“Oscar,” I said, feeling very exposed. “Oscar Jude.” A gust of wind came by and Olive Faye lifted her head up, eyelids fluttering shut against the warm spring air. She stood up, grabbing my hands and pulling me to my feet. 

“Well, Oscar Jude.” She said, dipping gracefully into a curtsy. “Would you like to dance?” 

We did, and no words could describe what I felt. Olive Faye was like a gazelle, graceful, and wild. She leaped in and out of bushes, around trees, while I stumbled after her, unable to contain a smile. Fireflies were flitting through the air, lighting up pinpricks of the dark sky. I couldn’t keep up with her, she could’ve outrun me ten times over, but somehow I didn’t mind. I was content, to watch her glide through the woods, and dance in a glorious ballet with the trees and the birds watching from above. A glorious ballet with Olive Faye as the lead. 

The rumors grew, but now they featured an Oscar Jude. My friends abandoned me, the teachers ignored me. Even strangers would give me mocking glares as I passed them on the street. Part of me wanted to mind. Part of me wanted to tell them that the stories weren’t true. That I’d never even heard of Olive Faye. But I couldn’t. I met her every night, dancing with her under the stars. She told me stories of her life, how she tried to find a new town every year. How she had lost everything and somehow gained even more. I was hooked onto her every word. No rumor would ever make me want to give this up. I told the people who used to be my friends about her. They didn’t listen, but I could tell they wanted to. 

Groups began to gather, watching us, but really watching her. Olive Faye. She was a star, in more ways than one. People glared, and people were awed. They threw broken glass, and they threw roses. They shouted horrid things, and they threw out praises. 

And Olive Faye? She didn’t care one bit. She was like a lighthouse in a sea, standing tall whether the waves were calm or stormy. But soon the calm outweighed the rough. The roses outweighed the glass. There were those who still threw, it there always would be, but Olive Faye had completed her mission. She’d touched the hearts of a hundred heartless people, given music to a people that never sang. 

And then she was gone. Left in a twirl of purple skirts and moonlight. 

Our simple, unassuming, unchanging, ordinary town would never be the same. And that was thanks to Olive Faye.