Disclaimer: "Children of the Corn" and "A Clockwork Orange" belong to their respective owners... not me.

Just sitting here, reading my book, A Clockwork Orange, here in my corner, hiding from the rest of the school... it feels nice. I like my isolation. It gets lonely every now and then, but it's easier than putting forth the effort of relating to other people. People don't usually like me anyway. Apparently I'm creepy. I mean, I'm not complaining, but that's what other teenagers seem to think. I guess it's true. I like dark stuff, like serial killers and other such monsters. I'm also Mexican, which makes people uncomfortable even in these United States, land of the free, home of the *ahem* brave, in the 1970's. I guess I'm not one of the free or the brave, at least my classmates don't seem to think so. Whatever, they can kiss my ass. I wish they'd all disappear. Or better, that I would disappear. That way I wouldn't bother anyone anymore.

Jessica Daniels walks by with her boyfriend Eric and their friends whose names don't really matter (not even to Jessica).

"Oh, hi there, Valentina!" Jessica is one of those girls with the Farrah Fawcett hairdo. She's trying to seem friendly, but the toothy smile and the high voice have the opposite effect in my opinion. Especially since she's talking really slow and loud, like I'm some sort of retard. Even if I didn't speak much English, how would that help me understand her better, anyway? I raise one eyebrow and give her a halfhearted smile.

"Hi."

"What are you reading today?" She sits. Why? Why does she have to do this? Her friends are all sitting too. I crouch smaller and back up further against the wall. "A Clockwork Orange," she reads aloud as she leans over to see my book. "What's that about?"

I scratch my head. "A teenage kid called Alex who goes around every night with his friends beating people up and raping girls. But then he gets caught by the police and is subjected to all kinds of torture in prison."

Okay, so maybe that sounds a little, uh, horrible. I'm not very diplomatic. Whatever. The sooner this phony bitch leaves, the better.

Jessica Daniels blinks. Then she looks over at her friends and tries to suppress a laugh, failing miserably due to the fact that she wasn't trying very hard in the first place. "That sounds cool!"

One of her friends mutters something like "Especially if you're a mexican drug-addict," and is promptly elbowed in the ribs by Jessica Daniels. She tries to cover it up by coughing and then grinning. In my mind, I see her five years from now working as one of those moronic blondes on a cheap game show.

I smile humorlessly, nod and walk away. She doesn't protest.

I'm used to this bullshit. Some people are more straightforward in their racist remarks, but others, like Jessica, prefer to act friendly and leave the sting in the underlying message, as if I were too foreign too read between the lines.

"Valentina, dinner's ready!" my mom calls.

Great...

I turn off the David Bowie music and drift to the dinner table. The rest of the family is already there. Dad's at the head of the table, with mom next to him and the twins, Anita and Bianca across from her, leaving me to sit next to Mom. The conversation is quite nondescript, as usual, and then we run out of things to say and there's that agonizing silence accompanied by loud chewing and clinking silverware. It sets my teeth on edge. Suddenly,

"Vale, I got a call from your Algebra teacher today."

Oh, fuck, not this.

"Hm," I say without looking up from my rice.

"You know what he told me?"

"Enlighten me."

"Don't give me that attitude. He told me you're failing, Valentina." He sounds all stern and angry. I don't want to look up lest I see that vein on his temple that pulses when he's tense. That thing gives me goosebumps. Every time I see it, I want to hit him on the head in an attempt to flatten it out.

I don't answer. No matter what I say I lose. Better save my breath in case I need to use it for a rant later on in this conversation...

He continues, "You know, this, plus the call I got from your Chemistry teacher two weeks ago, it makes me wonder if you're really recovering!"

Aha! There it is, the magic word, recovery. He always plays this card. I know what's coming. He'll bring up how much money and effort he and mom and the whole family is putting in for me, you know, for me to get better. From my, *ahem,* depression... and whatnot.

Sure enough:

"Valentina, did you hear me?"

Sigh. "Yessir, loud'n'clear, captain."

"There's that attitude again! I wish you'd respect us every now and then. We've put in so much for you. You've been this way for so long, and we're paying for therapy, we got you a cat because the therapist recommended it! Your attitude is taking its toll on the family. You could at least show some appreciation, even if you fail your classes, the least you could do is show some respect!" His eyes are all bugged out.

"Mi amor," my mom tries to step in, but he keeps going.

"No, she needs to hear this!" Ha! Ha ha ha. Like I haven't heard it fifty million times before.

"I'm not hungry." I take my plate to the sink and flee. The father protests, but what's he gonna do about it? One time he followed me into my bedroom and the results were disastrous. Then I told my therapist, who politely asked him to back the fuck off. I mean, I'm paraphrasing, but that was the gist of it.

My cat, Canti (short for Cantinflas) scampers after me and settles next to me on my bed when I lie down. Canti is my favorite creature in the world. He's a ragdoll cat, mostly light gray, but his snout, ears, paws and tail are darker. He's quite small for a cat, even though he's already a year old, and a scary little beast when he's angry. He never gets angry at me, though. I like to think he's taken responsibility for me. He follows me to school every day and waits in the yard for me to come home. He sleeps on my bed, too. I don't mind. It's like having a live, warm teddy bear.

As Canti gets comfortable on my stomach, I turn up David Bowie and shut my eyes. Time to let my mind wander.

I wish my oldest sister Sarina were here... She's the only person I know that truly listens to me. Even when she doesn't understand me, at least she tries. That's more than can be said for anyone else. She's off in college now. She calls all the time, but the phone is in the kitchen and I don't like talking to her with other people in the room. My therapist listens, but we're paying her. Sure, she gives advice and stuff, but she also ceases to care as soon as I walk out of the room...

Sarina is like the mediator of the family. Whenever there's a fight, she's there to sort it out peacefully. It's not like I don't appreciate what my family has done in attempt to make me "recover," but what am I supposed to do? Pretend it's working, just for their benefit? I've tried to tell them that the problem isn't the depression, it's me, that's just how I am, I'm a downer. They don't listen, though, they just send me to the therapist again. "Talk to Dr. Roberts, mija, she can help you figure this out. You'll feel much better if you talk to her." Over and over, like I might believe them if they repeat it enough times.

A knock on the door.

"Yeah, come in... if you must..."

It's Anita and Bianca, bless their hearts, they come bearing a message.

"Mom wants to know if you're all packed for the trip."

"When are we leaving?"

"Tomorrow afternoon."

"Okay, I'll get started."

They leave. It's hard for even me to tell which is which. Anita has a tiny beauty mark on her neck, but other than that they are identical. And inseparable. It's maddening, actually. I almost feel sorry for them. Neither one is complete without the other. What bothers me the most is that they reinforce the stereotype. Twins who are inseparable. It's just so cheesy.

I'm not close to those two. Of course I love them, they're my sisters, they're a part of my life, but I really don't know them that well. Just that they're straight-A students and are better than me at everything. I'm Cain and they're both Abel. But I didn't kill them, of course. Not yet, anyway... heh heh... was that not funny?

Genesis was always my favorite part of the Bible. The only part that didn't bore me to death and the only part that didn't make me angry. I used to go to church with my family, until I did confirmation and decided that I wanted nothing to do with it. I attended the weekly classes, but when it was time to make a speech in front of the entire church, I refused. It was something of a scandal, unfortunately. I just told the pastor that if I went up there and proclaimed myself to Jesus, I'd be lying. And then I walked away and didn't look back. Those church people must hate me now, but I can't help being this way. I'm nihilistic, fatalistic, agnostic, cynical, and not ashamed of any of it. Or something like that. To be honest, I'm still figuring out what I am. All I know is what I'm not.

I start to pack, and I think of the relatives we're visiting in Colorado. I don't know much about the history of the family. Only that abuelo Alberto, my father's father, was a bracero, which means he was brought to the U.S. during the second world war to work because there weren't enough men to do all the labor, because all the american men had been drafted. I don't really know much about it, but I'd like to learn. Maybe I'll ask him when we get there.

I keep David Bowie playing softly as I try to sleep.

I dream. I always dream. And I love all my dreams, even the nightmares. Dreams are like little revelations. They tell me things I didn't even know could come from my brain. Lately, I've been having the same dream every night.

Corn. And a boy. He's just a little boy, nine or ten years old. He's pale, and his expression is like none I've ever seen on a child except in pictures of myself when I was little. He's an old soul, like me. And he is powerful. And this cornfield feels like home to me, it is my home. That's why I love this dream so much. And in the dream, I walk through the corn. I walk and walk, just wandering through the endless rows of tall corn, searching for something. For someone. But I won't find it. Him. Her. He/she/it is hiding. Scared. I'm trying to coax it out. I need it. We need it. Him, her, it, I don't know. The little boy and I wander on and on.

And I wake up to find my little Canti staring at me with big blue eyes. I'm not in my bed, just for a change. Every time I have this dream, I sleepwalk. I've been sleepwalking since I was twelve, but it's gotten worse lately.

Let's see... where am I? Library. Every time I end up farther from home. I suspect Freud is at work here.

No matter how far I go, Canti comes along. You could say he's my guide cat. And when I get lost, he takes me home. His sense of direction hasn't failed me yet. He starts walking and I follow him home.

Author's note: This is the first fanfic I've ever written, so please be gentle! It's an AU because a few things have changed, namely that Job and Sarah are both hispanic, Malachai is sixteen, and there are a few other changes that I don't want to ruin for you! Please note that this fic is NOT based solely on the 1984 movie. I used elements from the short story, the original 1984 film and the 2009 remake, and of course added my own take. I visualize the characters looking like they did in the 2009 remake, especially Isaac since he's supposed to be very young. I couldn't have written this without help from my brilliant sister, EssaGueraFulo, who gave me more help than I deserved. Thank you so much, I love you, I owe you my soul, my left kidney, and the blood of a black goat. I'd also like to mention that I wrote these first two chapters a few months ago mainly for the purpose of catharsis, since I was very, very depressed. I apologize for the shameless amounts of angst!

The title is a reference to Chicomecóatl, the Aztec goddess of maize, or corn. I myself am half Argentinian, not Mexican. I apologize for any inaccuracies, I don't want to offend! If you find something inaccurate that bothers you, let me know, I'll do my best to fix it.