.o I’ll say no more until next time, Handsome. xoxo
Mattoid2002:
Thank you for still reading, Pretty. And for continuing to give me feedback on this train wreck of a story. I know it’s probably not very good. I’m still learning. Anywho, I disagree. Matt isn’t all that confused, I don’t think. He knows what he wants. He wants to come out to the world, hook up with Chris and live happily ever after. He simply doesn’t know how to do it, or in which order. I like your analogy of being scared to jump into 3 feet of water. Can I use it? I’m glad you like Sandy, she’s an interesting character, and I didn’t mean to portray her as ditzy, but she kinda turned out that way, Idk. Why do you hate Chris though? You’re not supposed to hate Chris, he’s the love interest of my protagonist! Is that why you don’t want a happy end? >.o
And OMG, showers! I have no idea how I will deal with that. I guess I’ll have to come up with something. ^^;
2-b-pretty:
Not knowing how to do it or in which order is being confused. >.o Chris comes across as arrogant. It happens when people are attractive & popular and they know it. Chris is very attractive. For now, that’s all I know about him. I don’t know what kind of person he is, because all superficial Matty seems to care about is his looks. Maybe I’m wrong, Idk. Anyway, I don’t trust Chris, but maybe that’s just me? And I didn’t say I don’t want a happy end. I like Matty, I want him to be happy. If loving a handsome guy with no personality is what makes Matt happy then good luck to him. I’m surprised you have no plan for a shower scene. I thought the shower scenes were why you came up with track & field in the first place. You baited me with the prospect of shower scenes! If they don’t happen I want my money back! >.o
Mattoid2002:
You need to give Matt more credit! && All right, all right, I’ll come up with a shower scene! Jeez! >_>
2-b-pretty:
Maybe if you give me a reason. >.o && Good!
Mattoid2002:
Oh be quiet! :P
2-b-pretty:
^__^ I’ll say no more until next time, handsome. xoxo
Mattoid2002:
Looking forward to it. Good night, pretty. xoxo
* * *
The usual early Monday morning chatter fills Mrs. Spelczik’s classroom as people catch up with each other—as if they hadn’t been texting and chatting with each other the whole weekend. While we’re waiting for our teacher to show up and torment us with late sixteenth-century British literature—which is a fancy way of saying Shakespeare without mentioning his name—I covertly check my phone under my desk. I’m worried. I’ve been happily chatting back and forth with 2-b-pretty all week until all communications suddenly ceased on Friday night.
No word from her on Saturday.
Or Sunday.
The whole weekend I’ve been wondering, was it something I said that made her fall silent? And if so, what was it?
I’ve been going through our entire exchange multiple times, and I realize I still know next to nothing about her. Even most of the things I think I know are things I extrapolated from the little she told me about herself, so the possibilities of her fate are endless and confusing and scary, but none of it matters because no matter who she is or where she is or why she stopped talking to me, in the end I’m still here and I still have to deal with my shitty life.
The arrival of Mrs. Spelczik drags me out of my drifting thoughts. Usually, when she enters the room, the noise quickly dies down, but today the opposite is the case because she is not alone. Walking right behind her is a timid looking kid whose outer appearance prompts the entire class to a variety of audible reactions from gasps to giggles to whispers.
The boy is Asian, with thick black hair and brown eyes, but that’s pretty much all that’s normal about him. He’s wearing a frilly white shirt that looks like it comes straight out of an eighteenth-century period drama, and it forms a stark contrast to his shopworn jeans and dirty, worn-out sneakers. Instead of the standard backpack or satchel a normal person would take to school, he’s carrying a handbag—a fake Louis Vuitton by the looks of it—in one hand and a battered umbrella in the other, which looks strangely out of place in a Southern Californian city like Brookhurst where we haven’t had a drop of rain in three months. And as if that wasn’t enough to make him look like an alien from a distant planet, there’s his face—his grotesque, misshapen, disfigured, and distinctly unattractive face with a nose that, even though it looks like it’s been broken multiple times, cannot distract from his most prominent facial feature that I wouldn’t wish upon my worst enemy’s dead dog.
He has a cleft lip.
I turn my head to the left to look at Alfonso. He looks back at me with his cheeks blown up as if to say, ‘Oh boy.’
Mrs. Spelczik drops her bag on her desk and turns to the class, putting her hands on her hips. “Guys,” she says, “I don’t know what the noise is all about, but it has to stop. And I mean right now.” She waits until everyone’s fallen silent before she continues. “All right, class, today I’m pleased to announce a new addition to our school and to this class.” She turns to the boy who’s standing next to her with the body posture of a question mark, clutching his umbrella and his handbag while timidly staring at his feet. “Philip, why don’t you introduce yourself to the class real quick?”
The boy hesitates, and without looking up he finally opens his awry, asymmetric mouth and mumbles something in a low, nasal, and almost inaudible voice.
Mrs. Spelczik leans in to him and whispers, “Speak up a bit, will you?”
He nods timidly, swallows, licks his lips, and tries again. “My name is Philip Thongrivong.”
Predictably, the name provokes more giggles, and behind me, Steve Henderson can’t help himself and blurts out, “Thong!” which draws a mixed reaction from the crowd. Some people laugh, others turn around and frown at the class clown. Meanwhile, the new kid is still staring at his feet, his head turning red like a fire hydrant. It’s painful to watch.
“Quiet!” Mrs. Spelczik taps her wedding ring against the whiteboard, calling us to order. “Philip just moved here from Texas,” she says. “I expect all of you to give him a warm welcome and to show him around and help him out if he needs any help. Understood?”
“Yes, ma’am,” some students reply with little enthusiasm.
“Philip,” Mrs. Spelczik says, “there’s an empty desk next to Matthew. Why don’t you go and take a seat.”
In a mixture of irritation and embarrassment, I blush. How dare Mrs. Spelczik mention my name in the same sentence as his and—even worse—make him sit next to me?
As Philip makes his way to his desk, there are more giggles behind me. When I turn around, Chris is reclining in his chair, his hand covering his grin as he’s trying to avoid looking at the source of his amusement: right next to him Jack is holding a ruler in his hand, the end of it propped against his upper lip to make a dent in it in an obvious attempt to mock Philip’s cleft. Everyone around him is trying to conceal their smirks, and even I have to grin because it does look funny. But then my gaze falls upon Sandy. She’s shooting me a scolding look, and I quickly wipe my politically incorrect smirk off my face.
“All right, class,” Mrs. Spelczik says, “moving on. I know it’s still early days, but we’re going to have to talk about this. Two words: term papers.”
There are groans and moans throughout the room.
“I know, I know,” she continues, “it’s a terrible burden, and I feel for you, I really do. However, I urge you all to take this very seriously as your term papers scores will make up twenty-five percent of your final grade. Anyway, here’s the good news: none of you will have to do it all by themselves. Each of you will team up with a partner, and—”
All around me, people immediately start whispering and murmuring and looking left and right in search of a suitable partner. I look to the left at Alfonso. He looks at me and nods.
Mrs. Spelczik raises her voice and taps her wedding ring against the whiteboard. “G
uys, guys! Nobody said you could break into chaos.” She waits for the noise to die down. “Let me get this straight, this assignment is as much about literature as it is about teamwork and individuality. You will do your research together, you will come to your conclusions together. Then each of you will present these conclusions in your own unique style in your papers. If done right, this will teach you a whole lot about retaining your individuality while still being a team player. Now here’s how this is going to work.” She stands in front of the row of desks directly by the windows. “You guys look to the right …” Then she moves on the next row. “… you guys look to the left, and what you see are your partners. Same with the next tow rows, you look right, you look left, these are your partners. And the last two rows just the same. There you go, quick and easy. You’re welcome.”
I turn my head to the right as I’m told, and Philip looks back at me like a wet puppy. When I sigh he turns his head away and looks at his desk. It’s probably not a nice feeling to have someone not even try to conceal their aversion to you, but deep down inside the only person I really feel sorry for right now is myself.
Mrs. Spelczik passes around our assigned topics on sheets of paper. For Philip and me it reads, Romeo and Juliet — Star-crossed Lovers Across the Ages. I look at him. He looks back at me. I twist my mouth but then it occurs to me he might regard it as a mockery of his cleft lip, so I quickly say, “Bummer, huh?”
He just shrugs.
“Okay,” Mrs. Spelczik says. “I’m going to let you guys put your heads together and discuss how you want to organize your project, do your research, and put a little twist on your papers that is going to sweep me off my feet. So get on with it, but try to keep the noise level down.”
Around us, teams of two are putting their heads together. Philip looks at me, once again like a puppy, but this time like one at the animal shelter, beaten and battered and desperately looking for someone—anyone, really—who will show some mercy in spite of themselves and adopt him.
It’s a heartbreaking sight all right.
But I don’t even want a dog.
“I’m Matt, by the way,” I say.
“Hello.”
“So. How should we go about this?”
“I don’t know,” Philip twangs not very helpfully.
“I guess we should probably read the damn thing first.”
“I’ve already read it.”
“Me too,” I say, “but it’s been a while. Do you still have your copy?”
He shakes his head. “I checked it out from the library.”
“Right. Well, we can probably get it online somewhere.”
“I don’t have Internet.”
I frown at him. It’s 2016, how does anyone not have Internet? My glance falls on his worn-out sneakers and his battered jeans. He probably doesn’t even have a computer.
Noticing my prying looks, he says, “When I need to use the Internet, I go to the library.”
“Right,” I say. “The library it is then, I guess.”
There is no reply, and I don’t know what else to say either, so we both read Mrs. Spelczik’s assignment notes in awkward silence.
CHAPTER SIX
The inaugural Track & Field training session is scheduled after the end of the sixth period. When I enter the locker room, my heart sinks and I feel painfully out of place among the twenty-five or thirty of my fellow athletes, most of whom are at least six inches taller than me and distinctly more masculine. I briefly consider turning on my heel and walking away, pretending that some terrible mistake has been made with the sign-up lists and that I should actually be in Home Economics or something, but before I have the time to properly entertain that option, I hear Chris call out my name from across the room.
“Matt! Over here!”
I force a smile and nod at him, and before I even know it, I find myself walking toward him, partly because there is nowhere else to go, partly because I feel drawn towards him as if by some invisible force. No, strike that. It’s not an invisible force. It is, in fact, quite visible, because Chris isn’t wearing a shirt and he’s got the physique of a Greek god.
Apollo, probably, the god of poetry and music.
Unfortunately Ares, the god of violence and warfare, in his earthly incarnation as Jack Antonelli, is standing right next to him equally shirtless and, although decidedly less attractive than Chris, still more muscular and manly than scrawny old me.
Next to Jack, Jason is changing into his kit, but I’m not familiar with Asian deities.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Jack asks and sneers as I approach them. “The gymnastics club meets on Wednesdays.”
I ignore him as Chris fist bumps me. “Good to see you, Matt.” Turning to Jack, he says, “Actually, our little Matty here is quite a runner, or so I’m told.”
“Oh, right,” the Jackrabbit says. “Maddie has always been good at running. Especially running away.”
To be fair, he’s not lying.
I have a history of outrunning Jack whenever he wanted to beat me up in elementary school or junior high, but I’m not keen on divulging that information to Chris. Being able to outrun Jack might impress Chris. Being a coward—probably not so much.
“And this is why little Maddie is so fast,” Jack says as I get changed. “No air resistance because he’s basically a stick.”
It’s a relatively tame jibe by Jack’s standards, so I let it slide.
We make our way out of the locker room and onto the running track where Coach Gutierrez ticks all our names off his list. He’s a short, potbellied man who looks as if he’s never done any sports in his entire life. He’s wearing shorts, a red polo shirt, and a red baseball cap.
“All right,” he says to every student he ticks off his list, “two laps to warm up, then stretching until we’re complete. Off you go.”
So off we go. We run our two laps in silence, Chris and Jack up front, Jason ad I a short distance behind them. By the time we pass the bleachers at the beginning of the home stretch, Zoey, Alfonso, and Sandy have taken their seats close to the track. They cheer us on which makes me smile, and I wave at them. When we finish our second lap Chris and Jack follow me and Jason as we walk back to the bleachers. We do our stretching right in front of our audience and exchange a few quips with them.
“Woo, nice legs!” Sandy calls out to us. She’s probably talking to Jason, but we all make a point of flexing our muscles just in case.
Not that I have a whole lot of muscles to flex.
“Dude, look!” Jack suddenly says to Chris and flicks his head toward the street behind the bleachers. We all turn our heads. Philip is standing by the roadside all by himself, his handbag in one hand, the other holding his opened umbrella to protect himself from the scorching afternoon sun. He’s standing there motionless, facing the street. Every time a car is approaching from the left, he turns his head expectantly, but they all pass him by.
“Hey, Viet Cong!” Jack calls out to Philip. “Catching a cab to Saigon?”
He brays with laughter at his own joke.
“Actually,” I say, “I don’t think he is Vietnamese, to be honest.”
Jack scowls at me. “So what?”
I shrug. “I’m just saying.”
“Also,” Chris jumps in, “I think Saigon was renamed Ho Chi Minh City after the Nam war.” He looks at me and winks.
Well, what do you know? He’s not only cute, he also knows his world history, which, honestly, makes him even sexier.
Or more confusing, if you’re Jack and you have no idea what he’s talking about.
Jack turns to me. “Wipe that stupid smirk off your face, Maddie!”
Naturally, I do as I’m told.
A whistle coming from behind us is calling for our attention. By the finish line, coach Gutierrez is flailing his arms, motioning us to join him and the others.
“We better go,” Chris says.
“All right,” the coach says as we reach the finish line, “let’s
get started. My name is Mr. Gutierrez. You will address me either as Mr. Gutierrez or as ‘coach,’ because I’m not your friend. I’m not your teacher either. I’m your coach. My job is not to make you like me, my job is to make you like track and field and to excel in it. Our ultimate short-term goal is the Brookhurst County Schoolympics that mark the end of the athletics season in early November. This school has always done a great job at the Schoolympics, and I have no intentions to see that change.”
As Coach Gutierrez keeps droning on, my gaze wanders back to the bleachers and to Philip who’s still standing by the roadside. At one point, Sandy gets up and walks over to him. After a brief exchange she returns to her seat.
“All right, what we’re gonna do today is we’re gonna have tryouts in a number of events, namely 100 meters, 800 meters, 1500 meters. Today is all about running. We’ll do all the jumping and throwing next time. Anyway, we’re gonna start with the 100 meters today. Those of you not taking part in that, get on your smartphones and check your MySpace or whatever it is you kids do nowadays. I don’t flippin’ care as long as you’re not standing in my way, all right?”
Chris, Jack, and Jason are in it for the short distances, and I spontaneously decide that am I too. Coach Gutierrez wants to start with the juniors and seniors, so we have a few minutes before it’s our turn. We make our way back to the bleachers.
“You gonna try out for javelin or discus?” Jack asks, looking at Chris.
Please say no! I’m thinking. Apollo killed his lover Hyacinth when he accidentally threw a discus at his head!
Cupid Painted Blind Page 6
