The Idyllic Chaos of My So-Called Life
Page 4
I arrived in English class and took my seat at the back of the room after depositing my new student slip on Mrs. Kessinger’s desk and collecting my Lit text book.
As I sat in the back of class, I was delighted to learn that they were reading “The Great Gatsby.” Read it, I thought with a degree of satisfaction. I knew I wouldn’t have to spend a lot of time doing class work.
It had occurred to me that skipping first period was definitely an option that I was going to take often. I was sure I could pass the tests, and I’d already calculated from previous experience that teachers never failed me if I was absent. The absences usually figured into my grade, which ended up being a C or D. Nine absences coupled with A's on the tests meant a passing grade of a C or D. Once or twice a teacher who was resentful tried to fail me, but with the paper proof of my A, I was able to go to the counselor and successfully argue for a D.
The bell rang, and as the teacher began to speak her hollow voice sent me into another one of my “Walter Mitty” daydreams (another book I’d just read at my last school). I was daydreaming about playing my guitar in a crowded smoky room. The crowd was fixated on the stage with a beam of light shining tenderly down on me. I was absolutely lost in the dream when the stark buzzing ring of the bell filled my ears. Wow, that was fast.
Another hour had whirled by, and I’d made it through anatomy class with no major disturbances. I’d been made to introduce myself, only giving POW information like name, city, and state. Other than that I was happy that I really hadn’t had to speak to anyone, except for the occasional please and thank you with a friendly smile when passing back papers. Even though I wanted no ties, I didn’t see the point in being impolite. I’d understood from early on that making good friends hurts a lot more when you have to leave them behind. Having close friends was damaging—there was just no point to it, I rationalized ardently.
Third period was my hour in the office. I reported to the attendance office where I was greeted by the same women I’d met earlier. She looked up from her desk, her short blunt blonde bob swept along the sides of her face. I took notice of the black marble nameplate on her desk—Ms. Tyler was etched on the face.
“How’s your morning been so far?” she inquired.
“Good,” I quickly replied as I set my bag down on the floor and moved to take a seat on a stool at the counter.
She purposefully moved from behind her desk over to where I sat and pointed onto the computer screen. “Your job during this period is to enter in all the tardy and absent students for the day today,” she articulated in a matter of fact way. She pointed to the stack of papers that contained the needed information to complete the task. She then exclaimed in excited exasperation, “If the teachers ever get their updated software installed, they’ll be able to send the absences directly to the network. No more paperwork.”
I could tell that the thought of this pleased her in the same way that someone gets excited over winning the lottery. It seemed a little extreme.
An almost immediate exuberance came over me when I realized (at least for a while) that I could be tardy or absent, and not enter it in the computer. My thoughts instantly moved to the idea that Mrs. Tyler would surely double check the information, seeing that I was a student, and was not afforded the same measure of trust as an adult. My neurons continued firing, and I thought it would work, if I could just time things out properly and not abuse the numbers of tardies or absences I incurred. This was going to be a challenge, but well worth it, I deliberated methodically.
The fourth period lunch bell echoed boisterously, and I wished they could somehow muffle the sound. There had to be a volume button, I thought. I picked up my bedraggled messenger bag, and slung it abruptly over my shoulder.
Once again, I made my way through the dense crowd of students who seemed to be at all times involved in some type of personal crisis I’d seen on the latest episode of “Secret Life.”
I spotted Evan outside of the cafeteria. Her eyes recognized mine immediately, and she took me by the arm and directed me inside the lunchroom, guiding me through the mass of students. I had to admit to myself that I was glad I didn’t have to navigate the situation alone.
We bypassed the traditional lunch line for an area where I could buy French fries. Obviously the new nutritional guidelines had seemed to bypass this school. Most schools had taken it upon themselves to remove any and all signs of junk food in favor of salad bars. Fries were good, I thought as I grabbed about ten small packets of ketchup to dress my lunch with some type of vegetable.
I followed Evan to the table. I slung my bag across the back of my chair and began to devour my fries. I could feel a small dollop of ketchup making its way down my chin, and I realized I’d forgotten napkins.
“Shi—Shoot,” I revised quickly. “I forgot some napkins.”
“They’re over there.” Evan pointed to the north side of the large cafeteria right before jamming a handful of fries into her mouth.
I got up and made my way over to the north side of the cafeteria, all the while checking out the different cliques that were arranged according to popularity in the cafeteria. Along the west side of the large room were what I suspected to be the football players with their cheerleader girlfriends. Some of them wore jerseys proudly displaying their numbers, which were probably equivalent to their IQs.
As I walked up the center of the lunchroom, I could see on the east side were the brains, most likely members of the chess club and mathletes. We were sitting along the south wall, which I figured was where the students with little or no clique affiliation sat. To the right of our table I could see the drama group. They wore glasses and spent the lunch period trying to look uber-serious, preferring Vitamin Water to Coke. They all wore a lot of black. I finally made it to the opposite side and reached in to grab a handful of napkins, taking enough for the entire table of two I occupied with Evan.
I figured she was a loner like me, but as I made my way back I could see other people had joined us. They looked relatively average with no discerning stereotypes, so I couldn’t generalize their affiliation.
I sat down at the table and noticed one boy who was sitting next to me had already helped himself to my fries. He amusingly said, “Hey, you’re Astrid, right?”
I acknowledged him with a slight smile and said, “Hi.”
“You’re from Kentucky right? Do you own shoes?” He laughed as he admired his unoriginal joke.
“Hey, some of the coolest people come from the ‘dark and bloody ground’ of Kentucky—”
“Who said that?” he interrupted.
“Either Hunter S. Thompson or Johnny Depp—I can’t really remember,” I said, laughing at my own stupidity. “And yes, I have my very own pair of shoes—found them lying on the side of the highway. It was hell finding a right and a left one.”
“This charmer is Chase,” Evan said, pointing in his direction.
“I like your sense of humor, Kentucky. How do you like it here so far?” he said as he gleefully shoved another handful of my fries into his mouth.
“Well, I haven’t been pantsed yet,” I sarcastically joked. I saw an amused grin skip across his face.
“You’re all right girl.” He grinned as he shoved yet another handful of fries into his wide mouth.
“You gonna leave any for me?” I said, smirking in his general direction.
“Oh, sorry,” he said, slightly embarrassed about his indiscretion.
I pulled what was left of my lunch in front of me and placed my napkin on my lap. Even though I was a foster kid, I’d at least taught myself basic table manners.
As I ate my lunch, I was transfixed by the students and their seemingly trite discussions about whatever class or teacher was giving them the most grief. Their voices swirled around my head, and as I moved my attention from them I spotted a boy sitting alone across from us in the back of the cafeteria. He piqued my interest, and I was mesmerized by his presence immediately.
Chapter Four
As he strolled by me, time seemed to stand still, my breath increased and my heart powerfully pounded against my breastbone. I felt as though every inhalation and exhalation could be heard by everyone in the room. What was wrong with me, I screamed internally—Stop. I couldn’t help but notice him.
His clothes looked as though he took no care in the decision as to what to wear, but it looked so good. He wore slightly wrinkled black pants. He obviously was not a fan of the iron, which I could totally relate to. He wore a pale blue shirt with the buttons fastened except for the top few, where just a bit of chest hair peeked out.
Oh my god, he looked like a man—my neurons were frantically bouncing off one another like a sphere in a pinball machine. My thoughts darting around inside my head, one crashing into the other, while I sat there trying to make sense out of, or stop the impending attraction.
Over his rumpled button-down shirt lay a disheveled tan blazer with the sleeves slightly pushed up, exposing his pale forearms. He dressed differently than any other boy I’d ever seen.
I imagined that he was the type of guy that read poetry, painted, or was in a band. He didn’t look anything like the other boys at school, who seemed to be totally consumed with sports and who could get the most wasted at the next weekend party.
I shifted my eyes from his clothes to quite possibly the most perfect face I’d ever seen. His jaw was at a perfect ninety-degree angle. It darted straight down from his nearly perfect ear, and curved sharply toward his chin.
Oh god, he was gorgeous—
His gorgeous jaw was covered with a thin layer of scruff. He had to be older, I thought, there was no way a high school boy looked like this.
He didn’t look my way as I sat there picking at my fries, so I could only imagine the loveliness of his eyes. From the side his lips were shaped like a perfect pink bow. I could only pray that I had a class with him. I knew he was in my grade, because it was the eleventh grade lunch hour. I usually wasn’t that lucky, but I could always hope.
As he moved through the lunch line, I continued to focus on him.
I needed to stop, I thought, but I couldn’t. I was mesmerized by his presence. I wanted to see more of him. His hands gripped the lunch tray. His fingers were long and delicate. Oh, how I imagined how he used those fingers.
He sat across the cafeteria and pulled out a book. Okay, give him a mark for not being stupid. He seemed to be completely unaware of his beauty. As he read, I studied his almond-shaped eyes as they moved gently across the page. His perfect lips parted in a half smile as he most probably read something funny. His soft full bow-shaped lips were made to kiss me.
Seriously, I did not just think that. I definitely need to slow down.
His jaw was strong and angular, underneath the moppish hair and slightly disheveled clothes hung the head of a supermodel.
As he read the corners of his mouth turned upward. I couldn’t take my eyes off of him. I hope he didn’t notice this strange girl staring at him. He sat by himself, which I thought was a little strange. It was my first day at school, and here I was surrounded by a bunch of people I hardly knew.
I continued to study him. His teeth were the purest shade of white I had ever seen on a person. They didn’t have hint of yellow. They were lined up like tiny enamel soldiers, completely straight. I felt my hand go up to cover my mouth when I’d thought of my large teeth. I had always been told how pretty they were, but I’d always been self-conscious about them. I was convinced they were too big for my face.
As the lunch period came to an end, I watched him as he gathered his belongings and shoved his book into his woven brown bag.
The hollows of his cheeks were cavernous. I quickly imagined running my finger along the lights and shadows created by the dips and peaks on his face. He seemed to have a mysteriousness about him that drew me in totally and completely.
As I dispensed of my mostly uneaten food, I nonchalantly asked Evan, “What’s his story?” pointing toward the boy.
She paused and her voice lilted upward. “Oh that’s William Sweet—totally gorgeous, but a little strange.”
“Strange?” I asked.
“Well, not really strange—just a little quiet. He likes to read and play the piano. I hear he’s really good. He wins competitions and stuff.”
“Oh,” I said, trying to disguise the fact that I’d spent the entire lunch period staring him down.
“What, you interested?” she inquired.
“No, he just seemed a little strange to me too,” I lied, but I hardly knew Evan, and wasn’t about to share my innermost thoughts with her on the first day. I didn’t see that we would be forming any lasting or long-term friendship anyway.
We walked out of the cafeteria and I said my polite good-byes. I checked my schedule—I hated not knowing where I was going. I had my schedule hidden in my hand as I walked through the halls and checked the room numbers.
I was on my way to drama class. I passed by room 101, 102, 102A, then 104.
Ugh, I was looking for the theater, room 103.
It was supposed to be on this floor right next to 102A and right before 104. I stood there staring up at the numbers along the top of the doorways wishing for the theater to magically appear before me to quell my embarrassment.
I paused and turned around in a complete circle. I scanned the hallways in every direction, still no theater.
What, it hadn’t just appeared like I had hoped. I paused, Oh crap—I was going to have to ask someone. I hated looking stupid. I looked around the hallway for a friendly face. I didn’t see one.
They all looked preoccupied with the happenings of their day. I heard the warning bell buzz in my ears. I’d have to move fast. I didn’t want to be late. That would only draw more attention to me, which I hated.
As I quickly moved, I tripped over the ends of my own feet, which I did often. When I was in the eighth grade I’d gone from about five feet tall to five-nine in about eight months. It was my curse to be forever uncoordinated.
As I tripped, I caught myself on the person in front of me. I muttered, “I’m so sorry.” I spotted the familiar curve to his golden brown hair as I clenched on to his perfectly wrinkled jacket. He turned around with an annoyed look that shifted to more of a grin.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
I stammered, “Yeah, I—I’m fine.”
“You better hurry, that was the warning bell,” he said, pointing toward the ceiling. “You’re going to be late.”
I thought to myself, Yeah shouldn’t he be worried too...or did he not need to follow the rules. Beautiful people always got to make up their own rules. It was so unfair.
“Where are you headed?” he inquired in a velvet voice.
“Um, drama,” I mumbled—why was I such a moron?
“Oh we have the same class,” he added.
Suddenly, my stomach felt queasy, and I felt like I could throw up.
Why was I having this physical reaction? I pleaded with myself to stop immediately and regain some measure of control.
We walked around the corner, and there was the theater. As soon as we walked through the door, I seemed to disappear. He walked ahead of me and took his seat in a theater chair up toward the front. I was still reeling, and took a seat toward the back.
Why am I such an idiot? I scolded myself for not being the picture of cool.
I sat during theater class trying to pay attention to the teacher, Mrs. Gooch. She went on and on about character and plot, and how to analyze the structure of the playwright’s text. Boring, I thought as I stared at the back of William’s head.
I’d taken drama because it was always an easy A. I’d been abl
e to re-enroll whenever I changed schools without the office catching on that I’d already taken it twice already.
I tried to concentrate on the teacher without giving any more of my attention to the beautiful boy who was sitting exactly eight rows ahead of me. I prayed that the teacher wouldn’t make me stand up and introduce myself. I’d already had to stammer my way through three introductions already today.
Mrs. Gooch glanced over my way, and paused before she said, “We have a new student joining us today. Her name is Astrid.” I surmised that her pause gave her a moment to reflect on the origin of my name—probably that it must have come from the mind of a hippie mother.
“Tell us a little about yourself,” she encouraged.
I stood up, and twisted my fingers together. All eyes were on me. His eyes were on me. As I rang my fingers together, I once again spazzed my way through another introduction. I had to keep things simple, as my complicated past would probably not be well received, and frankly it wasn’t anybody’s business.
I sputtered, “I—I’m Astrid, and I just moved here from Lo-a-vul, Kentucky.”
The class paused, I think they weren’t used to hearing my southern accent, especially the way I said Lou-a-vul. Because they asked again where it was I was from, and I had to enunciate clearly Loo-eee-ville.
I’d noticed that most of the kids up here spoke with severely clipped vowels. They said pap instead of pop, and they said Eh a lot. It made my jaw feel tense, and it hurt when I tried to imitate them.
I tried not to make eye contact with that beautiful boy, as I would surely turn to a puddle of nothing. I couldn’t help it though. His eyes were intently focused on me, and I felt myself shudder.