“And if I see anyone sleeping during the video, I’ll give you a quiz on it!” Psychology Teacher insists. “The videos are meant to help you learn this stuff. Right, mister?” She nudges Sleepy.
“Mmm,” he says, jolting his head up. He wasn’t asleep, but he was well on his way. His eyes are still unfocused. He takes a slow, deep breath and blinks a lot at his desk, as the people around him laugh a little.
“I’m teasing [Sleepy] because he’s tired today,” Psychology Teacher says. “Don’t stay up late on school nights! Can somebody turn the lights out, please?”
As the video begins, Sleepy, like so many others, gradually gets out his iPod touch, lays it flat on the desktop, and starts scrolling through it. His headphones, vivid dark blue, are snaking up under his shirt, plain pale green.
I think he’s trying to keep himself awake through the video so the teacher won’t single him out again. He’s got a bit of paper out, and seems to be taking notes, even though we’re not being forced to take notes on the video. Besides, he’s hardly paying attention. He’s hunched forward with his eyes straight down as he writes.
I can’t see what he’s making notes of. He’s got his left hand over the page, covering it up as he writes; his fingers sloping awkwardly downwards. Like he thinks somebody’s going to peek over his shoulder and look at what he’s writing. This is a thing a lot of high schoolers do—convince themselves that they’re constantly being watched, that all eyes are on them. He’s the token Sleepy Kid in class, he’s a chill dude, he does all right for himself even through his caffiene-deficiencies and hangovers. But he still worries, just a little bit in the back of his mind, that somebody might be looking at him. He hates having people look at him. Even though it’s ridiculous; nobody’s looking at him.
(...Well, you know. Apart from the obvious.)
There's a bit of a doodle in the margin of his paper, though. It's like a floating head, with a sad face. And a shapeless body.
His nails are well trimmed, but a little dirty. And there’s a scab just above his left elbow; it’s mostly still a crusty brown, but around the edges of it there’s a healing pink tinge just beginning to grow.
He turns his page over, and looks up at the screen. He has one earbud in his ear, but the other he rolls between two fingers, in front of his face. He strokes his lips with it—rolls it over the top lip, then the bottom lip, and eventually slides it into his mouth, just barely touching his teeth, and nibbles it. He yawns long, and often, and at that time, the blue earbud just dangles in empty space.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Cat
Every other table is talking—except for this one. This table is totally silent. I guess I’m with the misfit group again. Honestly, I don’t mind. It's easier to observe everyone else when you're not talking to your table mates.
Cat sits to my left. She has a black and white bag with a combination of leopard spots and tiger stripes on it. She always keeps that bag on her desk, so she can surreptitiously reach inside it and send text messages or check the time during class. Some teachers don’t fall for that trick, and make everyone keep their bags on the floor, but Econ Teacher is a little scatterbrained most of the time, and doesn’t bother looking towards the back.
So Cat goes through the routine every day. Every ten minutes or so, reaches into her bag, checks the time, then sighs, removes her hand, and uses it to rest her head, gazing up sideways at the projector.
She wears a dark tank top, with a similarly dark jacket, the sleeves rolled back to her elbows. Her hair is dyed dark red, and is swept up in a high loose ponytail, with a few tiny sharp strands hanging straight down against her pale face. She has a pink bandana, which she’s rolled up and tied around her head, stretching across the top of her head and knotting right under the dark-red clump that is her ponytail.
She makes sarcastic remarks, almost always. Muttering in a low, bored voice, always keeping her eyes down. It isn’t until we really get into a class discussion you really notice her eyes. She looks up and maintains eye contact, hardly even blinking. It’s weird. Her eyes are silvery—a strong contrast to her dark red hair. They’re small, but they stand out from her face, startling, penetrating. Like a cat's.
And her eyeliner—It’s dark, and not very thick, but from this close I can see it. She’s been very careful with it, making it curve up slightly just at the edges. It makes her look mysterious. And she is.
She’s a doodler. I mean, I’ve never seen her doodle in class, but once, she pulled a couple of sheets of paper from her binder, and there they were—drawings so intricate and detailed that it surprised me. Done in black ink, and shaped with bold, thick lines. I didn’t get a close look at one, but the other was a ship, being tossed sideways by the sea—You could practically see the motion on the page. With a long, thin banner, sweeping, rippling through the air, bearing the words in tiny lettering: Stay Strong. Be Strong.
I wanted to get a better look, but she flipped them over and put them away almost immediately.
Cat sits to my left. She has a black and white bag with a combination of leopard spots and tiger stripes on it. She always keeps that bag on her desk, so she can surreptitiously reach inside it and send text messages or check the time during class. Some teachers don’t fall for that trick, and make everyone keep their bags on the floor, but Econ Teacher is a little scatterbrained most of the time, and doesn’t bother looking towards the back.
So Cat goes through the routine every day. Every ten minutes or so, reaches into her bag, checks the time, then sighs, removes her hand, and uses it to rest her head, gazing up sideways at the projector.
She wears a dark tank top, with a similarly dark jacket, the sleeves rolled back to her elbows. Her hair is dyed dark red, and is swept up in a high loose ponytail, with a few tiny sharp strands hanging straight down against her pale face. She has a pink bandana, which she’s rolled up and tied around her head, stretching across the top of her head and knotting right under the dark-red clump that is her ponytail.
She makes sarcastic remarks, almost always. Muttering in a low, bored voice, always keeping her eyes down. It isn’t until we really get into a class discussion you really notice her eyes. She looks up and maintains eye contact, hardly even blinking. It’s weird. Her eyes are silvery—a strong contrast to her dark red hair. They’re small, but they stand out from her face, startling, penetrating. Like a cat's.
And her eyeliner—It’s dark, and not very thick, but from this close I can see it. She’s been very careful with it, making it curve up slightly just at the edges. It makes her look mysterious. And she is.
She’s a doodler. I mean, I’ve never seen her doodle in class, but once, she pulled a couple of sheets of paper from her binder, and there they were—drawings so intricate and detailed that it surprised me. Done in black ink, and shaped with bold, thick lines. I didn’t get a close look at one, but the other was a ship, being tossed sideways by the sea—You could practically see the motion on the page. With a long, thin banner, sweeping, rippling through the air, bearing the words in tiny lettering: Stay Strong. Be Strong.
I wanted to get a better look, but she flipped them over and put them away almost immediately.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Straw Hat
Due to budget cuts and such, our school has an unbalanced ratio of students to teachers this year. There are far too many students in each class, and not quite enough desks to go around. In American Economics, the teacher has tried to compensate by providing a few swivelly chairs off to the side.
And while most people try to avoid the swivelly chairs—most people make a beeline for the first empty desk they lay eyes on—There’s one guy who will always go straight for the swivelly chairs. That’s the guy in the straw hat.
He’s worn that hat every day this year so far. I think it’s his new thing—new identifying factor. It suits him. It’s creased on the top, and has a band around the middle. Like a fedora, but made from woven pieces of straw, rather than dark or patterned felt. The band around it is plain and black. It could use a little red feather or something. That’d suit him, too.
He doesn’t take many notes. Usually, he just chills in his comfy chair, maybe even reclines a little bit. Elbows rested, hands folded neatly against his chest, and listens. (Half-listens, really. Most of the time he has one little black earphone in his ear, the wires running up under his shirt so the teacher won’t see them. But he still pays attention well enough.)
Teachers get irritated with people like him, who listen but don’t take notes. Usually, Straw Hat's notebook doesn’t come out until Econ Teacher drops a hint to the class that they should always be writing stuff down. But even then, he doesn’t write much.
He gets good scores—he retains the information just by listening, mostly. Like many others in this class, he’s bright enough to be in AP Econ, but just didn’t want to take the time, or can't risk having a C on his transcript.
His clothes are simple. Other than the straw hat, there’s really nothing that makes him stand out. Like so many others, he sports new shoes—Nike, black and white and blue. He extends his right leg and balances the heel of his shoe against the floor, and gently rocks it back and forth against the ground, wearing it in.
His jeans are long and dark blue, unfaded, as yet unwashed. Clearly new school clothes as well.
The other day I saw him wearing a Resident Evil T-shirt.
He spends most of his lunchtimes in the computer lab just off of the library, with a lot of other gamer boys. The Loner and Fedora, they’re in there too, but they mostly study, I think. Straw Hat seems like he might be the studious type, too—compared to the other gamer boys, at least; they all have loud voices and loud laughs. Not like him. Straw Hat never says much, and never says it very loud, but he loves his computer games. Especially Addicting Games. His favorite is the one with the worm.
And while most people try to avoid the swivelly chairs—most people make a beeline for the first empty desk they lay eyes on—There’s one guy who will always go straight for the swivelly chairs. That’s the guy in the straw hat.
He’s worn that hat every day this year so far. I think it’s his new thing—new identifying factor. It suits him. It’s creased on the top, and has a band around the middle. Like a fedora, but made from woven pieces of straw, rather than dark or patterned felt. The band around it is plain and black. It could use a little red feather or something. That’d suit him, too.
He doesn’t take many notes. Usually, he just chills in his comfy chair, maybe even reclines a little bit. Elbows rested, hands folded neatly against his chest, and listens. (Half-listens, really. Most of the time he has one little black earphone in his ear, the wires running up under his shirt so the teacher won’t see them. But he still pays attention well enough.)
Teachers get irritated with people like him, who listen but don’t take notes. Usually, Straw Hat's notebook doesn’t come out until Econ Teacher drops a hint to the class that they should always be writing stuff down. But even then, he doesn’t write much.
He gets good scores—he retains the information just by listening, mostly. Like many others in this class, he’s bright enough to be in AP Econ, but just didn’t want to take the time, or can't risk having a C on his transcript.
His clothes are simple. Other than the straw hat, there’s really nothing that makes him stand out. Like so many others, he sports new shoes—Nike, black and white and blue. He extends his right leg and balances the heel of his shoe against the floor, and gently rocks it back and forth against the ground, wearing it in.
His jeans are long and dark blue, unfaded, as yet unwashed. Clearly new school clothes as well.
The other day I saw him wearing a Resident Evil T-shirt.
He spends most of his lunchtimes in the computer lab just off of the library, with a lot of other gamer boys. The Loner and Fedora, they’re in there too, but they mostly study, I think. Straw Hat seems like he might be the studious type, too—compared to the other gamer boys, at least; they all have loud voices and loud laughs. Not like him. Straw Hat never says much, and never says it very loud, but he loves his computer games. Especially Addicting Games. His favorite is the one with the worm.
Friday, September 10, 2010
An Oddball
If you just glance at this girl, look at how she looks and dresses and acts, you see a very normal teenage girl. She flies under the radar, she's typically very calm; she's the furthest thing from "crazy" or "weird" that you can find. And in some ways, she is just as she seems; she is very normal.
But don't let that fool you. In other ways, she's actually quite the oddball.
In little ways, admittedly, but often, it's the little things that are the most fascinating.
There's a small, light brown birth mark on her face, dribbling down from the lower left corner of her mouth, so it might look like she was drooling if she fell asleep. You might not even notice it from across the room, but sitting directly across from her I can see it. She dresses mostly in baggy T-shirts, to hide the fact that she's a little larger than she'd like to be. Her toenails are painted dark purple, and there's one toe ring on each foot.
She doesn't talk a lot. Even though she knows the other girls at our table, she's not too close to any of them. But she's not shy, either--Her voice has a naturally quiet, sort of wispy quality to it, but she makes small talk with her table neighbors when she can, like anybody else. Talks about homework, or her lack of sleep, or her sisters. She has nine sisters.
She's Mormon. Or her family is, at least; she says she hates it. She hates having to go to seminary every morning, and having no freedom. Her mom won't even let her have a cell phone until she's in college. If she did have a cell phone, she'd probably text friends all through class, but instead, she yawns.
Her hair is a newly-dyed brunette. She either wears it down, or in a simple ponytail, with her long bangs sweeping off to one side. She uses her fingers to zero in on one strand, which she then pulls on, between her thumb and forefinger of both hands, sliding down, reaching back up, sliding down.
Then she anchors the strand in place with her left hand, as she twirls her right forefinger around it. Around. And around. Speeding up. And slowing down.
She wears a yellow LiveStrong bracelet on one hand, and a thin chain bracelet on the other. Sometimes a hair elastic is there, too. Around her neck, there's one of those cheesy "key-to-my-heart" necklaces--silver, sparkly, shaped like a small key with a heart on the top. Her boyfriend probably bought it for her; she wears it every day.
She mentioned once that she's ambidextrous, which is pretty cool. But I think she usually writes with her left hand. The margins in her notebook contain no doodles, but there are nervous lines scrawled up in the top corners of the pages--straight lines, hashed back and forth over each other at diagonals, dying the corners of her notes blue with ink.
It's really weird to watch her write. She holds the paper sideways--at a ninety-degree angle, with the punched holes at the top. And uses her left hand to write directly down the lines. She doesn't even turn her head as she writes; she's so accustomed to it, she can look at the letters sideways, and see them as though they're right side up.
But don't let that fool you. In other ways, she's actually quite the oddball.
In little ways, admittedly, but often, it's the little things that are the most fascinating.
There's a small, light brown birth mark on her face, dribbling down from the lower left corner of her mouth, so it might look like she was drooling if she fell asleep. You might not even notice it from across the room, but sitting directly across from her I can see it. She dresses mostly in baggy T-shirts, to hide the fact that she's a little larger than she'd like to be. Her toenails are painted dark purple, and there's one toe ring on each foot.
She doesn't talk a lot. Even though she knows the other girls at our table, she's not too close to any of them. But she's not shy, either--Her voice has a naturally quiet, sort of wispy quality to it, but she makes small talk with her table neighbors when she can, like anybody else. Talks about homework, or her lack of sleep, or her sisters. She has nine sisters.
She's Mormon. Or her family is, at least; she says she hates it. She hates having to go to seminary every morning, and having no freedom. Her mom won't even let her have a cell phone until she's in college. If she did have a cell phone, she'd probably text friends all through class, but instead, she yawns.
Her hair is a newly-dyed brunette. She either wears it down, or in a simple ponytail, with her long bangs sweeping off to one side. She uses her fingers to zero in on one strand, which she then pulls on, between her thumb and forefinger of both hands, sliding down, reaching back up, sliding down.
Then she anchors the strand in place with her left hand, as she twirls her right forefinger around it. Around. And around. Speeding up. And slowing down.
She wears a yellow LiveStrong bracelet on one hand, and a thin chain bracelet on the other. Sometimes a hair elastic is there, too. Around her neck, there's one of those cheesy "key-to-my-heart" necklaces--silver, sparkly, shaped like a small key with a heart on the top. Her boyfriend probably bought it for her; she wears it every day.
She mentioned once that she's ambidextrous, which is pretty cool. But I think she usually writes with her left hand. The margins in her notebook contain no doodles, but there are nervous lines scrawled up in the top corners of the pages--straight lines, hashed back and forth over each other at diagonals, dying the corners of her notes blue with ink.
It's really weird to watch her write. She holds the paper sideways--at a ninety-degree angle, with the punched holes at the top. And uses her left hand to write directly down the lines. She doesn't even turn her head as she writes; she's so accustomed to it, she can look at the letters sideways, and see them as though they're right side up.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Notes on the First Day of School
I’ve always liked the first day of school. New year, new beginnings. Of course it’s only a matter of time before the novelty of the new year wears off, but until then… it’s a time for everyone to start over, to make changes in their lives, to be someone new.
Everyone has new school supplies. New clothes. New hairstyles. New plans for who they’re going to be.
As for who really will change… Well, who can say?
There are a few things you will always see on the first day of school. The first thing I always notice is the shoes. So many people have new shoes; the laces spotlessly white, the heels and toes still stiff and unworn. New shoes making their first appearance in the world, on the first day of school. I counted eleven pairs in first period alone. It's odd, but universal—People like to start out a new year in a new pair of shoes. I don’t know why that is, but I feel it, too—Wearing new shoes has a satisfyingly different feel to it, and people are willing to suffer a few blisters for that feeling.
The second thing is hair. Everyone is so careful with their hair on the first day of school—boys and girls alike. It’s all been meticulously curled, straightened, dyed, or mohawked, to perfection. Trying to give off exactly the right image for the new year.
The third thing is how dead silent the classrooms are.
In almost every class, on the first day, the teacher just rambles on and on about what this class is going to be like, while the students just sit there in silence. On the first day of school, it's their job to listen to the teacher, give a good impression, and get a feel for what the year will be like.
The teachers hate this.
It's understandable. It must be frustrating to have a dead classroom. So they always try to wheedle some kind of response out of their class. Try to get the kids to open up, laugh a little, take part in the conversation. It’s rare that this tactic ever works. All the kids will continue to sit and stare.
Except for one.
He's a strange fellow. Everyone knows a few things about him—He's one of those kids that other kids hear about from their mommies. He hasn't had a very stable upbringing. He's been through several parole officers. He’s had some therapy, but you can tell that he’s still not quite where society wants him to be. He’s not exactly what you’d call a great student, or what most people would consider a likable human being.
In middle school, most teachers hated him. But he’s developed a strategy, over the past several years. It never fails.
During the first few days of school, when the rest of the class is silent and timid, Parole Kid speaks up. He asks the teacher questions—“Where’d you get that poster? What’d you do over the summer? How old are your kids?” And the teachers are just so grateful for that sort of activity from anyone, they look past the rest of him, and like having him in class. Often, that liking lasts all year.
You’ve got to give Parole Kid some credit. He’s smarter than he acts. That first impression… It really makes a difference.
Everyone has new school supplies. New clothes. New hairstyles. New plans for who they’re going to be.
As for who really will change… Well, who can say?
There are a few things you will always see on the first day of school. The first thing I always notice is the shoes. So many people have new shoes; the laces spotlessly white, the heels and toes still stiff and unworn. New shoes making their first appearance in the world, on the first day of school. I counted eleven pairs in first period alone. It's odd, but universal—People like to start out a new year in a new pair of shoes. I don’t know why that is, but I feel it, too—Wearing new shoes has a satisfyingly different feel to it, and people are willing to suffer a few blisters for that feeling.
The second thing is hair. Everyone is so careful with their hair on the first day of school—boys and girls alike. It’s all been meticulously curled, straightened, dyed, or mohawked, to perfection. Trying to give off exactly the right image for the new year.
The third thing is how dead silent the classrooms are.
In almost every class, on the first day, the teacher just rambles on and on about what this class is going to be like, while the students just sit there in silence. On the first day of school, it's their job to listen to the teacher, give a good impression, and get a feel for what the year will be like.
The teachers hate this.
It's understandable. It must be frustrating to have a dead classroom. So they always try to wheedle some kind of response out of their class. Try to get the kids to open up, laugh a little, take part in the conversation. It’s rare that this tactic ever works. All the kids will continue to sit and stare.
Except for one.
He's a strange fellow. Everyone knows a few things about him—He's one of those kids that other kids hear about from their mommies. He hasn't had a very stable upbringing. He's been through several parole officers. He’s had some therapy, but you can tell that he’s still not quite where society wants him to be. He’s not exactly what you’d call a great student, or what most people would consider a likable human being.
In middle school, most teachers hated him. But he’s developed a strategy, over the past several years. It never fails.
During the first few days of school, when the rest of the class is silent and timid, Parole Kid speaks up. He asks the teacher questions—“Where’d you get that poster? What’d you do over the summer? How old are your kids?” And the teachers are just so grateful for that sort of activity from anyone, they look past the rest of him, and like having him in class. Often, that liking lasts all year.
You’ve got to give Parole Kid some credit. He’s smarter than he acts. That first impression… It really makes a difference.
Monday, September 6, 2010
A new year, and back to blogging!
Hi, everyone! I hope you all have had a wonderful few months away from school (Unless you’re in the southern hemisphere… If you are, hi!) It’s been a long and eventful summer, but tomorrow, we will be returning to school. Some of us for the last year. That’s a little scary.
So sorry about all the absences and discrepancies last year, but now I’m back, and (hopefully) better than ever. I have some new rules this year, to make sure that I maximize my energy and don’t drop off the face of Blogspot for two months, like I did last year.
NEW RULES OF OBSERVING:
1. Do not update every day. Only 2 or 3 times a week. (Updating every day can become exhausting, and can also interfere with schoolwork and college applications and such.)
2. The day’s schoolwork and college application work should ALWAYS be finished before work on the day’s blog.
3. In most classes, there will be non-assigned seating. Arrive early to class to claim an appropriate seat—probably near the middle or the back, where you have a good view of everyone in the class, but also where you have a good view of the board and the teacher.
4. Keep all school notes and observing notes in the same notebook. It’s much simpler that way—less distracting, and relatively inconspicuous.
5. As per usual, no blogging about close friends.
6. However tempting it may be, do not mesh two or more people together into one “character” for a blog. They may seem similar enough, but each person is their own person, and they deserve to be acknowledged as such.
So, here’s to a new school year! Hoping it’s a great one for us all! And it goes without saying, but thank you so much to everyone who reads this blog. It means a lot to me. And as usual, always feel free to share your own observances of your own classmates in the comments. No matter how short or long, I love to read them.
Sincerely,
Your Faithful Observer
So sorry about all the absences and discrepancies last year, but now I’m back, and (hopefully) better than ever. I have some new rules this year, to make sure that I maximize my energy and don’t drop off the face of Blogspot for two months, like I did last year.
NEW RULES OF OBSERVING:
1. Do not update every day. Only 2 or 3 times a week. (Updating every day can become exhausting, and can also interfere with schoolwork and college applications and such.)
2. The day’s schoolwork and college application work should ALWAYS be finished before work on the day’s blog.
3. In most classes, there will be non-assigned seating. Arrive early to class to claim an appropriate seat—probably near the middle or the back, where you have a good view of everyone in the class, but also where you have a good view of the board and the teacher.
4. Keep all school notes and observing notes in the same notebook. It’s much simpler that way—less distracting, and relatively inconspicuous.
5. As per usual, no blogging about close friends.
6. However tempting it may be, do not mesh two or more people together into one “character” for a blog. They may seem similar enough, but each person is their own person, and they deserve to be acknowledged as such.
So, here’s to a new school year! Hoping it’s a great one for us all! And it goes without saying, but thank you so much to everyone who reads this blog. It means a lot to me. And as usual, always feel free to share your own observances of your own classmates in the comments. No matter how short or long, I love to read them.
Sincerely,
Your Faithful Observer
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Scribble Hands
Scribble Hands and Doodle Hands are best friends. They sit together in English, at the back of the Loser section, doodling, napping, checking Facebook and MLIA on their cell phones... and getting straight A's without batting an eyelash.
Most people see the two of them as one and the same. Scribble Hands and Doodle Hands. Always together, similar in appearance, similar in personality, similar in actions.
The most apparent difference between the two of them is Doodle Hands has doodles on her hands, while Scribble Hands typically has scribbled words. Reminders, homework assignments, song lyrics, notes to friends, thoughts on life--The amount of ink on her palms, fingers, and wrists varies from day to day, depending on how bored she is in class.
The words don't stop at her hands, either. She's got scribbles in different-colored Sharpie all over her backpack. There are some doodles there, too--there's a pirate with a parrot on his shoulder, and a heart with fluffy wings--but mostly words. Inside jokes, song lyrics, acronyms like BAMF and ROFL, and some mentions of her favorite manga. There are some of those written around the bottoms of her shoes, as well. Her shoes are black Converse, with black laces--and a shiny red ribbon strung in with them, just to be a little different.
Being different is important to Scribble Hands and Doodle Hands. Sometimes I think it's a daily struggle for them, maintaining their individuality--no matter how alike they are, they always have to be different from everybody else, seemingly without any effort. Scribble Hands wears crazy socks, sometimes even mismatched flip-flops. She'll occasionally paint both of her pinky nails black or neon green, but leaves the rest of them unpainted.
There's probably a lot of work that goes into her image, but it's hard to tell, because she doesn't have the classic "girl" look. Very little makeup, and streaming blond hair, unstraightened and a little tangled, her bangs hanging down in her eyes. She focuses on other things.
Today, Scribble Hands had proclaimed, was Superhero Day. She came to school wearing a Batman cape over her backpack. Because nobody really knows her, nobody really questioned it. She and Doodle Hands just whispered and laughed, the way they usually do.
Like most people in the Loser section, she doesn't really interact with people who aren't in her safe circle of nerdy friends. She's quiet if you don't know her; sort of hides behind all that streaming blond hair and the dusty too-long bangs, her eyes looking down at her phone, or her notebook, or the words on her hands.
But on the rare occasion when she does look up to say something, her eyes are such a clear blue. Blue like the ocean on a bright sunny day. They just pop out at you from her face, so shiny and so blue and so alive that it's a little bit startling.
Most people see the two of them as one and the same. Scribble Hands and Doodle Hands. Always together, similar in appearance, similar in personality, similar in actions.
The most apparent difference between the two of them is Doodle Hands has doodles on her hands, while Scribble Hands typically has scribbled words. Reminders, homework assignments, song lyrics, notes to friends, thoughts on life--The amount of ink on her palms, fingers, and wrists varies from day to day, depending on how bored she is in class.
The words don't stop at her hands, either. She's got scribbles in different-colored Sharpie all over her backpack. There are some doodles there, too--there's a pirate with a parrot on his shoulder, and a heart with fluffy wings--but mostly words. Inside jokes, song lyrics, acronyms like BAMF and ROFL, and some mentions of her favorite manga. There are some of those written around the bottoms of her shoes, as well. Her shoes are black Converse, with black laces--and a shiny red ribbon strung in with them, just to be a little different.
Being different is important to Scribble Hands and Doodle Hands. Sometimes I think it's a daily struggle for them, maintaining their individuality--no matter how alike they are, they always have to be different from everybody else, seemingly without any effort. Scribble Hands wears crazy socks, sometimes even mismatched flip-flops. She'll occasionally paint both of her pinky nails black or neon green, but leaves the rest of them unpainted.
There's probably a lot of work that goes into her image, but it's hard to tell, because she doesn't have the classic "girl" look. Very little makeup, and streaming blond hair, unstraightened and a little tangled, her bangs hanging down in her eyes. She focuses on other things.
Today, Scribble Hands had proclaimed, was Superhero Day. She came to school wearing a Batman cape over her backpack. Because nobody really knows her, nobody really questioned it. She and Doodle Hands just whispered and laughed, the way they usually do.
Like most people in the Loser section, she doesn't really interact with people who aren't in her safe circle of nerdy friends. She's quiet if you don't know her; sort of hides behind all that streaming blond hair and the dusty too-long bangs, her eyes looking down at her phone, or her notebook, or the words on her hands.
But on the rare occasion when she does look up to say something, her eyes are such a clear blue. Blue like the ocean on a bright sunny day. They just pop out at you from her face, so shiny and so blue and so alive that it's a little bit startling.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
An Update From Your (not so) Faithful Observer
Gooood LORD it has been awhile. What happened to me last month?
Some bloggers take part in BEDA, Blog Every Day in April--but it appears that I decided to do SBIA: Stop Blogging In April.
I'm sorry, guys! As I'm sure all of you know--and I don't say this kind of thing often--high school is absolutely fucking nuts.
I really appreciate those of you who commented or emailed telling me you missed the frequent updates. It made me feel warm and fuzzy. <3
Also, I'd like to give a shout-out to one awesome reader who has figured out my secret identity. You know who you are, and you have serious skills. =D
So hi! Just thought I'd give a quick little update to let you know I'm not dead. Very busy, yes, but not quite dead. Still living, still breathing, still observing. Just... haven't been writing. Sorry about that.
At this point, I would like to tentatively say that... I'm returning to the blog...?
Question mark?
I don't know, this may be a very very bad decision at this point in time, seeing as I have an AP test on Friday--the more stressful one of the two I will be taking. We'll just see, I guess.
I've gotten really tired of the AP tests already. I just want them to be done.
...I feel kind of weird going on about my own stuff in this blog. This is the blog where I talk about other people, not myself! Get with the program, self!
Anyway, I think from now on I'll only be updating three times a week. Probably Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, or some variation thereupon, depending on the day or the week.
I love you all so very very much! <3 Thank you for sticking around during this hiatus, and for being so awesome!
Some bloggers take part in BEDA, Blog Every Day in April--but it appears that I decided to do SBIA: Stop Blogging In April.
I'm sorry, guys! As I'm sure all of you know--and I don't say this kind of thing often--high school is absolutely fucking nuts.
I really appreciate those of you who commented or emailed telling me you missed the frequent updates. It made me feel warm and fuzzy. <3
Also, I'd like to give a shout-out to one awesome reader who has figured out my secret identity. You know who you are, and you have serious skills. =D
So hi! Just thought I'd give a quick little update to let you know I'm not dead. Very busy, yes, but not quite dead. Still living, still breathing, still observing. Just... haven't been writing. Sorry about that.
At this point, I would like to tentatively say that... I'm returning to the blog...?
Question mark?
I don't know, this may be a very very bad decision at this point in time, seeing as I have an AP test on Friday--the more stressful one of the two I will be taking. We'll just see, I guess.
I've gotten really tired of the AP tests already. I just want them to be done.
...I feel kind of weird going on about my own stuff in this blog. This is the blog where I talk about other people, not myself! Get with the program, self!
Anyway, I think from now on I'll only be updating three times a week. Probably Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, or some variation thereupon, depending on the day or the week.
I love you all so very very much! <3 Thank you for sticking around during this hiatus, and for being so awesome!
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Bouncy
Before today's entry, I want to say thank you to Addy F, for leaving such a long and wonderful comment on one of my earlier blog posts. It was so much fun to read. If you started a blog just about the kids in your choir, I would totally read it. -Your Faithful O
As soon as the teacher announces that today is a free work period, all the phones come out. Everybody texting and talking and listening to their music. The teacher doesn't care. He doesn't care about anything. I wonder when he's going to retire. It's got to be soon, because he's completely stopped trying.
There are a lot of girls--especially in the AP classes--who never ever get sad. They're always busy, they always have someone to talk to, they always have something to laugh about. Bouncy is definitely one of them. Even once she gets quiet and settles down in class to get some work done, the smile never really leaves her face.
Everybody loves Bouncy. She does everything--everything worth doing, anyway. Sports, leadership, AP classes, foreign exchange programs. Wherever there's lots of people, there's Bouncy.
She's popular in a way that's both honest and intimidating--She's not popular because people are afraid of her, she's popular because so many people like her, and that's a little intimidating.
Her confidence can outshine anyone, and that's a little intimidating, too.
But at the same time it's hard to feel threatened by her. Her voice has this unwavering friendliness to it, and she always sounds just a little bit congested, which gives her voice an almost endearing quality. People like listening to her talk.
Bouncy has masses of curly blond-and-brown hair. It must be really hard to manage, but she doesn't straighten it, or even dye it. She rocks it. It's her hair, and she doesn't make any apologies for it. Besides that, it's gorgeous.
But if you really look hard into her face, she's not actually very pretty. Not the way you'd expect a popular girl to be. Her clothes are cute, her hair is adorably crazy, her voice is appealing, her nails are neatly done, but her face is just sort of average. A few freckles. Small eyes with lazy, half-closed lids, with a hint of bagginess underneath them. Covered up with a little makeup. It's no wonder--With everything she does, it must leave little time for sleep.
Her face is nothing special, but the thing is, it doesn't matter, because her bubbly personality makes her pretty. Her confidence. There is one thing about her face that everyone loves, and that's the smile. The smile that never leaves.
It actually gets creepy if you look at it for long enough. That smile. It looks like it knows something you don't know. And it's a little smug about it.
She's a flirt. She makes the boys feel liked, the girls feel smart, and the teachers feel challenged. She loves arguing with teachers, the English teacher especially. Every day, she and a few of the other Always Happy girls playfully try to convince him to give less homework. Bouncy always argues the most vehemently of them all, and he never hesitates to argue right back. He loves girls like her.
He likes to tease her. A lot of people do. And she loves that.
As soon as the teacher announces that today is a free work period, all the phones come out. Everybody texting and talking and listening to their music. The teacher doesn't care. He doesn't care about anything. I wonder when he's going to retire. It's got to be soon, because he's completely stopped trying.
There are a lot of girls--especially in the AP classes--who never ever get sad. They're always busy, they always have someone to talk to, they always have something to laugh about. Bouncy is definitely one of them. Even once she gets quiet and settles down in class to get some work done, the smile never really leaves her face.
Everybody loves Bouncy. She does everything--everything worth doing, anyway. Sports, leadership, AP classes, foreign exchange programs. Wherever there's lots of people, there's Bouncy.
She's popular in a way that's both honest and intimidating--She's not popular because people are afraid of her, she's popular because so many people like her, and that's a little intimidating.
Her confidence can outshine anyone, and that's a little intimidating, too.
But at the same time it's hard to feel threatened by her. Her voice has this unwavering friendliness to it, and she always sounds just a little bit congested, which gives her voice an almost endearing quality. People like listening to her talk.
Bouncy has masses of curly blond-and-brown hair. It must be really hard to manage, but she doesn't straighten it, or even dye it. She rocks it. It's her hair, and she doesn't make any apologies for it. Besides that, it's gorgeous.
But if you really look hard into her face, she's not actually very pretty. Not the way you'd expect a popular girl to be. Her clothes are cute, her hair is adorably crazy, her voice is appealing, her nails are neatly done, but her face is just sort of average. A few freckles. Small eyes with lazy, half-closed lids, with a hint of bagginess underneath them. Covered up with a little makeup. It's no wonder--With everything she does, it must leave little time for sleep.
Her face is nothing special, but the thing is, it doesn't matter, because her bubbly personality makes her pretty. Her confidence. There is one thing about her face that everyone loves, and that's the smile. The smile that never leaves.
It actually gets creepy if you look at it for long enough. That smile. It looks like it knows something you don't know. And it's a little smug about it.
She's a flirt. She makes the boys feel liked, the girls feel smart, and the teachers feel challenged. She loves arguing with teachers, the English teacher especially. Every day, she and a few of the other Always Happy girls playfully try to convince him to give less homework. Bouncy always argues the most vehemently of them all, and he never hesitates to argue right back. He loves girls like her.
He likes to tease her. A lot of people do. And she loves that.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Fishy Mouth
He's one of the few kids at this school that I have literally known since preschool.
In the first grade I used to call him Fishy Mouth, because his mouth always hung open just a little bit, and it reminded me of a dead fish.
It's funny; we haven't spoken since then, but to this day, sometimes his mouth hangs open just a little bit.
Some things never change.
In English class, as the teacher does a powerpoint and every pair of eyes in the room slowly glazes over, Fishy Mouth rests his elbows on his desk, his fingers laced together with his pencil entwined in the middle, his hands up by his mouth. Covering up the mouth as it droops slightly open. Every once in awhile, he seems to realize that his attention is wandering, and he jolts back to life, glancing around with cautious eyes--especially over to the Girls section of the classroom, making sure none of them were watching him.
Fishy Mouth and I both went to a smaller elementary school, and while we're both aware that we've been in the same place at the same time for years and years, we don't know each other.
He does sports. He's well-known at this school, but maybe not incredibly well liked. He's one of those people that everyone sort of knows, but nobody's really that aware of him. Most people just feel indifferent about him--sort of disregard him.
He's not one of those people who commands a strong feeling of like or dislike. He's just kinda there.
He has a few close friends, but other than that, he's just one of the masses.
His friends, who are more attractive, more athletically successful, could easily be labelled "popular." Fishy Mouth isn't popular, though. He's in the group, he's got the "I'm-an-athlete" swagger when he walks, but he's not popular.
He's not that attractive, not as attractive as most of his friends. Though, he's certainly not unattractive, either-- The girls on track and swim team like to flirt with him, but they never date him. They like his friends more.
Fishy Mouth is just their way of working up the food chain.
He's hardly worth their time.
He taps his eraser against the page of the textbook, very fast as though he's trying to wake himself up. Looking back up at the Girls section with cautious eyes, he strokes at both his cheeks with the backs of his fingers, surreptitiously checking for stubble. He's probably got his eye on one of the girls, over on that side of the classroom. But I can't tell which one.
In the first grade I used to call him Fishy Mouth, because his mouth always hung open just a little bit, and it reminded me of a dead fish.
It's funny; we haven't spoken since then, but to this day, sometimes his mouth hangs open just a little bit.
Some things never change.
In English class, as the teacher does a powerpoint and every pair of eyes in the room slowly glazes over, Fishy Mouth rests his elbows on his desk, his fingers laced together with his pencil entwined in the middle, his hands up by his mouth. Covering up the mouth as it droops slightly open. Every once in awhile, he seems to realize that his attention is wandering, and he jolts back to life, glancing around with cautious eyes--especially over to the Girls section of the classroom, making sure none of them were watching him.
Fishy Mouth and I both went to a smaller elementary school, and while we're both aware that we've been in the same place at the same time for years and years, we don't know each other.
He does sports. He's well-known at this school, but maybe not incredibly well liked. He's one of those people that everyone sort of knows, but nobody's really that aware of him. Most people just feel indifferent about him--sort of disregard him.
He's not one of those people who commands a strong feeling of like or dislike. He's just kinda there.
He has a few close friends, but other than that, he's just one of the masses.
His friends, who are more attractive, more athletically successful, could easily be labelled "popular." Fishy Mouth isn't popular, though. He's in the group, he's got the "I'm-an-athlete" swagger when he walks, but he's not popular.
He's not that attractive, not as attractive as most of his friends. Though, he's certainly not unattractive, either-- The girls on track and swim team like to flirt with him, but they never date him. They like his friends more.
Fishy Mouth is just their way of working up the food chain.
He's hardly worth their time.
He taps his eraser against the page of the textbook, very fast as though he's trying to wake himself up. Looking back up at the Girls section with cautious eyes, he strokes at both his cheeks with the backs of his fingers, surreptitiously checking for stubble. He's probably got his eye on one of the girls, over on that side of the classroom. But I can't tell which one.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Boys, Girls, and Losers
Oh, hi!
It feels good to be doing this again. This whole blogging thing. While I'm not looking forward to going back to school on Monday, I'm certainly looking forward to being Your Faithful Observer once more. :)
Ahhh. Spring break is coming to a close, so, of course, I'm procrastinating on my homework.
Long story short, I just re-read all of the blog posts here. And I've noticed a certain correlation between... almost all the people I've written about so far.
To give you some sort of idea of what this correlation is, I'm going to describe my English class for just a moment.
Our teacher did not assign us our seats, so everyone picked their own places, and the class naturally divided itself into three sections: Boys, Girls, and Losers.
This way it has remained.
And readers, Your Faithful Observer sits in the "Loser" section, with Brown Bag, the Paper Passer, Doodle Hands, the Loner, and Remus Lupin.
In this blog, I've written about five people in my English class: Brown Bag, the Paper Passer, Doodle Hands, the Loner, and Remus Lupin.
It's a bit funny that I wrote about everyone in the Loser section, and didn't even notice. There are forty kids in my English class, and I selected those five first. And it's not just them--The Frenchman and Glass and Ha-Ha and Fedora, while not in the Loser section, mostly stay to themselves. They don't talk.
So, maybe thus far the Unlimited Observer has been a bit limited.
I sort of naturally went for the people that I relate to the most--the people that I understand the most. And for whatever reason, it's easier for me to understand someone when they don't talk a whole lot.
I'd like to think that I'm a meanderer, that I can strike up a conversation with anybody at school, that nobody really considers me a loser.
But the truth of the matter is, I'm a chubby junior with thick glasses and hair full of split ends.
I'm a loser, and most of the time, I'm okay with that.
(I mean, I write anonymous blogs about my peers in the dead of night. I spend the majority of my Saturdays staying in and watching YouTube videos and writing poems all day. It's a good life.)
But as far as this blog, I'm going to try to branch out a little more. Write about more of the popular kids, and not just the misfit popular kids like Brown Bag and Glass and Ha-Ha. It may be a little harder to delve into their characters, but who cares, as long as I'm still observing.
Besides, I like to think everyone's got a little bit of misfit in them, so maybe it won't be as hard as I think. =D
It feels good to be doing this again. This whole blogging thing. While I'm not looking forward to going back to school on Monday, I'm certainly looking forward to being Your Faithful Observer once more. :)
Ahhh. Spring break is coming to a close, so, of course, I'm procrastinating on my homework.
Long story short, I just re-read all of the blog posts here. And I've noticed a certain correlation between... almost all the people I've written about so far.
To give you some sort of idea of what this correlation is, I'm going to describe my English class for just a moment.
Our teacher did not assign us our seats, so everyone picked their own places, and the class naturally divided itself into three sections: Boys, Girls, and Losers.
This way it has remained.
And readers, Your Faithful Observer sits in the "Loser" section, with Brown Bag, the Paper Passer, Doodle Hands, the Loner, and Remus Lupin.
In this blog, I've written about five people in my English class: Brown Bag, the Paper Passer, Doodle Hands, the Loner, and Remus Lupin.
It's a bit funny that I wrote about everyone in the Loser section, and didn't even notice. There are forty kids in my English class, and I selected those five first. And it's not just them--The Frenchman and Glass and Ha-Ha and Fedora, while not in the Loser section, mostly stay to themselves. They don't talk.
So, maybe thus far the Unlimited Observer has been a bit limited.
I sort of naturally went for the people that I relate to the most--the people that I understand the most. And for whatever reason, it's easier for me to understand someone when they don't talk a whole lot.
I'd like to think that I'm a meanderer, that I can strike up a conversation with anybody at school, that nobody really considers me a loser.
But the truth of the matter is, I'm a chubby junior with thick glasses and hair full of split ends.
I'm a loser, and most of the time, I'm okay with that.
(I mean, I write anonymous blogs about my peers in the dead of night. I spend the majority of my Saturdays staying in and watching YouTube videos and writing poems all day. It's a good life.)
But as far as this blog, I'm going to try to branch out a little more. Write about more of the popular kids, and not just the misfit popular kids like Brown Bag and Glass and Ha-Ha. It may be a little harder to delve into their characters, but who cares, as long as I'm still observing.
Besides, I like to think everyone's got a little bit of misfit in them, so maybe it won't be as hard as I think. =D
Friday, March 26, 2010
Spring fever in the computer lab
Coming to you once again from the computer lab. The Internet at my house is broken; therefore, I couldn't post a blog yesterday and I'm very sorry.
Today is the last day of school before we go on spring break, and you can really tell. Everyone's been getting restless, and not just the students. A lot of the teachers have just decided they don't really care anymore, at this point--The quiz in APUSH was cancelled, because the teacher didn't want to write one, and now our English teacher is just setting us loose in the computer lab, because nobody wants to do anything.
He's even letting people go on Facebook. This is crazy.
I can't pretend I'm not as excited as everyone else for spring break. I can't wait. Therefore, this post is going to be short, kinda crappy, and not very deep, because I don't have the capacity of thinking deep thoughts right now. I try, for the purposes of making these ramblings sound interesting, to not just record random disconnected observations about a person, but that's probably what this is going to be.
Anyway, next week, since there's no school, I probably won't be posting at all. If I find a stranger to observe, I may stalk them for a few minutes and then whip up a blog about them.
In the meantime... I'm still stuck in the computer lab with my English class.
Let's see what everyone's doing.
Doodle Hands and her best friend are sitting to my right. They've been browsing DeviantArt, reading online comics, and now they're playing Addicting Games.
The Paper Passer was watching YouTube videos of people playing mandolins and harps, but now she seems to have disappeared. Her stuff is still here, though. Her cute brown flowery bag, and her battered Calculus book.
A boy and a girl who are both wearing Letterman jackets are sitting at the same computer, sharing a pair of earphones. The air is thick with sexual tension. They're both attractive, and they're both aware of it. Letterman Girl's knee is just barely brushing against Letterman Boy's. I can't see what site they're on, but they're trying not to look at each other--only at the screen. Letterman Boy is typing. Letterman Girl checks her phone.
The guy next to them, who is one of those Late-Bloomer types whom everyone is friends with but nobody really likes, keeps bothering them, and Letterman Girl jokes with him while Letterman Boy keeps typing, trying to ignore him.
The Only Asian Kid In Class was playing a maze game, probably on Addicting Games or a similar site. Now he and the kid next to him are spamming each other with gibberish in Facebook chat. ...And now he's leaving. Might have to leave early for a sport, might've gotten bored.
Some girls are online shopping for prom dresses.
Brown Bag is looking at pictures on Facebook, next to another popular misfit. I can't see her face from here.
Remus isn't at a computer. He's sitting in a swivelly chair, behind two of his friends, watching their screens. He's just turning back and forth, occasionally voicing a thought about whatever they're doing. Eventually, he gets bored, scoots backwards across the classroom, and props his feet up on an empty chair next to another group of boys.
Somebody in this class just said, "I don't think you're a pickle." It's fun to listen to conversations out of context.
I don't know what the Loner's doing. Maybe I should go find him. I'm willing to bet that he's getting a head start on the spring break history homework.
Well, this has been fun, readers, but frankly I'm getting bored, and you probably are, too. Hopefully I'll get the chance/inspiration to blog again soon, but in the meantime, I can't say it enough: Thank you so much for reading. I hope those of you who are on spring break have a great vacation, I hope those of you who celebrate it have a great Easter, and I hope that everyone in general has a great week! This is Your Faithful Observer, signing off for the week. <3
Today is the last day of school before we go on spring break, and you can really tell. Everyone's been getting restless, and not just the students. A lot of the teachers have just decided they don't really care anymore, at this point--The quiz in APUSH was cancelled, because the teacher didn't want to write one, and now our English teacher is just setting us loose in the computer lab, because nobody wants to do anything.
He's even letting people go on Facebook. This is crazy.
I can't pretend I'm not as excited as everyone else for spring break. I can't wait. Therefore, this post is going to be short, kinda crappy, and not very deep, because I don't have the capacity of thinking deep thoughts right now. I try, for the purposes of making these ramblings sound interesting, to not just record random disconnected observations about a person, but that's probably what this is going to be.
Anyway, next week, since there's no school, I probably won't be posting at all. If I find a stranger to observe, I may stalk them for a few minutes and then whip up a blog about them.
In the meantime... I'm still stuck in the computer lab with my English class.
Let's see what everyone's doing.
Doodle Hands and her best friend are sitting to my right. They've been browsing DeviantArt, reading online comics, and now they're playing Addicting Games.
The Paper Passer was watching YouTube videos of people playing mandolins and harps, but now she seems to have disappeared. Her stuff is still here, though. Her cute brown flowery bag, and her battered Calculus book.
A boy and a girl who are both wearing Letterman jackets are sitting at the same computer, sharing a pair of earphones. The air is thick with sexual tension. They're both attractive, and they're both aware of it. Letterman Girl's knee is just barely brushing against Letterman Boy's. I can't see what site they're on, but they're trying not to look at each other--only at the screen. Letterman Boy is typing. Letterman Girl checks her phone.
The guy next to them, who is one of those Late-Bloomer types whom everyone is friends with but nobody really likes, keeps bothering them, and Letterman Girl jokes with him while Letterman Boy keeps typing, trying to ignore him.
The Only Asian Kid In Class was playing a maze game, probably on Addicting Games or a similar site. Now he and the kid next to him are spamming each other with gibberish in Facebook chat. ...And now he's leaving. Might have to leave early for a sport, might've gotten bored.
Some girls are online shopping for prom dresses.
Brown Bag is looking at pictures on Facebook, next to another popular misfit. I can't see her face from here.
Remus isn't at a computer. He's sitting in a swivelly chair, behind two of his friends, watching their screens. He's just turning back and forth, occasionally voicing a thought about whatever they're doing. Eventually, he gets bored, scoots backwards across the classroom, and props his feet up on an empty chair next to another group of boys.
Somebody in this class just said, "I don't think you're a pickle." It's fun to listen to conversations out of context.
I don't know what the Loner's doing. Maybe I should go find him. I'm willing to bet that he's getting a head start on the spring break history homework.
Well, this has been fun, readers, but frankly I'm getting bored, and you probably are, too. Hopefully I'll get the chance/inspiration to blog again soon, but in the meantime, I can't say it enough: Thank you so much for reading. I hope those of you who are on spring break have a great vacation, I hope those of you who celebrate it have a great Easter, and I hope that everyone in general has a great week! This is Your Faithful Observer, signing off for the week. <3
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
The Loner
This is your faithful observer, coming to you live from the computer lab at my school. This is where the Loner spends most of his lunchtimes.
He's actually sitting two computers down from me right now. In an unrelated story, I feel like a total creep, though that should be nothing new.
I was a little hesitant to call him the Loner, because the word "loner" tends to have certain connotations that don't apply to him. Change one letter, and "loner" becomes "loser." While the two words are not entirely mutually exclusive, "loner" and "loser" are very different things.
And I don't think anyone would make the mistake of calling the Loner a loser.
Sure, he spends his lunchtimes in the computer lab, sitting among underclassmen boys who play computer games and show each other viral videos and online manga every day during lunch hour. Some people might call those boys "losers," but it's evident that the Loner isn't one of them. He's not really one of anybody.
He's got very neatly trimmed hair, with a little product on the top that guides his hair into a teeny little mohawk (more of a faux-hawk, I guess). His skin is very oily. His nose is pink and shiny, and around his mouth are a couple of those painful-looking zits, the kind that sit just under the skin so you can't pop them.
(I'm so going to need to edit this later. Urgh, my thoughts are really scattered today and it’s hard to concentrate. Especially with all the World of Warcraft geeks around. You've gotta love 'em.)
Part of me is completely paranoid that he'll glance over and notice what I'm writing. However, he seems to be completely absorbed in his work. He's doing his AP US History homework, like always. He carries his APUSH textbook with him everywhere. Like an accessory. Always tucked under his arm, always with him. When he's got a spare moment in class, he takes it out and reads it, as though it's a novel.
I heard a rumor that he has a hundred and eleven percent in APUSH. (Of course, I don't know if that's true or not, but if it is, wow. I was stunned at the Paper Passer's hundred and three.)
He's got his textbook open now, and two Internet tabs open on his computer screen. The Google homepage, and a new email message. He mostly just sits and reads, his elbows on the desktop and his arms crossed, his shoulders leaning over the book. He looks up only occasionally, to type some notes into the message box or to look something up on Google search.
I wonder why he does all his APUSH at school. (He comes here after school, too. He probably stays until he finishes up the chapter notes.) Does he not have a computer at home? Or maybe just no Internet? Then why does he type his notes into an email, if not to send the file to himself so he can print it later? Is he sending his notes to someone else, maybe? If so, who? He’s the Loner. He lunches alone. Not a soul comes near him. He does nothing but his history homework. Who would he share that with?
It’s entirely possible that he has friends somewhere. He didn’t go to the same elementary and middle schools as most of us; he didn’t even come to this high school until sophomore year. Maybe all his friends are at his old school, and he just didn’t find it worth it to make any friends here. So he’s a little anti-social. Not really in an awkward way, though-- He doesn't initiate conversation, but he doesn't turn bright red if anyone says a word to him, either. He just smiles and answers in that deep, sort of monotone voice. Maybe makes a joke, if the situation allows it, and then returns to his work. He's okay with talking, but he just chooses not to. Somehow, people seem to understand that about him.
People don't make fun of the Loner. That's the thing. That’s why he’s not a loser. Nobody makes fun of him, nobody feels sorry for him. They just let him be.
The way he reads the history textbook, the way he studies constantly, doesn't seem like he's desperately trying to prove anything. It’s more like... It's just a part of who he is. And he's chill with that. He's not self-conscious about it. He doesn't seem to really care about anyone around him. Therefore, they don’t really care about him, either. Since he seems to be okay with being alone, most people are okay with letting him alone. He's just sort of there. Constant, strong, and silent.
He's actually sitting two computers down from me right now. In an unrelated story, I feel like a total creep, though that should be nothing new.
I was a little hesitant to call him the Loner, because the word "loner" tends to have certain connotations that don't apply to him. Change one letter, and "loner" becomes "loser." While the two words are not entirely mutually exclusive, "loner" and "loser" are very different things.
And I don't think anyone would make the mistake of calling the Loner a loser.
Sure, he spends his lunchtimes in the computer lab, sitting among underclassmen boys who play computer games and show each other viral videos and online manga every day during lunch hour. Some people might call those boys "losers," but it's evident that the Loner isn't one of them. He's not really one of anybody.
He's got very neatly trimmed hair, with a little product on the top that guides his hair into a teeny little mohawk (more of a faux-hawk, I guess). His skin is very oily. His nose is pink and shiny, and around his mouth are a couple of those painful-looking zits, the kind that sit just under the skin so you can't pop them.
(I'm so going to need to edit this later. Urgh, my thoughts are really scattered today and it’s hard to concentrate. Especially with all the World of Warcraft geeks around. You've gotta love 'em.)
Part of me is completely paranoid that he'll glance over and notice what I'm writing. However, he seems to be completely absorbed in his work. He's doing his AP US History homework, like always. He carries his APUSH textbook with him everywhere. Like an accessory. Always tucked under his arm, always with him. When he's got a spare moment in class, he takes it out and reads it, as though it's a novel.
I heard a rumor that he has a hundred and eleven percent in APUSH. (Of course, I don't know if that's true or not, but if it is, wow. I was stunned at the Paper Passer's hundred and three.)
He's got his textbook open now, and two Internet tabs open on his computer screen. The Google homepage, and a new email message. He mostly just sits and reads, his elbows on the desktop and his arms crossed, his shoulders leaning over the book. He looks up only occasionally, to type some notes into the message box or to look something up on Google search.
I wonder why he does all his APUSH at school. (He comes here after school, too. He probably stays until he finishes up the chapter notes.) Does he not have a computer at home? Or maybe just no Internet? Then why does he type his notes into an email, if not to send the file to himself so he can print it later? Is he sending his notes to someone else, maybe? If so, who? He’s the Loner. He lunches alone. Not a soul comes near him. He does nothing but his history homework. Who would he share that with?
It’s entirely possible that he has friends somewhere. He didn’t go to the same elementary and middle schools as most of us; he didn’t even come to this high school until sophomore year. Maybe all his friends are at his old school, and he just didn’t find it worth it to make any friends here. So he’s a little anti-social. Not really in an awkward way, though-- He doesn't initiate conversation, but he doesn't turn bright red if anyone says a word to him, either. He just smiles and answers in that deep, sort of monotone voice. Maybe makes a joke, if the situation allows it, and then returns to his work. He's okay with talking, but he just chooses not to. Somehow, people seem to understand that about him.
People don't make fun of the Loner. That's the thing. That’s why he’s not a loser. Nobody makes fun of him, nobody feels sorry for him. They just let him be.
The way he reads the history textbook, the way he studies constantly, doesn't seem like he's desperately trying to prove anything. It’s more like... It's just a part of who he is. And he's chill with that. He's not self-conscious about it. He doesn't seem to really care about anyone around him. Therefore, they don’t really care about him, either. Since he seems to be okay with being alone, most people are okay with letting him alone. He's just sort of there. Constant, strong, and silent.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Ha-Ha
Choir classes are usually filled with a hodgepodge of students from various social cliques. You tend to get students from the far ends of the spectrum--some of the most popular kids, and some of the geekiest ones. Always the extremes; it's kind of rare that you find someone who's sort of in between.
That's Ha-Ha. He's an in-between.
Music classes just welcome lots of bad jokes. Especially music jokes. The musical nerds make composer references with the teacher, the not-so-musical nerds try to be funny and end up just making bad puns, and the nerds and teachers laugh while the cool kids roll their eyes.
Ha-Ha doesn't make jokes, probably doesn't even understand most of the jokes, but he's not mean enough to roll his eyes at them or make rude comments. So instead, he laughs along. But he laughs extra-loud, extra-fake, like he's trying to drop a hint to the nerds: You're really not that funny.
He usually waits a beat, after everyone stops laughing, before he starts in; as if it took him a little longer to get the joke. Then his fake laugh just fills up the room. "Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha!" Some of the other boys join in, and then he looks around, seemingly confused.
"How can you fake a laugh like that?" a girl asks him.
"What fake laugh?" he says, raising his eyebrows to punctuate the irony.
The boys in choir are famous for being obnoxious, but sometimes I think Ha-Ha is only obnoxious because he knows he's supposed to be. He's not really friends with anyone in this class, but he's found his niche here and he just wants to blend in with them and maybe have a good time until he graduates.
The hardcore choir nerds tend to hate him, because sometimes he seems to care about choir even less than the other boys. The laughing. The goofing off with the other boys. And also.
Sometimes, when the director's in the middle of a lecture or is working with another section on something, Ha-Ha just gets down from the risers and walks away. He goes over to the window, and leans against the glass, looking out at the sunshine and taking deep breaths, like he'd give anything to be out of here. It makes one wonder why he even joined choir in the first place.
Before class, he sometimes sits at the piano and tries to play Jason Mraz songs, making the freshman girls adore him and the junior and senior girls complain about cliché chord progressions. Whenever the freshmen ask him to sing, he gets a little nervous and makes excuses. They love him anyway, but he doesn't care one way or another.
He has a girlfriend. They're always making out in the hallways during passing periods. When the two of them are together (which is whenever they're not in separate classes), they're not affiliated with anyone else. They're always talking and laughing softly when they're together, but I've never actually heard her voice. I don't know if she talks to anyone other than him. They always make sure everyone can see them, but really, they're private about everything else.
After the spring concert, which was pretty much a failure, the choir director had everyone listen to the recording of the concert and write out what they thought was the problem. When Ha-Ha was called on to read what he had written, he kind of shuffled to his feet and wouldn't make eye contact with anyone, just stared at his paper.
"Uh...This is gonna be sort of a downer," he said. "Sorry. But uh...yeah, this is just what I wrote. Um." He cleared his throat. "I joined choir because I thought it was going to be a fun experience, but it isn't fun, because we all have really bad attitudes, and a lot of people hate each other. Music classes are supposed to be like a family, but we're not. This class always has a really bad feeling. I want to enjoy choir, but instead every day when I leave this class I just feel depressed about life. And that makes me want to just quit."
Nobody really knew what to say after that. The director frowned and said, "I'm sorry you feel that way, [Ha-Ha]."
Ha-Ha nodded awkwardly, blinking, and sat down. The director tried to start a discussion about what Ha-Ha had said, but it probably didn't make much difference. Ha-Ha still walks over to the window every day and leans against the glass, taking deep breaths, and trying to drown everything else out.
That's Ha-Ha. He's an in-between.
Music classes just welcome lots of bad jokes. Especially music jokes. The musical nerds make composer references with the teacher, the not-so-musical nerds try to be funny and end up just making bad puns, and the nerds and teachers laugh while the cool kids roll their eyes.
Ha-Ha doesn't make jokes, probably doesn't even understand most of the jokes, but he's not mean enough to roll his eyes at them or make rude comments. So instead, he laughs along. But he laughs extra-loud, extra-fake, like he's trying to drop a hint to the nerds: You're really not that funny.
He usually waits a beat, after everyone stops laughing, before he starts in; as if it took him a little longer to get the joke. Then his fake laugh just fills up the room. "Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha!" Some of the other boys join in, and then he looks around, seemingly confused.
"How can you fake a laugh like that?" a girl asks him.
"What fake laugh?" he says, raising his eyebrows to punctuate the irony.
The boys in choir are famous for being obnoxious, but sometimes I think Ha-Ha is only obnoxious because he knows he's supposed to be. He's not really friends with anyone in this class, but he's found his niche here and he just wants to blend in with them and maybe have a good time until he graduates.
The hardcore choir nerds tend to hate him, because sometimes he seems to care about choir even less than the other boys. The laughing. The goofing off with the other boys. And also.
Sometimes, when the director's in the middle of a lecture or is working with another section on something, Ha-Ha just gets down from the risers and walks away. He goes over to the window, and leans against the glass, looking out at the sunshine and taking deep breaths, like he'd give anything to be out of here. It makes one wonder why he even joined choir in the first place.
Before class, he sometimes sits at the piano and tries to play Jason Mraz songs, making the freshman girls adore him and the junior and senior girls complain about cliché chord progressions. Whenever the freshmen ask him to sing, he gets a little nervous and makes excuses. They love him anyway, but he doesn't care one way or another.
He has a girlfriend. They're always making out in the hallways during passing periods. When the two of them are together (which is whenever they're not in separate classes), they're not affiliated with anyone else. They're always talking and laughing softly when they're together, but I've never actually heard her voice. I don't know if she talks to anyone other than him. They always make sure everyone can see them, but really, they're private about everything else.
After the spring concert, which was pretty much a failure, the choir director had everyone listen to the recording of the concert and write out what they thought was the problem. When Ha-Ha was called on to read what he had written, he kind of shuffled to his feet and wouldn't make eye contact with anyone, just stared at his paper.
"Uh...This is gonna be sort of a downer," he said. "Sorry. But uh...yeah, this is just what I wrote. Um." He cleared his throat. "I joined choir because I thought it was going to be a fun experience, but it isn't fun, because we all have really bad attitudes, and a lot of people hate each other. Music classes are supposed to be like a family, but we're not. This class always has a really bad feeling. I want to enjoy choir, but instead every day when I leave this class I just feel depressed about life. And that makes me want to just quit."
Nobody really knew what to say after that. The director frowned and said, "I'm sorry you feel that way, [Ha-Ha]."
Ha-Ha nodded awkwardly, blinking, and sat down. The director tried to start a discussion about what Ha-Ha had said, but it probably didn't make much difference. Ha-Ha still walks over to the window every day and leans against the glass, taking deep breaths, and trying to drown everything else out.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Buttons
A note from your faithful observer--
Thanks for your well wishes! I stayed home Thursday and Friday, but now I'm back and feeling better. Thank you so much for continuing to read and comment. Now on to today's entry!
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When she was in eighth grade... There's not really any way to put this lightly... Her breasts became sort of huge. I'm sure she's had to endure thousands of rude comments about it over the past few years, but she never mentions it. She must've gotten used to it. But I don't think that it stopped bothering her.
When you're in middle school especially, who you are to everyone else is almost as important to you as who you actually are. If not more so. Whether you're the Cute Sporty Kid or the Paper Passer or the Girl With Way Too Much Mascara, that label is important.
So this girl enters puberty, and for a long time, through no fault of her own, she is known as The Girl With Huge Tits.
She must've made a decision, at some point, to change their minds. To show them who she really was. And since then, she's spent all her time, focused all her energy, into creating a new image for herself. An image that means so much more, an image that shows who she really is.
Not many people are capable of creating an image like that, but she's done it.
She dresses in bright colors--big colors, and lots of them, all shining yellows and grass-greens and vivid purples. She usually wears a big necklace or two, in clunky, abstract shapes, and earrings that match. Nobody else dresses like that, and nobody else ever could. Her style is so different, but it's all hers.
She asks lots of random, unrelated questions, that often spur discussion all around her. For example, "In action movies, when the hero steals some random guy's car to chase after the villain, what happens to that guy? Does he ever get his car back?"
A lot of people don't even bother thinking about those kinds of questions. But she does. And not only does she think of them, she also asks them, throws them out into the world to see what people do with them. Instead of just keeping them in her head.
It's rare that you find someone like that. Someone who is so weird, so beautifully weird, yet so unafraid of really being who they are. It's that kind of bravery that keeps her weirdness from being awkward.
Around freshman year, she started collecting buttons, and sewing them all over her clothes. Her mission was to make an outfit covered entirely in buttons. Almost two years later, she finished. Pants covered in buttons. Shoes covered in buttons. Shirt covered in buttons. Hat covered in buttons. Buttons for earrings. Buttons all over her bag.
And no two buttons alike.
Sometimes she wears her buttons outfit to school, just because she feels like it. And you laugh when you see her, because it's so awesome--Ridiculous, in a way, but awesome.
Because she's not The Girl with Huge Tits anymore. She's the Girl with the Buttons.
One day recently during a passing period, I was walking to class with Buttons and a few friends. It was cloudy, and the wind started blowing, and suddenly Buttons burst out, "Oh my god, I want to FLY!"
She squeezed her eyes shut, pressing the tips of her index fingers against her temples, concentrating. "I know I can do it. I know I have the ability, somewhere. I just need to let it happen."
She concentrates. The wind catches in her yellow cardigan and lifts her dark hair from her face and her earrings clatter and she spreads her arms wide, a smile creeping across her face.
Then her eyes pop open, she sees she's still on the ground, and groans in disappointment. "Damn it!"
Sometimes, I forget what an incredibly beautiful person Buttons is. And I never ever should.
Thanks for your well wishes! I stayed home Thursday and Friday, but now I'm back and feeling better. Thank you so much for continuing to read and comment. Now on to today's entry!
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When she was in eighth grade... There's not really any way to put this lightly... Her breasts became sort of huge. I'm sure she's had to endure thousands of rude comments about it over the past few years, but she never mentions it. She must've gotten used to it. But I don't think that it stopped bothering her.
When you're in middle school especially, who you are to everyone else is almost as important to you as who you actually are. If not more so. Whether you're the Cute Sporty Kid or the Paper Passer or the Girl With Way Too Much Mascara, that label is important.
So this girl enters puberty, and for a long time, through no fault of her own, she is known as The Girl With Huge Tits.
She must've made a decision, at some point, to change their minds. To show them who she really was. And since then, she's spent all her time, focused all her energy, into creating a new image for herself. An image that means so much more, an image that shows who she really is.
Not many people are capable of creating an image like that, but she's done it.
She dresses in bright colors--big colors, and lots of them, all shining yellows and grass-greens and vivid purples. She usually wears a big necklace or two, in clunky, abstract shapes, and earrings that match. Nobody else dresses like that, and nobody else ever could. Her style is so different, but it's all hers.
She asks lots of random, unrelated questions, that often spur discussion all around her. For example, "In action movies, when the hero steals some random guy's car to chase after the villain, what happens to that guy? Does he ever get his car back?"
A lot of people don't even bother thinking about those kinds of questions. But she does. And not only does she think of them, she also asks them, throws them out into the world to see what people do with them. Instead of just keeping them in her head.
It's rare that you find someone like that. Someone who is so weird, so beautifully weird, yet so unafraid of really being who they are. It's that kind of bravery that keeps her weirdness from being awkward.
Around freshman year, she started collecting buttons, and sewing them all over her clothes. Her mission was to make an outfit covered entirely in buttons. Almost two years later, she finished. Pants covered in buttons. Shoes covered in buttons. Shirt covered in buttons. Hat covered in buttons. Buttons for earrings. Buttons all over her bag.
And no two buttons alike.
Sometimes she wears her buttons outfit to school, just because she feels like it. And you laugh when you see her, because it's so awesome--Ridiculous, in a way, but awesome.
Because she's not The Girl with Huge Tits anymore. She's the Girl with the Buttons.
One day recently during a passing period, I was walking to class with Buttons and a few friends. It was cloudy, and the wind started blowing, and suddenly Buttons burst out, "Oh my god, I want to FLY!"
She squeezed her eyes shut, pressing the tips of her index fingers against her temples, concentrating. "I know I can do it. I know I have the ability, somewhere. I just need to let it happen."
She concentrates. The wind catches in her yellow cardigan and lifts her dark hair from her face and her earrings clatter and she spreads her arms wide, a smile creeping across her face.
Then her eyes pop open, she sees she's still on the ground, and groans in disappointment. "Damn it!"
Sometimes, I forget what an incredibly beautiful person Buttons is. And I never ever should.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Doodle Hands
Doodle Hands is a mystery. She sleeps in class, which makes a lot of teachers hate her; her eyes glaze over, she listens to her iPod whenever she can, and she never speaks up and usually gets a zero in participation grade. When she is awake in class, she and her friends spend their time drawing crazy doodles on each other's hands, and laughing with each other--nobody knows what about.
Every day, she goes out galavanting with friends and they have the weirdest adventures.
"[Ryan] and I dismembered a dead raccoon yesterday," she whispered to me this morning.
I laugh, just because that's really all you can do when she says things like this. "What? What'd you do that for?"
"We wanted to make a necklace out of its teeth."
Yeah. That's the kind of weird thing she and her friends do every day after school.
"What, you were pulling out its teeth with your bare hands?"
"Nah. We were poking it with sticks. Its brains came out. It was awesome."
She doesn't talk to many people, but the people she does talk to all love her, just for the incomprehensibly amazing and hilarious things she says.
It seems, with all these things she does after school, that she wouldn't have any time to do her homework. When you're in three AP classes, as she is, homework usually takes up four to six hours of your day.
But somehow, along with doing legitimately crazy things with her friends every day, she finishes it all. Before quizzes and tests, she always says she didn't study--says she didn't even read the chapter.
But then she just completely aces it. Gets a better score than most people who did read the chapter.
"You're kidding me!" the guy next to her exclaims, when she shows us her 14/16 score on an AP history chapter she didn't read. "I read it twice and got eleven! You have to have read it."
"No. I didn't."
"You're lying. You've got to be."
"No, seriously. I didn't read the chapter."
"How'd you do it?"
"...I just knew the answers already."
And therein lies the mystery. How does she do it? She sleeps in class. She doesn't speak a word to most people. Teachers hate her because of her couldn't-care-less personality. She's in three AP classes and zero period jazz band, and she spends her weekday afternoons the way most people spend their weekends in the summer.
And somehow, she gets straight A's.
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I don't have much to say other than that. I'm sorry this post is short and not up-to-par, but, sadly, there is a nasty flu going around this high school, and during third period today, I was struck down and sent home with aches, chills, and a horrid sore throat.
I'm feeling a bit better now, but there's a high chance that tomorrow Your Faithful Observer won't be observing anything but the TV screen. Hopefully by Friday I'll be back. :)
Thank you so much for reading. I can't tell you how much I appreciate it.
Love, Your Faithful Observer
Every day, she goes out galavanting with friends and they have the weirdest adventures.
"[Ryan] and I dismembered a dead raccoon yesterday," she whispered to me this morning.
I laugh, just because that's really all you can do when she says things like this. "What? What'd you do that for?"
"We wanted to make a necklace out of its teeth."
Yeah. That's the kind of weird thing she and her friends do every day after school.
"What, you were pulling out its teeth with your bare hands?"
"Nah. We were poking it with sticks. Its brains came out. It was awesome."
She doesn't talk to many people, but the people she does talk to all love her, just for the incomprehensibly amazing and hilarious things she says.
It seems, with all these things she does after school, that she wouldn't have any time to do her homework. When you're in three AP classes, as she is, homework usually takes up four to six hours of your day.
But somehow, along with doing legitimately crazy things with her friends every day, she finishes it all. Before quizzes and tests, she always says she didn't study--says she didn't even read the chapter.
But then she just completely aces it. Gets a better score than most people who did read the chapter.
"You're kidding me!" the guy next to her exclaims, when she shows us her 14/16 score on an AP history chapter she didn't read. "I read it twice and got eleven! You have to have read it."
"No. I didn't."
"You're lying. You've got to be."
"No, seriously. I didn't read the chapter."
"How'd you do it?"
"...I just knew the answers already."
And therein lies the mystery. How does she do it? She sleeps in class. She doesn't speak a word to most people. Teachers hate her because of her couldn't-care-less personality. She's in three AP classes and zero period jazz band, and she spends her weekday afternoons the way most people spend their weekends in the summer.
And somehow, she gets straight A's.
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I don't have much to say other than that. I'm sorry this post is short and not up-to-par, but, sadly, there is a nasty flu going around this high school, and during third period today, I was struck down and sent home with aches, chills, and a horrid sore throat.
I'm feeling a bit better now, but there's a high chance that tomorrow Your Faithful Observer won't be observing anything but the TV screen. Hopefully by Friday I'll be back. :)
Thank you so much for reading. I can't tell you how much I appreciate it.
Love, Your Faithful Observer
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Remus Lupin
*If you're confused about why I'm calling him Remus, and his friends James and Sirius, read the blog post titled "James Potter" first.
Remus wears a brown striped hoodie with white fuzz on the inside of the hood.
He has skinny scraped knees that bounce up and down under his desk. He taps his thumbs on his desktop, flips his pencil over in one hand and taps the eraser on top of his notes. Pulls both of his hands into fists, knocks his knuckles against the desktop, and then pulls the sleeves of his hoodie over his fists. Despite his collected appearance, Remus has very restless hands.
He’s not as cocky and mischievous and arrogant as James and Sirius. Mostly, while they make jokes, he just sits back and laughs, almost to himself.
He has a generally calm feeling about him. Most of the time, he seems happy—happy in a quiet way, an unassuming way.
He tends to sit behind his friends, instead of right with them. In history, James and Sirius sit next to each other, but Remus sits one row behind them, so when he wants to talk to them, he has to lean forward. He grins and leans towards the back of James's head and says something clever, and the three of them laugh.
Remus always does seem to be a bit on the outside of a conversation. Not just in history--almost anywhere. It's like he's there, he's still a part of the conversation, but he just has to lean in a little bit in order to take part.
I don’t think he feels left out. Maybe sometimes he does, but most of the time he seems okay with it. I think he wants it that way.
When the class quiets down a bit, when James and Sirius stop making jokes, Remus leans against the back wall, his head tilted down but his eyes tilted up. When the teacher goes off on a tangent, he lets his head fall back and widens his eyes at the ceiling for a second, like he’s asking God why teachers have to be such idiots.
Then a cute girl catches his eye, and he smiles and laughs a little, embarrassed. She laughs, too; he stretches, glances back towards her, and then looks away quickly.
He doesn’t really want anyone to look at him. That’s why he’s okay with being a little bit on the outside of every conversation. While he does seem generally happy, he also seems a little bit worried. Just a little tiny edge of worry to his eyes. Looking around to make sure nobody’s watching him, nobody’s noticing him.
If he knew that a classmate of his whom he barely knows was watching him in class all day today, and then writing a blog about him, he'd probably toss and turn all night.
While he is mostly calm, there’s an energy behind it. The drumming. The knee jiggling. He does have a lot of energy in him, but, like everything else about him, he sort of keeps it private. He's just quiet, calmly smiling, and he lets things be.
I can totally see him having a furry little problem. What exactly that furry little problem might be, though... is still unknown.
Remus wears a brown striped hoodie with white fuzz on the inside of the hood.
He has skinny scraped knees that bounce up and down under his desk. He taps his thumbs on his desktop, flips his pencil over in one hand and taps the eraser on top of his notes. Pulls both of his hands into fists, knocks his knuckles against the desktop, and then pulls the sleeves of his hoodie over his fists. Despite his collected appearance, Remus has very restless hands.
He’s not as cocky and mischievous and arrogant as James and Sirius. Mostly, while they make jokes, he just sits back and laughs, almost to himself.
He has a generally calm feeling about him. Most of the time, he seems happy—happy in a quiet way, an unassuming way.
He tends to sit behind his friends, instead of right with them. In history, James and Sirius sit next to each other, but Remus sits one row behind them, so when he wants to talk to them, he has to lean forward. He grins and leans towards the back of James's head and says something clever, and the three of them laugh.
Remus always does seem to be a bit on the outside of a conversation. Not just in history--almost anywhere. It's like he's there, he's still a part of the conversation, but he just has to lean in a little bit in order to take part.
I don’t think he feels left out. Maybe sometimes he does, but most of the time he seems okay with it. I think he wants it that way.
When the class quiets down a bit, when James and Sirius stop making jokes, Remus leans against the back wall, his head tilted down but his eyes tilted up. When the teacher goes off on a tangent, he lets his head fall back and widens his eyes at the ceiling for a second, like he’s asking God why teachers have to be such idiots.
Then a cute girl catches his eye, and he smiles and laughs a little, embarrassed. She laughs, too; he stretches, glances back towards her, and then looks away quickly.
He doesn’t really want anyone to look at him. That’s why he’s okay with being a little bit on the outside of every conversation. While he does seem generally happy, he also seems a little bit worried. Just a little tiny edge of worry to his eyes. Looking around to make sure nobody’s watching him, nobody’s noticing him.
If he knew that a classmate of his whom he barely knows was watching him in class all day today, and then writing a blog about him, he'd probably toss and turn all night.
While he is mostly calm, there’s an energy behind it. The drumming. The knee jiggling. He does have a lot of energy in him, but, like everything else about him, he sort of keeps it private. He's just quiet, calmly smiling, and he lets things be.
I can totally see him having a furry little problem. What exactly that furry little problem might be, though... is still unknown.
Monday, March 15, 2010
The Paper Passer
Sometimes it's a bit surprising how little some people change over the years.
In middle school, she was annoying. She would rarely shut up. She’d get upset with people, and then she’d cry and complain, and even the teachers hated her for that sometimes.
She used to read in class. Which isn’t such a weird thing to do, but when she read, she would start whispering the words out loud to herself. She wouldn’t even realize she was doing it. It freaked the other kids out. Gave them more reason to hate her. When you’re in middle school, you can hate someone because of anything.
She used to get caught with a novel under her desk all the time, because her whispering would give her away. Teachers used to get really frustrated with her, snapping at her multiple times to put the book away, and then her eyes would get all red and she’d just stare at one spot in the classroom, blinking.
Some people’s eyes wander when they daydream in class. Not her. Her eyes zoom completely out of focus, staying fixed on one thing, never moving. She stares at nothing, sitting up perfectly straight, her mouth hanging slightly open, both of those clunky black earbuds in her ears as she listens to her iPod.
As long as I’ve known her, she’s been the kid who passes back papers. People made fun of her for that, too, but she never stopped. It never mattered what class she was in, or who the teacher was, or whether or not there was a TA who could do the job for her. She just did it. She still does it. To this day, after all these years, the Paper Passer still passes back papers.
She had braces for something like nine years. When she finally got them off, they were replaced with a drooly set of retainers that make her speech mumbly and slurred. She doesn’t read in class anymore; she doesn’t even talk anymore, really. She must've realized it gave people a basis on which to humiliate her. When she does talk, it’s to answer a question in class, and if you’re sitting more than five feet away from her, you can’t understand a word she says because of those retainers.
She used to ramble on about the most awkward subjects. Now she's just shy. She blushes when anyone talks to her, and can't make eye contact for long.
She doesn’t do any activities. She just does homework. She wants nothing more than to get good grades. Not just good grades—the best grades.
When she takes notes (which she always does, no matter what the teacher’s talking about), she crams in two or three lines into one college-ruled line in a notebook. All those words squeezed so tight together you can barely read them. When she types her notes on each history chapter, she fills up four of five pages of tiny font, and adjusts the margin so there’s barely any white space around the edge of each page.
She has a hundred and three percent in AP US History. Yeah. That's completely unheard of. It's a bit scary.
It’s these things about her that freak people out today. Not her being loud and annoying or crying about everything or whispering as she reads. It’s the way she tries so hard in these classes. Like they’re all that there is, like they’re all that matters.
Also, she still passes back papers.
"Why does she do that?" a girl whispered behind me in English today, as the Paper Passer darted around the classroom with an armful of graded essays. "He's got TAs; they're just sitting there. Look." She pointed to the English teacher, as he sat droopily in front of his computer screen. "He doesn't even notice she's doing it."
And that's why she does it: because she wants him to notice.
It probably started way back. Third or fourth grade. Maybe one day, seeking attention and wanting to be a good student, the Paper Passer volunteered to pass back papers. And in response, her teacher smiled and said something like, "You're so helpful, [Paper Passer]. You're always so on top of it. Thank you so much."
And that struck a chord with little Paper Passer. She was hungry for that kind of appreciation, and now she'd found a way to get it.
So she kept doing it. She kept passing back papers. And she's still passing back papers. She's spent the rest of her school career trying to get that moment back. She passes back those papers day after day, hoping one day a teacher will notice and thank her again.
Sadly, though, none of the teachers ever notice. They think she’s doing it just because. But she's not.
In middle school, she was annoying. She would rarely shut up. She’d get upset with people, and then she’d cry and complain, and even the teachers hated her for that sometimes.
She used to read in class. Which isn’t such a weird thing to do, but when she read, she would start whispering the words out loud to herself. She wouldn’t even realize she was doing it. It freaked the other kids out. Gave them more reason to hate her. When you’re in middle school, you can hate someone because of anything.
She used to get caught with a novel under her desk all the time, because her whispering would give her away. Teachers used to get really frustrated with her, snapping at her multiple times to put the book away, and then her eyes would get all red and she’d just stare at one spot in the classroom, blinking.
Some people’s eyes wander when they daydream in class. Not her. Her eyes zoom completely out of focus, staying fixed on one thing, never moving. She stares at nothing, sitting up perfectly straight, her mouth hanging slightly open, both of those clunky black earbuds in her ears as she listens to her iPod.
As long as I’ve known her, she’s been the kid who passes back papers. People made fun of her for that, too, but she never stopped. It never mattered what class she was in, or who the teacher was, or whether or not there was a TA who could do the job for her. She just did it. She still does it. To this day, after all these years, the Paper Passer still passes back papers.
She had braces for something like nine years. When she finally got them off, they were replaced with a drooly set of retainers that make her speech mumbly and slurred. She doesn’t read in class anymore; she doesn’t even talk anymore, really. She must've realized it gave people a basis on which to humiliate her. When she does talk, it’s to answer a question in class, and if you’re sitting more than five feet away from her, you can’t understand a word she says because of those retainers.
She used to ramble on about the most awkward subjects. Now she's just shy. She blushes when anyone talks to her, and can't make eye contact for long.
She doesn’t do any activities. She just does homework. She wants nothing more than to get good grades. Not just good grades—the best grades.
When she takes notes (which she always does, no matter what the teacher’s talking about), she crams in two or three lines into one college-ruled line in a notebook. All those words squeezed so tight together you can barely read them. When she types her notes on each history chapter, she fills up four of five pages of tiny font, and adjusts the margin so there’s barely any white space around the edge of each page.
She has a hundred and three percent in AP US History. Yeah. That's completely unheard of. It's a bit scary.
It’s these things about her that freak people out today. Not her being loud and annoying or crying about everything or whispering as she reads. It’s the way she tries so hard in these classes. Like they’re all that there is, like they’re all that matters.
Also, she still passes back papers.
"Why does she do that?" a girl whispered behind me in English today, as the Paper Passer darted around the classroom with an armful of graded essays. "He's got TAs; they're just sitting there. Look." She pointed to the English teacher, as he sat droopily in front of his computer screen. "He doesn't even notice she's doing it."
And that's why she does it: because she wants him to notice.
It probably started way back. Third or fourth grade. Maybe one day, seeking attention and wanting to be a good student, the Paper Passer volunteered to pass back papers. And in response, her teacher smiled and said something like, "You're so helpful, [Paper Passer]. You're always so on top of it. Thank you so much."
And that struck a chord with little Paper Passer. She was hungry for that kind of appreciation, and now she'd found a way to get it.
So she kept doing it. She kept passing back papers. And she's still passing back papers. She's spent the rest of her school career trying to get that moment back. She passes back those papers day after day, hoping one day a teacher will notice and thank her again.
Sadly, though, none of the teachers ever notice. They think she’s doing it just because. But she's not.
Friday, March 12, 2010
The Frenchman
The Frenchman is not from France. He's from Belgium. But his first language is French, and nobody really knows the difference.
He TAs for Madame French Teacher. She refers to him as Monsieur Dictionnaire, because whenever anyone has a vocabulary question they can just consult him, instead of looking it up in the dictionary. Sometimes he doesn't really understand the questions, though, which the girls in French class find sort of adorable.
Some of the exchange students who come to our school have been studying English for so long that they're practically fluent. Like their brains can completely slip over and start thinking in English instead of their first language. The Frenchman still thinks in French, according to Madame. I mean, he's not bad at English, but there is a bit of a language barrier. Which is probably why he doesn't talk much.
He just sits quietly in French class, correcting papers or doing homework. He scrolls through his iPod, one earbud in and the other hanging down by his knees. His brown sneakers are crossed, one over the other, in front of his desk; the laces are wadded up in thick knots instead of just tied. His lips are always pooched forward a little, turned down. His cheekbones are thin, with a bit of a dark beard edging down from his sideburns. He wears two watches, one on each wrist--one tells what time it is here; the other probably tells what time it is in Belgium.
I wonder how much he misses home.
Exchange students always talk about how much they like it here. But you never know if they're just being polite.
When the Frenchman was interviewed for the school paper, he told them he loved it here and he's having a great time. But he always seems a little sad, and more than a little lonely. I guess you would, if you're alone in a foreign country five thousand miles from your home.
"It was actually pretty hard for me to make friends," he says in the school paper, "because I'm from a place so different than here, and I don't have much in common with anyone. A lot of people wanted to talk to me just because I'm an exchange student."
Well... probably not just because he's an exchange student. He's a remarkably attractive exchange student.
“DAYUM. Where did he come from?” a friend of mine asked, after the Frenchman passed us in the hall.
“Belgium,” I said.
“That. Is so. Hot.”
Yeah, there is the foreign aspect of him that people like, it's true. The Frenchman brings a sort of air of mystery with him. He’s from somewhere really different, and you can tell just from listening to his voice--or even just looking at him. It’s special. It attracts.
He's not incredibly social, but just because he's from somewhere different, everyone finds him sort of exciting. When he leans over a girl's desk in French class and points out a mistake on her paper, she looks up at him and turns bright red. Girls swoon over his accent, melt when he puts on his reading glasses, burst into giggles when he's reading the class a quiz and says the word "caterpillar."
“What’s so funny?!” exclaims Madame.
“He said ‘caterpillar,’” says one of the girls, still laughing.
“Well, that’s not funny! Don’t laugh at him; at least he’s trying!”
“No!” protests another girl. “It was cute!”
The Frenchman looks confused, then smiles a little bit and looks down, embarrassed. He doesn't really like the attention. He just wants to blend in, to be normal, but he can't--not in a place like this, where if you're the slightest bit different, everyone either torments you for it or treats you like the coolest thing in the world.
-------
Until Monday--Thank you so much for reading, and I hope everyone has a wonderful weekend! -Your Faithful Observer
He TAs for Madame French Teacher. She refers to him as Monsieur Dictionnaire, because whenever anyone has a vocabulary question they can just consult him, instead of looking it up in the dictionary. Sometimes he doesn't really understand the questions, though, which the girls in French class find sort of adorable.
Some of the exchange students who come to our school have been studying English for so long that they're practically fluent. Like their brains can completely slip over and start thinking in English instead of their first language. The Frenchman still thinks in French, according to Madame. I mean, he's not bad at English, but there is a bit of a language barrier. Which is probably why he doesn't talk much.
He just sits quietly in French class, correcting papers or doing homework. He scrolls through his iPod, one earbud in and the other hanging down by his knees. His brown sneakers are crossed, one over the other, in front of his desk; the laces are wadded up in thick knots instead of just tied. His lips are always pooched forward a little, turned down. His cheekbones are thin, with a bit of a dark beard edging down from his sideburns. He wears two watches, one on each wrist--one tells what time it is here; the other probably tells what time it is in Belgium.
I wonder how much he misses home.
Exchange students always talk about how much they like it here. But you never know if they're just being polite.
When the Frenchman was interviewed for the school paper, he told them he loved it here and he's having a great time. But he always seems a little sad, and more than a little lonely. I guess you would, if you're alone in a foreign country five thousand miles from your home.
"It was actually pretty hard for me to make friends," he says in the school paper, "because I'm from a place so different than here, and I don't have much in common with anyone. A lot of people wanted to talk to me just because I'm an exchange student."
Well... probably not just because he's an exchange student. He's a remarkably attractive exchange student.
“DAYUM. Where did he come from?” a friend of mine asked, after the Frenchman passed us in the hall.
“Belgium,” I said.
“That. Is so. Hot.”
Yeah, there is the foreign aspect of him that people like, it's true. The Frenchman brings a sort of air of mystery with him. He’s from somewhere really different, and you can tell just from listening to his voice--or even just looking at him. It’s special. It attracts.
He's not incredibly social, but just because he's from somewhere different, everyone finds him sort of exciting. When he leans over a girl's desk in French class and points out a mistake on her paper, she looks up at him and turns bright red. Girls swoon over his accent, melt when he puts on his reading glasses, burst into giggles when he's reading the class a quiz and says the word "caterpillar."
“What’s so funny?!” exclaims Madame.
“He said ‘caterpillar,’” says one of the girls, still laughing.
“Well, that’s not funny! Don’t laugh at him; at least he’s trying!”
“No!” protests another girl. “It was cute!”
The Frenchman looks confused, then smiles a little bit and looks down, embarrassed. He doesn't really like the attention. He just wants to blend in, to be normal, but he can't--not in a place like this, where if you're the slightest bit different, everyone either torments you for it or treats you like the coolest thing in the world.
-------
Until Monday--Thank you so much for reading, and I hope everyone has a wonderful weekend! -Your Faithful Observer
Thursday, March 11, 2010
James Potter
He snacks in class, even when it’s not allowed; he’s one of the few people who can get away with it. He sits slouching slightly, with his long legs sticking out from under the desk. Big feet, big shoes with bright green laces, next to his light brown Indiana Jones-style bag with holes worn in the bottom. His three best friends sitting next to him. They goof around in class and the teacher doesn't really mind.
My friends and I refer to the four of them as the Marauders.
He, of course, is James Potter.*
His right-hand man is not quite as popular as he is; he’s a little scruffy-looking. He’s the Sirius Black in the group, and he and James are so inseperable that some people think they’re gay. Their next best friend, Remus Lupin, is more reserved, less attractive, and probably smarter than both of them put together.
And, of course, there’s one little Peter Pettigrew who follows them around, cracking jokes and trying to make them laugh.
They’re all in the band. James plays the trumpet.
James is the band geek who is infamously dashing. Every band has one.
Let’s squeeze in a quick physical description here: James has silky chocolate-colored hair that looks like it would be really fun to tousle. His eyes are a little darker, like espresso, and they have long black lashes. He has very white teeth, and dimples. He typically wears collared, button-down shirts, with the collar unbuttoned and the sleeves rolled back, to show off his Manly Hairy Arms and his Manly Hairy Hands.
Most of the girls in band wouldn’t mind squeezing on tight to those Manly Hairy Hands.
But, like most cute boys, it isn’t just his looks that attracts the ladies. It’s his confidence. Margo Roth Spiegelman said it so well: “You’re cute when you’re confident. And less when you’re not.”
There are lots of musician jokes about trumpet players. For example: What do trumpet players say when they shake hands? “Hi. I’m better than you.”
Sure, one could say that James has got the classic trumpet-player Hi-I’m-Better-Than-You swagger down pat. You could call him arrogant, or you could call him confident. Happy, even.
He has a generally cheerful feeling about him. He's playful. In class today, he takes an empty plastic water bottle and sticks it in his mouth, and just sits there looking at the teacher, like everything is normal, with a water bottle hanging out of his mouth. Like a dog with a bone.
It's simultaneously obnoxious and charming. Which is why he's the James Potter.
He’s not exactly the type who would suspend Severus Snape in the air and take his pants off if he had a magic wand. But he definitely would become an unregistered Animagus to help Remus, or create a hardcore map of the school grounds.** He and his friends are playful and mischievous, and probably get away with a lot more than they should, which irritates some people. But it's hard to stay mad at him.
It’s just little things about him. If you bump into him, he smiles and holds out an arm in an “after-you” kind of way. If you say something and he doesn’t quite hear you, he doesn’t say “What?” He says, “I’m sorry?”
"I've figured out why [James Potter] is so cute," a friend told me tonight, at the spring choir/band concert.
"Why?"
"It's because he's British."
Upon further investigation, I found this to be true. Granted, he doesn't have the accent because he grew up here in Nowheresville, USA, but his mom--mum?--does.
There’s something about a British guy. Or really, a guy from any foreign country. It’s not the accent necessarily. It’s not even the politeness and chivalry. It’s the mannerisms. The way he feels a little bit different. In the slightest little ways.
-------
*If you haven't read the Harry Potter series, you probably won't understand the character references in this blog.
**You know... if our school had secret passageways :)
My friends and I refer to the four of them as the Marauders.
He, of course, is James Potter.*
His right-hand man is not quite as popular as he is; he’s a little scruffy-looking. He’s the Sirius Black in the group, and he and James are so inseperable that some people think they’re gay. Their next best friend, Remus Lupin, is more reserved, less attractive, and probably smarter than both of them put together.
And, of course, there’s one little Peter Pettigrew who follows them around, cracking jokes and trying to make them laugh.
They’re all in the band. James plays the trumpet.
James is the band geek who is infamously dashing. Every band has one.
Let’s squeeze in a quick physical description here: James has silky chocolate-colored hair that looks like it would be really fun to tousle. His eyes are a little darker, like espresso, and they have long black lashes. He has very white teeth, and dimples. He typically wears collared, button-down shirts, with the collar unbuttoned and the sleeves rolled back, to show off his Manly Hairy Arms and his Manly Hairy Hands.
Most of the girls in band wouldn’t mind squeezing on tight to those Manly Hairy Hands.
But, like most cute boys, it isn’t just his looks that attracts the ladies. It’s his confidence. Margo Roth Spiegelman said it so well: “You’re cute when you’re confident. And less when you’re not.”
There are lots of musician jokes about trumpet players. For example: What do trumpet players say when they shake hands? “Hi. I’m better than you.”
Sure, one could say that James has got the classic trumpet-player Hi-I’m-Better-Than-You swagger down pat. You could call him arrogant, or you could call him confident. Happy, even.
He has a generally cheerful feeling about him. He's playful. In class today, he takes an empty plastic water bottle and sticks it in his mouth, and just sits there looking at the teacher, like everything is normal, with a water bottle hanging out of his mouth. Like a dog with a bone.
It's simultaneously obnoxious and charming. Which is why he's the James Potter.
He’s not exactly the type who would suspend Severus Snape in the air and take his pants off if he had a magic wand. But he definitely would become an unregistered Animagus to help Remus, or create a hardcore map of the school grounds.** He and his friends are playful and mischievous, and probably get away with a lot more than they should, which irritates some people. But it's hard to stay mad at him.
It’s just little things about him. If you bump into him, he smiles and holds out an arm in an “after-you” kind of way. If you say something and he doesn’t quite hear you, he doesn’t say “What?” He says, “I’m sorry?”
"I've figured out why [James Potter] is so cute," a friend told me tonight, at the spring choir/band concert.
"Why?"
"It's because he's British."
Upon further investigation, I found this to be true. Granted, he doesn't have the accent because he grew up here in Nowheresville, USA, but his mom--mum?--does.
There’s something about a British guy. Or really, a guy from any foreign country. It’s not the accent necessarily. It’s not even the politeness and chivalry. It’s the mannerisms. The way he feels a little bit different. In the slightest little ways.
-------
*If you haven't read the Harry Potter series, you probably won't understand the character references in this blog.
**You know... if our school had secret passageways :)
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Glass
I haven’t actually spoken to Glass since freshman year, when we were sort of friends. We were in PE together, and being scared freshmen of similar personalities and similar social status (at least at the time), we clung to each other and stuck the year out.
One time during freshman year, she was crying. I don’t really remember why, but I put an arm around her, and she didn’t sob, she didn't make any sort of noise; just kind of looked at me with her eyes glassy, tears dripping down her face with black eye makeup mixed in, and then she turned away, wiping her eyes, and walked to the bathroom to fix her face. Taking careful steps, and pushing on the bathroom door gently, as though anything coming into contact with her could break her.
She’s changed since. She’s become a cheerleader, and she joined the band—making her both a popular kid and a geek, giving her sort of an identity crisis, and making football season the craziest time of year for her.
But even though she does different things now, she’s never really changed in my mind since that moment. Walking into the bathroom, her shoulders a little quivery, her body sort of fragile, her eyes full of melting glass.
Glass and I don’t have any classes together anymore; actually, I don’t really have any sort of way of observing her at school. So instead, I’ve been observing her in a different way: through what she posts on the Internet.
On Twitter, Glass quotes Miley Cyrus songs. Gushes about Mr. Darcy from Pride and Prejudice. Posts vague things about how much she hates her life. Makes giggly refereces to her friends and how crazy and obnoxious they all are.
Once in awhile, a little low self-esteem drips in.
i’m fattttt ugh.
She’s not fat.
note to self: be happy and healthy and buy cute clothes in smaller sizes. yes. ok wish me luck :)
Granted, she’s fatter than most of the other cheerleaders, but that’s because she doesn’t have an eating disorder. Though, based on some of the things she posts, she’s well on her way to getting one.
Cheer was lame. I left my stuff outside when i went to talk to my counselor, but everyone went inside. do you think anyone put my bag inside? nope because i have no friends.
When you think of cheerleaders and band geeks, you think of people who really have a place where they belong. They have a strong, centered group of friends. Glass is both a cheerleader and a band geek, but feels like she doesn't have any friends.
How many people feel this way? Even among the people who are supposed to be their teammates—their family?
So today i woke up at 7.30 haha it was strange, but i went to school anyway and it was weird. i just hate school so much anymore. i feel like i still don’t know who i am, even though i should. i just feel like a blob who doesn’t say anything. i wish i could start over.
One time during freshman year, she was crying. I don’t really remember why, but I put an arm around her, and she didn’t sob, she didn't make any sort of noise; just kind of looked at me with her eyes glassy, tears dripping down her face with black eye makeup mixed in, and then she turned away, wiping her eyes, and walked to the bathroom to fix her face. Taking careful steps, and pushing on the bathroom door gently, as though anything coming into contact with her could break her.
She’s changed since. She’s become a cheerleader, and she joined the band—making her both a popular kid and a geek, giving her sort of an identity crisis, and making football season the craziest time of year for her.
But even though she does different things now, she’s never really changed in my mind since that moment. Walking into the bathroom, her shoulders a little quivery, her body sort of fragile, her eyes full of melting glass.
Glass and I don’t have any classes together anymore; actually, I don’t really have any sort of way of observing her at school. So instead, I’ve been observing her in a different way: through what she posts on the Internet.
On Twitter, Glass quotes Miley Cyrus songs. Gushes about Mr. Darcy from Pride and Prejudice. Posts vague things about how much she hates her life. Makes giggly refereces to her friends and how crazy and obnoxious they all are.
Once in awhile, a little low self-esteem drips in.
i’m fattttt ugh.
She’s not fat.
note to self: be happy and healthy and buy cute clothes in smaller sizes. yes. ok wish me luck :)
Granted, she’s fatter than most of the other cheerleaders, but that’s because she doesn’t have an eating disorder. Though, based on some of the things she posts, she’s well on her way to getting one.
Cheer was lame. I left my stuff outside when i went to talk to my counselor, but everyone went inside. do you think anyone put my bag inside? nope because i have no friends.
When you think of cheerleaders and band geeks, you think of people who really have a place where they belong. They have a strong, centered group of friends. Glass is both a cheerleader and a band geek, but feels like she doesn't have any friends.
How many people feel this way? Even among the people who are supposed to be their teammates—their family?
So today i woke up at 7.30 haha it was strange, but i went to school anyway and it was weird. i just hate school so much anymore. i feel like i still don’t know who i am, even though i should. i just feel like a blob who doesn’t say anything. i wish i could start over.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Brown Bag
The stereotype about cheerleaders being loud, obnoxious, and generally intolerable doesn’t quite apply to this girl. Well, she may be obnoxious, I don’t actually know—I don’t think we’ve ever actually spoken, in the seven and a half years we’ve gone to school together—but if she is obnoxious, she’s obnoxious in her own, sort of private way. She’s not a loud cheerleader. She doesn’t have the happy, chatterboxy personality they’re supposed to have. She doesn’t really speak at all.
In classes, she sits quietly at her desk, her legs primly crossed, with her brown designer bag on her desk, to cover up her hands so teachers won’t know she’s texting on her pink iPhone. (Two major clues that she’s a rich girl. If the iPhone doesn’t give it away, then the rich girl usually carries her school stuff in a huge designer purse—typically leathery—instead of a backpack.) Brown Bag’s wrists are decked in bracelets of various colors. Her nails are painted black, the color chipped in places; her eyebrows are trimmed thin, and end before they should; her eyeshadow is light brown, almost flesh-colored, but very thick. The mascara is even thicker.
Her hair is like that of an anime character—flat, with spiky layers, and a little puffy on the top. It’s dyed white blond, with very obvious dark roots. Which is weird, because I don’t think she’s ever had dark hair. In elementary school, it was naturally gold.
She doesn’t talk, doesn’t even look at the other kids in AP English, really. But it’s not because she’s an outcast. Maybe she’s an outcast in smart kid classes, but she’s not an outcast in the grand scheme of things. She's got that brown bag and the iPhone. She’s always texting somebody, and she is a cheerleader, so she can’t be entirely friendless. She just doesn’t talk in AP English because she doesn’t really have much interest in these people.
At lunch, she joins a friend or two, and they walk to the local burrito joint where everybody goes. There, she talks; her voice is quiet, but it exists.
Sometimes, though, even with her friends, she goes silent. They keep talking, and she stands off to the side, or behind. Looking in, but none of them looking out.
Brown Bag doesn’t "belong" in AP classes because she’s a cheerleader. But she doesn’t really "belong" with her cheer friends, either…why not?
Is it because she’s so smart? Because she is smart—She got a hundred percent on the Great Gatsby exam. I saw her test on the top of the pile, and I was surprised.
Do they know that she’s smarter than them, and that’s why they exclude her? Or does she know that she’s smarter than them, and that’s why she feels like she shouldn’t be there?
Does she just know that she should be somewhere else, and that’s why she steps out and looks wistfully in?
Does this girl have a place anywhere?
In classes, she sits quietly at her desk, her legs primly crossed, with her brown designer bag on her desk, to cover up her hands so teachers won’t know she’s texting on her pink iPhone. (Two major clues that she’s a rich girl. If the iPhone doesn’t give it away, then the rich girl usually carries her school stuff in a huge designer purse—typically leathery—instead of a backpack.) Brown Bag’s wrists are decked in bracelets of various colors. Her nails are painted black, the color chipped in places; her eyebrows are trimmed thin, and end before they should; her eyeshadow is light brown, almost flesh-colored, but very thick. The mascara is even thicker.
Her hair is like that of an anime character—flat, with spiky layers, and a little puffy on the top. It’s dyed white blond, with very obvious dark roots. Which is weird, because I don’t think she’s ever had dark hair. In elementary school, it was naturally gold.
She doesn’t talk, doesn’t even look at the other kids in AP English, really. But it’s not because she’s an outcast. Maybe she’s an outcast in smart kid classes, but she’s not an outcast in the grand scheme of things. She's got that brown bag and the iPhone. She’s always texting somebody, and she is a cheerleader, so she can’t be entirely friendless. She just doesn’t talk in AP English because she doesn’t really have much interest in these people.
At lunch, she joins a friend or two, and they walk to the local burrito joint where everybody goes. There, she talks; her voice is quiet, but it exists.
Sometimes, though, even with her friends, she goes silent. They keep talking, and she stands off to the side, or behind. Looking in, but none of them looking out.
Brown Bag doesn’t "belong" in AP classes because she’s a cheerleader. But she doesn’t really "belong" with her cheer friends, either…why not?
Is it because she’s so smart? Because she is smart—She got a hundred percent on the Great Gatsby exam. I saw her test on the top of the pile, and I was surprised.
Do they know that she’s smarter than them, and that’s why they exclude her? Or does she know that she’s smarter than them, and that’s why she feels like she shouldn’t be there?
Does she just know that she should be somewhere else, and that’s why she steps out and looks wistfully in?
Does this girl have a place anywhere?
Monday, March 8, 2010
Fedora
She comes to first period early every single day. She's the first person to enter the classroom other than the teacher. She walks in with her huge backpack slung over one shoulder; she rarely says anything. Her backpack is set down with a heavy thunk. She takes off her Fedora hat--the kind that annoying junior boys wear--and slips it into the metal crate under her seat. She always wears a Fedora hat. Maybe she just wears the same one every day, or maybe she has a plethora of them--If she does, they all look the same.
The hair under the Fedora is dusty blond, and boyishly short. It still feels awkward to see it so short; it used to be long. She came to the first day of semester with it all cut off. Wearing the shoes, the vest, the Fedora. Completely new image, completely new person. Most of the girls in the class were whispering about her.
"It looks like she's trying to be a boy."
"Yeah. A boy from the 80s."
"A boy from the 80s with really bad style."
And there is some truth behind what people say about her. But it's not so much her clothes or her hair or the awkward pink tinge on her face with no makeup to cover it up. The clothes do have something to do with it--I mean, the girl literally wears plaid pants and orange T-shirts, for God's sake--but it's not her appearance. It's just her. Like most outcasts in high school society, there's something about Fedora that just weirds people out.
She's quiet most of the time. She just sits in class, bent over her desk, getting along with her work. One leg crossed over the other, her left hand squeezed in between her knees, her right hand writing. She doesn't say a word.
But she does look up.
She's always looking up.
She's always watching everybody else, with these very intense eyes. Eyes that you can feel on the back of your head from a mile away. Eyes that always seem like they're going to narrow and make something explode, like Matilda Wormwood's. Eyes that look like they know everything. No. Like they want to know everything.
When somebody feels her eyes on them and turns to look at her, she hides with a yawn. Scratches at one eye like a sleepy toddler, and then turns back to her work.
She doesn't belong to any group. When the class has to pair off into partners, she's always the one who has to wander around looking. But she's always listening to the separate groups. Watching them. Paying very close attention to their conversations.
I think what makes people the most uneasy about Fedora is, she always seems like she's about to say something.
You can always tell when she's watching you, when she's listening to your every word. It's like she's silently leaning her way into the conversation. You always feel as if she's about to say something, add her thoughts, tell a story, ask a question-- but she never does. Those hard-staring eyes just keep. on. watching.
When she does speak, her voice is very firm, her words are pre-planned, and the smile never leaves her face, but the words are always a little shaky--like she's scared she won't say it right. Her phrases always end with just the slightest rising inflection...not like a question?... But more like...an ellipsis...like she's just about to say something else... So you can't just look away... You have to keep listening...
And then she goes on...
She leans closer towards you, just a little bit, praying that you'll keep listening. Her intense, slightly-crooked eyes getting even more close together. They just keep. on. watching.
It doesn't matter if Fedora's talking or not; her eyes are always the same. They're always looking at everyone. But they're not seeing anyone. They're just staring hard, secretly, desperately, screaming, LOOK AT ME.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So, why am I starting this blog?
It's an experiment, of sorts. Mostly because I'm bored to death with seeing the same people every day. I've gone to school with these kids every day for three years at the least, eleven at the most. I don't even like most of them.
The seniors always talk about how they can't wait to get out of this hellhole. Because then they'll never have to see any of these idiots again. I don't blame them. But...I don't know if you ever fully escape them. I think these people are probably everywhere. They'll be there when we go to college, they'll be there when we start our careers, they'll be at our grocery stores and holiday parties and offices. Just in a different form, that's all.
Because all people are the same.
But...
I think, maybe, if I look at them a little closer, they might look like something different.
The hair under the Fedora is dusty blond, and boyishly short. It still feels awkward to see it so short; it used to be long. She came to the first day of semester with it all cut off. Wearing the shoes, the vest, the Fedora. Completely new image, completely new person. Most of the girls in the class were whispering about her.
"It looks like she's trying to be a boy."
"Yeah. A boy from the 80s."
"A boy from the 80s with really bad style."
And there is some truth behind what people say about her. But it's not so much her clothes or her hair or the awkward pink tinge on her face with no makeup to cover it up. The clothes do have something to do with it--I mean, the girl literally wears plaid pants and orange T-shirts, for God's sake--but it's not her appearance. It's just her. Like most outcasts in high school society, there's something about Fedora that just weirds people out.
She's quiet most of the time. She just sits in class, bent over her desk, getting along with her work. One leg crossed over the other, her left hand squeezed in between her knees, her right hand writing. She doesn't say a word.
But she does look up.
She's always looking up.
She's always watching everybody else, with these very intense eyes. Eyes that you can feel on the back of your head from a mile away. Eyes that always seem like they're going to narrow and make something explode, like Matilda Wormwood's. Eyes that look like they know everything. No. Like they want to know everything.
When somebody feels her eyes on them and turns to look at her, she hides with a yawn. Scratches at one eye like a sleepy toddler, and then turns back to her work.
She doesn't belong to any group. When the class has to pair off into partners, she's always the one who has to wander around looking. But she's always listening to the separate groups. Watching them. Paying very close attention to their conversations.
I think what makes people the most uneasy about Fedora is, she always seems like she's about to say something.
You can always tell when she's watching you, when she's listening to your every word. It's like she's silently leaning her way into the conversation. You always feel as if she's about to say something, add her thoughts, tell a story, ask a question-- but she never does. Those hard-staring eyes just keep. on. watching.
When she does speak, her voice is very firm, her words are pre-planned, and the smile never leaves her face, but the words are always a little shaky--like she's scared she won't say it right. Her phrases always end with just the slightest rising inflection...not like a question?... But more like...an ellipsis...like she's just about to say something else... So you can't just look away... You have to keep listening...
And then she goes on...
She leans closer towards you, just a little bit, praying that you'll keep listening. Her intense, slightly-crooked eyes getting even more close together. They just keep. on. watching.
It doesn't matter if Fedora's talking or not; her eyes are always the same. They're always looking at everyone. But they're not seeing anyone. They're just staring hard, secretly, desperately, screaming, LOOK AT ME.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So, why am I starting this blog?
It's an experiment, of sorts. Mostly because I'm bored to death with seeing the same people every day. I've gone to school with these kids every day for three years at the least, eleven at the most. I don't even like most of them.
The seniors always talk about how they can't wait to get out of this hellhole. Because then they'll never have to see any of these idiots again. I don't blame them. But...I don't know if you ever fully escape them. I think these people are probably everywhere. They'll be there when we go to college, they'll be there when we start our careers, they'll be at our grocery stores and holiday parties and offices. Just in a different form, that's all.
Because all people are the same.
But...
I think, maybe, if I look at them a little closer, they might look like something different.
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