Remember

We're getting close to the end of the school year now, so there's less and less to do in some of our classes. In one of my classes today, for instance, the teacher spent the entire period telling us about Found Magazine, which I'm totally addicted to now; I've been browsing through all the old Finds of the Day all afternoon. I find that kind of thing really fascinating, because you can't see the people who wrote the notes. But at the same time, you can. You can see inside a little portion of their brains. Which is something you don’t get from just looking at them. Or even talking to them, really.

I’ve gotten discouraged with myself many times over the course of this blog project—one of the many reasons why I haven’t been that faithful of an observer at times.
I’d love to think that I’m imagining people complexly when I write this blog. But the thing is, I can’t always know that I am.
Every time I wrote a blog about a person, even though I was trying to imagine them complexly, I ran the risk of being too judgmental and completely wrong about them, without even knowing it. And sometimes that really killed me.

That’s the main reason why I started copying notes I found on campus straight into the blog. With those notes, I didn’t have to imagine complexly, and didn’t have to take the risk of imagining wrong. I could just put them here exactly as they are, the way Found Magazine does.

I’m still trying to find the balance between observing and imagining, fact and fiction; and most importantly, keeping the judgments to a minimum. It’s tricky. And even though I’m leaving high school soon, I do intend to keep this blog up, so hopefully I can get better. (I know, I know. I don't have the best record of blogging when I say I will. I can’t make any promises, but I’ll try.)

In the meantime, here’s one last observance from high school.

There’s a girl in one of my classes who’s really sweet; I’ve gotten to know her through a few different extracurriculars this past year. She moved to this high school her freshman year, from across the country, but she still visits her hometown and her church there during most school breaks.

When she came back from spring break, she had the word “Remember” written in blue ink on the inside of her left wrist, with a little heart drawn next to it. Every morning in first period, at some point, she looks at her wrist for a minutes, and remembers to remember.

When she notices that the ink is fading, she gets a pen out of her backpack and retraces the letters. She does this in class once every day or two, and she hasn’t let the word fade away completely yet, not for the weeks she's had it there. I don’t know yet what she wants to remember. Maybe one of these days I’ll stop just wondering, and open my mouth and ask her.

Whatever it is anyway, she really doesn’t want to forget it.

The Kid With The Braid: Part 2

Observer’s note: Somehow this post got a little personal, which I try to avoid. One of the various reasons why I’ve been avoiding updating. Meh. Here goes.

Being the same kind of quiet, studious types, The Kid With The Braid and I have become sort of friends over the years. At first it was just because nobody else would pick us when we did group projects—The two of us just wound up working together, and acing every project. Soon we just made a habit of it. Now, whenever we need partners for something, we tend to make eye contact and nod.

And this is how, several months ago, I ended up carrying The Kid With The Braid’s camera around campus all day, taking photos of Le Cafétéria and La Bibliothèque and Le Professeur de Musique for a French project.

And being your faithful observer—observant to the point of invasive and borderline creepy—I took the opportunity to flick through his photos.

I saw a lot of things.
The Kid With the Braid at wrestling matches, ready to take his opponent down.
A gruesome car accident on the side of the road, the car going up in smoke—The local paper ran a thing about that accident a few months back.
A pink cake with Felicitations written on it, on a picnic table, under the trees in the park.
And a lot of photos of the family gathered around the picnic table—Lots of kids, lots of teens, lots of adults, lots of old people. Big family, with big smiles.

And then a lot of photos of just The Kid With The Braid, alone. Standing in front of his bathroom mirror, taking pictures of himself with his camera.

There was one of him shirtless. And one of him wearing a shirt that was much too tight, in an attempt to look more filled out.
Another of him wearing a V-neck and opening his eyes wide and pressing one finger, curved, against his lips.
Another of him with makeup layered across his face—his cheeks blushing red and his eyelids heavy with green eyeshadow and lined with mascara.

I shut off the camera then.
I don’t think he meant for anybody to see those photos. So I tried to forget it.

I debated for a long time, whether or not I should post about it on the blog. Because even with all the lengths I go to, to ensure my blog subjects’ privacy…This seemed a little too…secret. Too much of a secret, and not my secret to tell.

It’s just that... Sitting in class, watching someone from across the room, looking at how they dress and the makeup they wear and the things they say and how they pop their gum… There’s only so much about a person you can get out of that. But the Kid With The Braid’s camera gave me something else entirely. It gave me a picture of him.

I don’t often have an opportunity to see into people quite like that.

And as creepy as it sounds, those photos are something I will hold close to my heart. Even though I’ve managed to mostly forget about them, even though I will never mention them to anyone at school. I don’t even think of them anymore when I see The Kid With The Braid around campus. But those photos are something I will cherish.

Big

She’s big. There’s not much way to put it politely.

She’s from the South. Or, closer to the South than this little town, anyway; she moved here when she was in seventh grade. And I know, being from the South shouldn’t have anything to do with it, but I’ve read about how obesity is much more common in the South than it is in any of the other states. So, she’s big. I don’t know if she’s obese, but she’s big.

With many girls who are significantly overweight, you look at them and you not only see the largeness of them, you can see all the grief they’ve had to go through for it. In their body language, their downcast eyes. You can see every time they’ve been bullied, every time they’ve been mocked, etched into their faces; you can see the self-loathing in their eyes.

But when you look at her, you see something else.

Yeah, her body is large, but at the same time, her body is beautiful. I mean, I’m straight, but I can appreciate these things. She has beautiful curves and smooth, olivey skin. Her hair is light brown and whooshes down her back, and her eyes are big and brown and pack in a lot of shine.

What she lacks in conventional beauty, she makes up for in boisterousness. Her voice is loud and carries well, and she puts it to use by taking part in the school drama productions. Being a drama kid, she’s extra friendly, extra talkative, and extra huggy. Being her, she’s extra smiley. You’ll rarely, rarely see her without a smile.

And she laughs a lot, too. Even at lame jokes that teachers make, that most kids don’t find funny—She just doesn’t hold back. Her eyes get lost in the smile on her face and she doubles over in her seat and this big, booming laugh comes rollicking out of her—Long and loud enough that often the nastier of the students in class will yell at her, “God, shut up!”

Obviously, she’s been bullied as much as any of the other “fat girls” have—If not more so, for additionally having what some might call an “obnoxious” personality. But she rarely lets it bother her.

I mean, yeah, we all have down days. Some days the mockery and downright bitchiness of everyone here, kids and adults alike, just get to a person. Some days when she gets yelled at, she goes still and quiet and moody. But those days are rare. Most days, she just doesn’t care when she’s mocked.

And it’s not necessarily because she loves her body—She’s told me before that she’s been trying out different diets. She tries not to talk about her size a lot, or even acknowledge it, really. When idiots make fun of her, the last thing she’ll do is snap back with an “I’m Big and I’m Beautiful” rant. I’m sure on the inside, she’s still uncomfortable in her skin. But hell, isn’t everyone?

The difference is, she doesn’t let it show. She doesn’t let it bog her down, as much as others try. When she gets yelled at in class for talking, for laughing, for being herself, be it by other kids or by the teacher, she just smiles, says sorry, stifles her laugh, and moves on, that smile still hovering round the corners of her mouth.

Letters to Eighth Graders

In band, one of the recent assignments was to write letters to kids in the local middle school’s band, encouraging them to take part in band when they come to high school. I found a couple of these letters on the floor of the band room recently. The first was written by a boy who has a slight mental handicap, and his penmanship is clumsy, like that of a much younger kid.

Dear [name censored],
Hi I’m [name censored], I’m a member of the .... High School Wind Ensemble (Advanced Band) and I play Bass Clairnet. I understand you play alto saxaphone. The alto sak is a fun instrument to play. At the High School you will enjoy the music offer we have for alto. At the High School we also have fun with Home foot Ball games, 3 Boy’s and Girls Basket Ball Games, Marching Band competitions, 4 concerts a year, and we go to some cities for band compotition. I forgot to mention that I am a junior (a senior your freshman year.) I hope to see you next year,

Your friend,

[name censored]

The second is also written to the same alto sax-playing eighth-grader. This one is in much neater, more feminine writing, and the writer of the letter draws hearts under her exclamation points, and she includes lots of smiley faces. Even though the letter is handwritten, she still draws her smileys sideways.

Hey [name censored],
What’s up man! I haven’t seen you in a while but I will soon since your joining band next year! Your going to love it! Believe me it’s like three million times better than middle school band :) And all the alto sax players are incredibly nice and funny so you’ll fit right in! I can’t wait to see you and hey even though at times it might seem a little hard stick in there, cause you’ll regret dropping out. And one more thing the Band is a family and once you join you’ll always be part of it. Band is a blast and we do some pretty amazing shows so whatever you do stay in band and rock your alto sax :) Can’t wait to see you next year with all the other soon to be new freshmen :)

Love always,

[name censored]

She signed with a big heart drawn around “love.”

Friendship Bracelets: An Update

I heard her boyfriend broke up with her because she did something horrid to him, like cheated on him or something like that. Apparently this happened months ago, but the bubbly personality that Friendship Bracelets once possessed has yet to come back. I see little bits and pieces of it sometimes, but it’s not as constant as it used to be. Some days she sits on the floor, with her head rested in a friend’s lap and her eyes dark and brooding, like her boyfriend’s were that time I saw them together.

She came into class late today, walking with small, cautious steps, her shoulders still, her entire body held very tight. She sat down like she hardly dared touch anything, and her eyes hardly dared look at anything. She was much tidier than usual. She was like a porcelain doll, moving so fragilely and held together so neatly. Every article of clothing seemed perfectly placed, every dab of eyeshadow or mascara, even every golden strand of hair on her head.

Her hair is usually long and free and flowing. Her hair has motion in it. Her hair is hair that doesn’t care what it looks like, where it goes, what other people thinks of it.

But today her hair cared. Today her hair was perfectly still. Her hair was as tidy and perfect as the rest of her, and she had clearly been crying.

Getting through a bad day in high school without showing it is an art, and it’s a difficult one to master. The strategy many people adopt is to go completely still. Just freeze. Make your mind go blank. Some people lay their heads down on their desks, some people look straight forward, some people get out their phones and stare at their empty inbox for five minutes straight. If you let anything distract you, let anything touch you, it could all come crashing down in a second. You just have to go still as a statue, and concentrate on holding it all inside.

That’s the way Doodle Hands does it, the way the Paper Passer does it, and Friendship Bracelets does the same. She can clean herself up as much as she can, she can make herself look perfect, she can stare straight forward in class and pretend to listen. But it’s only so long before her thoughts return to whatever it was that made it start. And then her eyes turn red and shiny, and the frustration with herself just whooshes out of her lungs in a long sigh. She closes her eyes tight, dabbing at the tears with the sleeves of her jacket, and using the edges of her fingernails to fix her eye makeup.

Makeup Girl

I really don’t know where to start with this girl. Despite how quiet she is most of the time, I have so many notes on her, and I could take many, many more. However, perhaps fittingly, most of the notes I have on her are focused on her appearance. Her clothes, and makeup. She puts a lot into it.

She always wears a lot of black. There’s one pair of black arm warmers that she wears almost every day, that have little bats on them. But she always contrasts that black with some other solid color—bright pink, or vivid dark green, or neon purple. She has lots of accessories; she often wears bright colorful flowers in her hair. Her makeup is always done to match her colors, and is different every single day.

She has many different varieties of eyeshadow, eyeliner, even face paint. Some days her eyes are just thick with black eyeliner. Other days her eyes are edged with spiderweb-like patterns; other days, there’s a colorful starburst around her entire right eye. Or a rainbow painted across her entire face.

She remembers every holiday, even little ones like Mardi Gras. On those special days, her makeup is always holiday themed. For Halloween, she made herself look like a zombie; at Christmas, her eyeshadow was red and white and green; on Valentine’s Day, she wore lots of pink and red, and around her eyes were lots of small red hearts. On Mardi Gras, she wore lots of greens and purples and colorful beads, and painted her face with purple and green feathery strokes to look like a mask.

“Do you plan out your makeup before you do it?” I asked her once. “Like, do you do sketches of it, or do you just make it up as you go?”

She just shrugged. She does a lot of shrugging. Always has.

In middle school, she shrugged a lot, and spoke even less than she does now. That was back when her makeup was just black eyeliner, and she wore the same black sweatshirt every day, zipped all the way up, even on the most sweltering hot days of the year.

“Aren’t you baking in that sweatshirt?” other kids would ask, and she would just shrug, her mouth looking scared to form words. She never took that sweatshirt off.

She’s totally blossomed in the past year or so. When she started painting her face with makeup each day, she started to come loose a little, let herself out.

I mean, there are parts of her that are still hidden up inside. She still wears those arm warmers, and she still doesn’t talk much. But when she does talk, her voice is loud and her words very clear. She keeps her head up and walks with big steps: her arms swing with confidence, and her heels don’t touch the ground.

The Note

A note from your faithful observer: Passing notes used to be a significant portion of high school culture. However, with technology, notes have become much more uncommon around schools these days; we all just text each other instead of passing notes. So when I do find a note that was passed back and forth in class, or even see a note being passed back and forth in class, I get pretty excited.

Following are the contents of a note that your faithful observer may or may not have fished out of a trash can.

What’s going on with you and [Michael]? I saw you talking after 2nd, are you still together?

We had to break up.

why?

because his mom wants him to focus on homework and if his grades go down anymore then he has 2 go with her when she moves back to [the city.]

Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh….
FUCK THAT.

yeah so he had to but i understand why he did it.

why cant you just not tell her?

she found out last time we tried to do that. he wants to just wait until after graduation before we do anything anyway

you should just date me to make him jealous :P

hon we’ve been down that road before.

lol yeah

Dreadlocks

For as long as I can remember, he has had dreadlocks. When he was younger, naturally they were a lot shorter and more awkward-looking, but by now, they hang down past his shoulders. In middle school, everyone would whisper about his hair, the way middle schoolers do.

“It’s so weird.”
“It looks like a bird’s nest.”
“Everyone knows you can’t pull off dreadlocks if you’re white.”

I don't know if he ever heard their hissing little judgments. If he did, he never said anything about it. Actually, he never said anything at all.

I’ve known him for seven or eight years, and in that time, I’ve never heard him say more than five words. Total. I strain my memory to think of a time, maybe in grade school or middle school, when he was energetic and loud and obnoxious like all the other boys. But even when we were little kids. He was silent. The guy just doesn’t talk.

Sometimes you look back, and it seems to you that, as long as you’ve been around them, none of the people around you have changed. Not one bit. And then you think to yourself, No, no, imagine them complexly. They’ve been through a lot since elementary school, just like you have. They’ve grown up. They’ve changed. Look for the differences. Look. LOOK.

But with Dreadlocks, in his silence and his hair and his solemn glare, those differences are very, very hard to see. He’s gotten taller. But… that’s about it.

Throughout the years, he has stayed committed to who he is. He has committed to those dreadlocks, and he has committed to his silence.

The silence was something that intrigued me for a long time, until one day in freshman year when he was called on to answer a question, and we all—many of us for the first time—heard his voice. And I found out in that moment, why he doesn’t talk.

It’s a simple explanation, really: he has a speech impediment. When he gave his answer, his words were laden with misplaced W’s. He didn’t act embarrassed about it or anything, but as soon as he was done talking, he assumed his silence once again. I haven’t heard him speak since.

Since his name has a fair amount of R’s and L’s, he has difficulty even pronouncing his own name.

Looking at him now, you’d never guess he speaks like that. The way he looks. His walk, his hair, his beard, the circles under his eyes.

In some ways, he reminds me of Buttons, who has now graduated. Buttons has big boobs, so she made a name for herself other than The Girl With Big Boobs. Maybe Dreadlocks took the same strategy. Maybe in kindergarten he was known as The Kid Who Talks Funny, so he went a different direction with his identity early on. He became The Guy With Dreadlocks. Who Doesn’t Talk.

Hermione

She’s a junior. Petite, fairly quiet; she usually doesn’t have friends with her in class, so she just focuses on her work. And on answering the teacher’s questions right.

A note from your faithful observer:
I call her Hermione for three reasons.
1. She dresses a bit like Movie Hermione;
2. She raises her hand a bit like Book Hermione; and
3. I’m a dork.

When she answers questions, they are often word-for-word from the textbook or her notes, but unlike the original Hermione, this Hermione tends to respond in a sort of monotone voice. Unless something about the topic really captures her interest. In which case she often shares an opinion or a short narrative story about it.

Most of the time, though, as focused as she is on her work, class seems to bore her. She often rests her head on her hand, and closes her eyes, but doesn’t sleep. Doesn’t even daydream. Occasionally she’ll mutter a response to the teacher’s question, without opening her eyes.

Her backpack is huge, overstuffed with books and binders. I don’t know how many she has, but even with the hugeness and bulginess of her backpack, she has to lug around two in her arms. Her Pre-Calc book, which is battered and falling apart, and her SAT Prep book, which is probably the biggest SAT Prep book on campus.

She’s small and thin, and doesn’t really have any curves yet. She has straight chin-length hair that’s parted straight down the middle. No bangs; nothing fancy at all, she doesn’t do anything with it, and she doesn’t wear makeup. With her small and simple appearance, she could easily look like a little kid, but she doesn’t, really. The way she dresses, with coats and hats and scarves; the serious look on her face almost all the time; and, oddly enough, most of all, her fingernails. It’s a small thing that makes a big difference—They’re not painted, but they are long and clean and well-cared for. They make her look very grown-up, more than you’d think.

Maybe her small size and lack of curves still bother her a bit, though. She snacks a lot in class. Maybe hoping to gain some weight.

She has a wide variety of snacks, and they’re rarely the same every day. She eats them in a very particular way: She gets out one snack, eats a few bites of it, wraps it up, puts it away, and gets out another. I don’t know if she does this to make them all last longer, to keep things interesting, or maybe because she just can’t decide which snack she wants.

And there are an awful lot of them to choose from—Goldfish crackers. Small lollipops. Popcorn. Graham crackers. Bananas. Green peppers. Pop Tarts. Tortilla slices, with nutella sandwiched between. She saves the wrappers from her snacks, whenever she can. She tapes lollipop wrappers to the cover of her binder, or writes and doodles on her empty goldfish bag.

One thing she almost always has is a Ziploc bag of dry cereal. The type of cereal varies from day to day—Cheerios, regular or honey nut. Mini Wheats. Cocoa Puffs. Lucky Charms. When she eats her Lucky Charms, she picks out all the marshmallows and sets them aside, saving them for last—and when she’s eaten all the cereal bits, she takes the marshmallows and downs them all in a single handful.

Lily Evans

She’s been dating James Potter for over a year now. I know that the characters James Potter and Lily Evans didn’t really get along during most of their time at Hogwarts, but for the sake of simplicity, we’ll call her Lily.

She’s petite and has dark hair; wears a purple pea coat, scarves on her neck, and hair elastics on her wrists.
She plays timpani in the band.
Like Headphones, she has teeth and eyes that positively shine every time she even hints at a smile.

You rarely see Lily without James. She’s so much shorter than him that they don’t hold hands when they walk together—instead, he slings an arm around her shoulders, and she reaches one hand up to hold onto his wrist. Sometimes as they’re walking, he gives her a quick peck on the forehead.

“They’re so pretty together I want to punch something.”
--Doodle Hands

In AP English, James sits at a table with Sirius and Remus, and two other guys from band. Lily sits with them, the only girl at the table. She’s just as comfortable and friendly with all the other guys as she is with James; she laughs the same way with them. But James is the one she sticks close to.

They like to hold hands in class. Sometimes they thumb wrestle, too; giggling quietly, their teasing, hissing whispers standing out among the dull murmur of the class. He likes to make her laugh. She likes to laugh at him.

But mostly, they just hold hands. His hand over hers. Taking turns squeezing; stroking each other’s fingers with their thumbs. Their eyes are downcast, looking at their two hands. Every once in awhile, he looks up at her face, then back down. A few seconds later, she does the same—looks up at his face, and then back down. They take turns like that, always sneaking glances at each other, as though to check and make sure the other is okay, their eyes never quite meeting.

A note from Your Faithful Observer: I’m still looking for Severus. No luck yet.

The Kid With The Braid: Part 1

"im 17 and go to [school name]. im on the soccer team, and the wrestling team, the two best sports ever! oh and most importantly, im brown, a bean, wetback, mexican, south of the border, alien, illegal, them, whatever u wanna call em haha"

^An exceprt from The Kid With The Braid’s Facebook profile.

A couple years ago, he started braiding one little piece of hair, at the back of his head, on the right side. He’s been letting that one piece grow out, and now it almost brushes down to his shoulder. I don’t know what he’s growing it for. Maybe it’s a cultural or religious thing. Or, you know… maybe he just wants to look like a Jedi apprentice. (A sidenote from Your Faithful Observer: I really hope that the latter is the case. That would be SO awesome.)

Despite the declarations on his Facebook profile, he doesn’t seem to fit the Hispanic/Latino stereotypes, not when you see him around school at least. He’s quiet, gets good grades, takes honors classes, is respectful to the teachers, doesn’t do drugs. For all intents and purposes, he acts like a studious white kid.

You’d think this would set him apart from the other Hispanic kids here—Many of whom, sad to say, actually fit the stereotypes quite well.

But the striking difference in the The Kid With The Braid’s personality from theirs really makes no difference. When the he bumps into another Hispanic kid on campus, his face just lights up with recognition, and the little anti-social bubble he sets himself in suddenly disappears. They start speaking in rapid Spanish, and the Kid With The Braid laughs.

No matter how little he might know the other person, they are friends. Because they share something. They share the same place.
And they’re treated the same way for it by every white kid and white teacher in this fucking place.
They share that, too.

High school is still racially segregated. Everyone thinks that’s something we got rid of decades ago, but it lingers on. Old habits die hard, I suppose. Especially at a school like this one, where—let’s face it—almost everyone is white.

Kids tend to gravitate more towards people of their own race, because those people are the most like the ones they grew up with, and therefore the ones they feel most comfortable around. That’s why most of the minorities stick together, and why all of the Hispanic kids are friends with one another. No matter how cool or nerdy they are, what sports they play, who they date, how they act, they always stick together. There’s something really cool about that. Always having that same place to go back to.

I think a lot of "them" probably need something like that to fall back on. Maybe more than anybody else around here.

Doodle Hands: An Update

She cut and dyed her hair over winter break; her hair, once dusty-gold, is now auburny-red. It suits her.

I sit at a table with her in AP English now, along with a couple of friends, a couple of misfits, and the Loner, who you may remember from APUS last year. Doodle Hands is the same person. The same quiet person who will suddenly do something totally out-there insane and remind you just how crazy and weird and awesome she is. She still aces quizzes and tests without studying at all, or so she says. And she still sleeps through class, with her head rested on her fist, and the teachers are never the wiser.

Except for this year our AP English teacher spotted Doodle Hands’ BS-ing strategy pretty early in the game. It must’ve been the third day of class that the teacher said, “[Doodle Hands], I need to talk to you for a minute.”

All of us at the table joke with her about it as she gets up. “Oooh, you’re in troubleee!” She laughs it off and goes to talk to the teacher.

When she comes back and sits down, she still has the smile on her face, but it’s gone a little stale. Her voice is very light and matter-of-fact.

“She wants me to switch out of the class.”
“What?”
“She doesn't think I can’t handle the work. She gave me a zero on the essay. She could tell I didn’t read the book.”

A couple of our tablemates press her for more details, but Doodle Hands has suddenly gone silent. I think the hurt of it didn’t hit her until just now. It doesn’t show much on her face—It’s her silence that shows it more than anything. She keeps her eyes down, staring straight down at the desk, and won’t say a word.

“[Doodle Hands],” her friend says. He wants to console her, but she won’t look up. She won’t acknowledge any of us. Eventually he leaves her alone.

She crosses one leg over the other and folds her hands in her lap, looking straight down at them, her hair hanging down over her eyes. Her face turns pink around the edges. She is very, very still.

Just as she’s had a lot of practice sleeping in class without being noticed, I think she’s probably had a lot of practice crying in class without being noticed. She does it very well. Like a pro.

Friendship Bracelets

She’s probably the closest thing to a “hippie” you can find at this school.

She’s got long, flowing, yellow hair, with beautiful waves. Her voice has a gentle feeling; like there’s always a smile underneath it.

She brings her guitar to school sometimes, carrying it around without a case. She strums on it occasionally, in class, or sitting in the quad. She’s not very good. Either she doesn't know it, or doesn't care.

She wears mostly loose, comfy clothes, with bright colors; flowy skirts, or sweatpants and sweatshirts, or leggings and Ugg boots. She has a pair of Toms shoes that she wears sometimes; they used to be white, but she painted them with rainbowy swirls.

She likes bracelets in general. She wears a lot of them. Silly bands, sometimes. Little chain bracelets with charms on them. But she always has friendship bracelets, strung from colorful threads. Four of them on each wrist. Every day.

She eats all natural foods. Her mom is really into the all-organic thing; their entire family is vegan, so Friendship Bracelets’ snacks usually consist of these all-natural nutty-and-seedy health bars. Occasionally, she goes off on a rant to her friends about processed foods; Cheetos are filled with beetle eggs and chickens are tortured and boxed apple juice isn’t really apple juice and doesn’t even taste like apple juice and how can you be okay with the fact that it’s not apple juice.

But she’ll occasionally drink a soda. Or snack on Captain Crunch from a Ziploc bag. It's difficult to predict what she considers an exception to the rule.

She likes to doodle, too. There’s one sheet of paper at the front of her binder that she’s been gradually decorating since the beginning of the semester; adding more and more doodles. Leaves. Fruit. Flowers. Mindless swirls and checkers and lines. Hearts, and peace symbols, and yin-yangs.

And there are little cards she’s making for her boyfriend—Drawings of the two of them together, dressed as fruits. In one of them, she’s dressed as a strawberry and he’s dressed as a lemon; in the other, he’s a watermelon and she’s a lime. In both, the two fruits are holding hands and smiling at each other, and the caption reads, In sweetness and in sour, I love you.

I’ve seen her with her boyfriend—Between classes, they lock their arms around each other and kiss outside of classrooms. Looking at the two of them together, it’s strange. He seems to be Friendship Bracelets’ polar opposite. He wears mostly gray, and his eyes are full of glares.

Does he ever smile, like the cartoon watermelon of him she drew? When they’re alone, maybe? Is she the one to bring it out of him?

And when they’re together, about to part for class, about to be late for class, arms clasped around each other and lips migrating across each others' faces, they both seem to have looks of pain in their eyes. Like they love each other so much that it hurts, like they love each other so much they can hardly stand to be apart, like they love each other so much they can hardly stop touching each other and they can hardly stand to look each other in the eye.

Headphones

I don’t think I even know his real name. I just know him as the dude with the headphones.

You never see him without them. When he doesn’t have them over his ears, like a pair of large black earmuffs, they’re around his neck, settling beside his shoulders, with the cord snaking under his shirt.

It’s not so unusual for a person to have their headphones with them constantly—Walk into any class and you’ll see at least four people with one earbud in, sneakily providing themselves with music to get them through this class and into lunch period.
But the thing about Headphones is, he doesn’t bother with earbuds. He doesn’t bother being sneaky. When he gets bored in class, he pulls his big, high-quality, retro headpones off of his shoulders and onto his ears, and listens. Not caring if the teacher gets pissed about it. Not caring about anything going on around him.

He’s one of the many who’s reached that point. He’s a senior. He just doesn’t give a crap anymore. (I’m sure all high school students, even those who aren’t seniors, are familiar with that feeling.)

He’s friendly with the other guys in class; he’s probably even close friends with some of them. He laughs quietly at their jokes, and his teeth are very noticeable when he does—They’re straight and white, and very large, so even the smallest of smiles on his face looks like a wide grin. But he doesn’t talk much, or maintain much eye contact with anyone. Even when he’s smiling, at someone else or to himself, his eyes are usually downcast.

Today we do a group activity in class. Headphones joins a group with a few other guys, but doesn’t really take part. It isn’t long before he’s sitting on the floor, with his back to the wall and his headphones back over his ears. His eyes glaze over, staring at the wall opposite, and it’s suddenly noticeable, more than ever before, the reason he looks down at the floor so much of the time. There’s a kind of distant sadness back there in his eyes, that he tries to hide.

And I wonder what he’s listening to, that made that look come out. Come to think of it, I’ve never actually seen him scrolling through his iPod. I’ve only ever seen the headphones.