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.
Friday, March 4, 2011
Monday, February 28, 2011
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.
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.
Monday, February 14, 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
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.
^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.
Monday, January 31, 2011
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.
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.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
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.
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.
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