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.

Sleepy

“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.

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.

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.

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.