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.