Date: Wed, 04 Jul 2001 23:50:01 +0800 From: Corey Castor Subject: Bleak Future (Part 2) NOTE: I wasn't going to say anything because I just assumed that this happened automatically, but I guess it doesn't. It's just that if you have any comments, you can email me. Actually, what I'm hoping for is constructive criticism, but whatever you have to send is okay. I just wanna know what you, as a reader or whatever, think. BLEAK FUTURE Part 2 It's Tuesday, six forty-five in the morning, and I'm roaming the halls of the high school. This rarely occurs. I'm not usually here before seven forty-five although school starts at seven thirty. There are three reasons for this. The first is that I have Spanish 3 as my first period class. I do not speak nor understand a word of the language so I tend to skip out a lot and never do the homework. It's either that or constant sleeping in class, which I find disrespectful to the teacher, so cutting class seems more appropriate to me. I'm always there for tests though. The second is that my alarm clock is broken. Actually, it's not BROKEN; it's just that I never hear it when it goes off, so it might as well be. The last thing is that I don't enjoy school as much as I enjoy sleeping so I tend to stay in bed until seven thirty or eight o'clock. But this morning, I am on a mission. My mission is to sneak into Mrs. Barron's, my Spanish teacher, classroom and steal yesterday's test, which are worth two test grades. I know that I failed, but so did everyone else, so I'm doing everyone a favor. I will be a hero, even if it's in my own mind. I try my best to tiptoe through the hallway without actually tiptoeing. I'm not a total loser. I am two feet from her cabinet when I hear footsteps behind me. I quickly turn around to see no one there, so I go back to work. Opening the cabinet slowly, I look for the folder with yesterday's date written on it. When I find it, I search through it to make sure that all the tests are inside. I see my name, and a bunch of other names I don't recognize. I realize that I have no idea who's in my class. Oh well, I couldn't care less anyway. Then I see something intriguing. I see Paul P. Marshall written at the top of a test. I know that this is the same person who came to the video store yesterday, but I'm not sure why I'd never noticed him in class before. I shrug and put the tests into my book bag. Seven fifteen finds me in the cafeteria sitting at a round table with James, Harley, and Sean. Harley is seventeen and a junior. Sean is fifteen. He's a sophomore. He is as short as James and skinny. He has short, dark brown hair that he spikes in different directions every morning and wears button down shirts and Gap khakis. Hewaves his hands in the air when he speaks. He's gay. He calls himself the "stereotypic fag", but I'm not sure what that means and no one wants to explain it to me. I think it means that he's feminine. Harley is Hispanic. Her parents are from El Salvador. She has long black hair and is taller than all of us. Unlike most of the Hispanics in our school, she wears wide leg jeans and seems to ignore the guys in school. Her mother thinks she is a lesbian and is having a secret relationship with James. Nothing is further from the truth. I know for a fact that she likes guys. We have our usual conversations about teachers, school lunches, and how I never join them for breakfast. I tell them that I'm not a breakfast person, and I'd rather have pizza than coffee and a bagel. "Yeah, right. You think you're too good for us, don't you?" Sean asks, he's wiping his mouth as he says this. He reminds me of a British aristocrat when he eats. I laugh, but not at what he says. "Not really. Hey, you know that I can't wake up in the morning. I try to, but I keep falling back asleep." This is my version of the truth. The real truth is, if I wake up before seven in the morning, I force myself back to sleep. "Whatever. I know you don't like us. Why don't you look for new friends, Tristan? How 'bout that kid who's staring at us from the other table?" he says motioning to someone behind me. I turn around, but immediately regret it. It's Paul with three other guys, but he's not looking at us so I have time to stare. My eyes are transfixed to his hair, his lips that are grinning but not moving. "They're not staring at us," I say to Sean who seems to be admiring all the boys at that table. "Well, he was." Harley says, smirking but pursing her lips so no one notices that the smirk is meant to be a smile. I turn again and find that Paul IS staring, but not at me or Sean or Harley. He's doing that eye thing with James again. James signals him to come over, and he does after excusing himself from his friends' conversation. "Hey," he says to James, then looks around at the rest of us. "Hey," James says in response. Sean is drooling and so is Harley, but she tries to hide her interest by looking around the caf. "What's up?" he asks no one in particular because he's staring at the table instead of us. He looks at me and asks, "Can I sit?" I shrug. My heart is racing again. He finds a seat between Harley and James, facing Sean and I. "I talked to Donna about your application," James says looking not at Paul, but at me. "You did?" Paul and I ask simultaneously. He's still looking at me, but I avoid his gaze by staring at James. "Yeah. Last night. She says that she'll think about it since I recommended you. But if you suck at the job she'll have my ass, and then I'll have yours, so I'm counting on you to do okay." Paul has a silly grin on his face. Harley seems to be fighting the urge to touch him. Sean is still staring and drooling. I can't stop my heart from racing. I need to get away from this table. "The bell's about to ring and I gotta get ready for class," I say. All eyes are on me. They know that I'm lying because I'm always late for Spanish. "I'll go with you. I need to talk to Mrs. Barron anyway," Paul says, standing up. "I just have to grab my bag over there." I think I feel myself begin to sweat. We leave the cafeteria together, but once we are behind its doors my heart seems to be beating at the speed of light. I can hardly breathe. I'm getting dizzy. I think that I become pale because Paul asks if I'm okay. I answer yes and stop at a water fountain. I don't really drink anything, but I think that stopping a moment helps to dissipate my nausea. After a while, we begin to walk again. "I saw you this morning in Mrs. Barron's class," he announces, staring forward. "Oh," I say. It's more of a breath than a word. "I think I know what you were doing." "As long as you don't tell anyone, I don't think I give a shit if you saw me or not." I know that I'm being too defensive. "I failed that test anyway," he says. "Yeah, you did," I say, then smiled. We walk a few minutes in silence until we get to the main stairs. Because of the crowd of kids hanging out on the stairs, we need to squeeze through to reach the top. Some are sitting in the corners of the stairs, some are just hanging out in the middle. I think our hands touch somewhere along the way, but I try my best not to pay attention to him and focus on getting to the top. When we reach the top of the stairs, we start heading to my locker. Paul stops a moment and looks at me. "It's funny how we're in the same class and we've never talked before," he says. "It's funny how we've been going to the same school for three years and I didn't even know you existed till yesterday." I say and start to walk ahead of him. I wonder if the words sting. "That's cause you're never in class," he says, a bit defensively, but he doesn't sound hurt. "I don't think that's it. I think it's cause we hang out with different people. We don't have a thing in common so what would be the point of talking?" "I guess," he says. "My locker's in the other building. I'll see you in class." Then he walks away. In class, the teacher is looking for our tests. She searches the desk, the cabinets, the closet, the floor. I lean on my desk, acting bored, praying that she forgot to write the grades in her gradebook. I sit in the furthest corner of the classroom, where no one can bother me. From my viewpoint, I can see Paul in the opposite corner in the third row with two girls and two other guys sitting near him, facing him, talking and laughing about some party. I'm trying my best to fall asleep, but the anticipation keeps me up. I want Mrs. Barron to announce the next test date. "Okay guys. I don't know what I did with the tests, but I need to find them. I haven't written your scores down yet. You can talk quietly while I go look in my office," Mrs. Barron says, looking apprehensive. She is short and a little chubby with brown hair to her ears. She's a very nice woman and, I imagine, an excellent teacher, but I really wouldn't know. The class takes this opportunity to start about fifteen different conversations while I begin my descent to dreamland. Five minutes later, someone taps me on the shoulder. I turn around slowly, dreamily to find Paul sitting in the desk to the left of mine. "Hey," he says. "What?" I'm groggy, moody. This always happens when I'm woken up from sleep. "Me and the guys are starting a study group so we can do better on the test when she gives it over next week. We were just wondering if you wanted to come study with us tonight." "Not really. I think I have better things to do than study for some test I'm gonna fail anyway." "If you're gonna fail again, why'd you bother stealing them?" "I don't know. Fun. It's how I have fun, I guess. Anyway, the whole class failed, I thought I'd do you guys a favor." "I don't buy that." "I don't give a shit. Like I said, I have better things to do." "I don't buy that either." "Well that's too fuckin bad. I'm not gonna spend a whole night studying for a test I know I'm gonna fail." "Yeah, but that's the point. Maybe you won't fail if you actually study for it." "Why do you care anyway?" I ask. I'm getting suspicious of their sudden goodwill towards me. What am I, some charity case? "It's just that, if we're gonna be working together, we might as well start hanging out now. So that we get along at work. Plus, I'm not sure we're that different." "I guess that makes sense." "I know it does. Here's my address. It's got directions on it and everything. Tina wrote it so it might be confusing, but my phone number's on it too so if you get lost you can just call. If you're there by seven, you might get some of the pizza." When he leaves, I open the piece of folded paper he'd given me. His address is written on top - it's on the other side of town where all the semi-rich people live - and the directions are below it. At the very bottom is his phone number. I fold the paper and try not to give much thought to it. I put it in my pocket and fall back asleep. (c) Copyright 2001 Please do not reproduce any of this without my permission. (7/4/01)