Ren
JANUARY 2, 1997
I remember the first time saw him again, the day after New Year's Day...
♡♡♡
Come on, Ren, just get out of the car already!
I'm sitting in my car, dreading the next six months of school (let alone this first day back), calculating the amount of hours until I can leave, and I haven't even let go of the steering wheel yet. The morning is grey and soggy, a fitting start to the second semester of my junior year; the first semester had pretty much sucked rocks so far.
When I left my house, I popped in my Bob Marley tape to listen to 'Three Little Birds' to cheer me up. You remember the song with the verse, 'Don't worry about a thing, cause every little thing's gonna be alright?' Well, it clearly isn't working, and I flick the sound dial to off.
Taking a deep breath and one last look at myself in the rearview mirror, I fling open the car door, slam it behind me, and trudge off toward the looming beige stucco building belonging to Ives High—a pretty normal high school in a small farming town that is slowly turning hippy yuppy, not too far off the west coast in Northern California.
It's not like I'm afraid of the schoolwork part of school. I've always done well in my classes. I'm your average B+ student. You probably know the type. I do my work well, but just enough to get good grades; I never go the extra mile to earn that A—except for art. Art is my best subject. Everyone is starting to comment on what a talented artist I'm becoming, but it's just because I love to draw and always sketch in my free time.
No, it isn't school churning my stomach; it's my social life, which lately seems like mist on a spring morning, slowly dissipating around me. I used to have a super tight friend group, but one by one, over the last year and a half, all my old close friends have joined other social circles.
Lunch is the worst part. Midway through third period, an anxious feeling will settle in—the never knowing who will be available to eat with me. I have no best friend at school—and as we know in any high school society, being seen eating by yourself too often is practically social suicide.
I come out onto the front steps of the school—the spot I have eaten lunch for the last three years. I scan the benches and walkways for Alexis and Kristin, but no dice.
Usually, I can find someone to sit with, but they aren't close friends. My best girlfriend isn't at Ives High anymore.
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My stomach tightens more as my grey eyes scan again for anyone I remotely know. As my eyes drift across the sea of kids, I see a familiar face with large brown eyes and dark golden skin light up in recognition. Hannah! Phew. The sophomore I met last semester in my Drama 1 class smiles widely at me and waves.
"Hi, Lauren!" she says as I sit on the pavement next to her.
Hannah is extraordinarily laid-back and friendly but also a talented singer and actress. That afternoon she looked perfectly bohemian, with her very straight, very long brown hair parted perfectly down the middle and her slouchy hippy clothes. She is in a circle with her other girlfriends, Megan and Vicky.
"Hey, Hannah, how are you?"
"Good. You?"
"Good."
A silence follows as I falter, trying to think of something to ask her. As usual, my mind goes blank, engaging in small talk with people I don't know very well. My heart rate quickens, feeling awkward in the silence. I rack my brain for something to say. Crap! Why is this so hard for me?
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