Dawn Hollow

V

Idiosyncrasy. I-d-i-o-s-i--wait no. It was a 'y.'

I-d-i-o-s-y-n-c-r-a-s-y. Idiosyncrasy. It was the only word PJ had missed on his spelling quiz that day. And as good of a score of only missing one point is, he couldn't stop harping on himself about it. Idiosyncrasy. And despite getting it wrong, it was a word he was mighty familiar with. It was all in the details of his personality. The way his feet danced while in the chair, bouncing like pinballs until things on the tabletop would vibrate as if under an earthquake spell. The way his pencil would spring back against his finger, given a chance, it fell back down to him as an antsy way to slowly release his nervous zest. Or even the way he would often bite his lip until he could feel the indentions of his own teeth in them, his tongue riding over them, making it even more noticeable.

But he found comfort in the fact that he wasn't alone. He took the example of his surroundings, his last-period math class. And whoever wasn't face-first asleep in their textbook was doing the exact same things he was, drowning in personal idiosyncrasies. It was an orchestra of white noise.

It went from Stomp to Smack over to Ping and then Tap.

Stomp. Smack. Ping. Tap.

Stomp. Smack. Ping. Tap.

Stomp. Smack. Ping. Tap.

It started with the kid two seats ahead of him. Their foot was stomping against the ground with a restless fever with a cure of ungranted movement. Everything about them was revving to go. Exactly where he wasn't sure. But either way, they wanted to go anywhere but where they were now.

And then there was the smack. PJ knew it was coming from the girl in the back without even looking at her. She was popping her blue raspberry bubble gum, smacking it between her fuchsia botoxed lips before blowing it up and popping it and the cycle repeated. Her glow radiated the constant knowledge that she was better than everyone else. But Daddy's money can only buy so many injections and handbags before bankruptcy stings like a hornet, and she'd be lower on the totem pole than PJ himself, but that would take a while.

The ping had to be the most annoying to the teen. It was coming from the person directly in front of him, and he just couldn't seem to hear the sound he was making with his pen going against the metal legs of his desk. The high-pitched ping was enough to make the dogs across the street go rabid, and PJ felt at any second he might just join them.

Finally, though, there was the tapping, and it was coming from none other than the drummer to his left. She was going wild with her vibrant green and pink highlighters, tapping them on her textbook, the book they were in the process of reading in class, her desk, and her journal. It was to the tune of a song PJ had recognized but couldn't exactly place. But that could just be because he could still hear the other sounds.

Stomp. Smack. Ping. Tap.

Stomp. Smack. Ping. Tap.

His fingers tightly hugged the edge of the desk. It was becoming so much. Every sound was maximized to his poor ears. The overload grew and grew. Not only was there everything he had heard previously, but now the droning of his teacher, the kid folding paper in the back, the boy 'discreetly' texting, the subtle snores of someone directly behind him; it all filtered in. Moderately, his breathing became rapid. Rushing rivers of noise splashed in his ears. White knuckles shaking, forehead clammy, and eyes dashing around the classroom. Everything came in at once and seemed to stop.

And when PJ's brown circles opened again-which he didn't even know he closed-the clock at the front of the room had its hands on the twelve and the three. People were grabbing their bags and standing up. The teacher had shut up with a heavy groan in his chair as he rested. The day had ended, finally. The boy released a long breath, a weak smile dawning on his face. Relief had finally washed over him like the ocean on the beach's sand; the day was over.