For Every Missing Shade

Entry 2

"Israel Taylor, do you have anything to add?"

I looked up from my desk and saw Mr. Joseph, my annoyingly inquisitive English teacher, looking back at me. Fuck.

I knew what he was doing. He knew I wasn't listening. I looked back down at the portrait I drew while he was lecturing. It actually looked pretty good, but all good things come to an end.

And now, if you'll excuse me, it's time to make an ass out of myself.

"Yeah, sure," I said quietly. "How could I not have something to add about..."

"Redundancies," he cut in, happy to further embarrass me.

"Of course. Do you want, like, an example or something?" People were staring at me, some laughing.

"Any contribution would be lovely," he concluded. An infuriating smile rose underneath his stupid-looking mustache.

Heat rose in my face. I looked back down at my notebook. I fumbled, trying in a split-second to say something intelligent. What did I do instead, you ask? I said something absolutely idiotic.

"Uh... well, something like, uh, saying 'the brass trumpet'... Ya know... 'cause they're all brass. So you don't need to specify... which..."

I didn't even finish my sentence. The stupidity of what I just said hung in the room like a bad joke. What's worse, some dickhead in the back row pointed out that ancient people used to make them out of horns and stuff, so I wasn't even right.

The moral of that story is that everyone in high school sucks. Which sucks because the idea of high school rocks. That's why it's so easy to make movies about us. Seven hours a day, five days a week, every single one of my friends are together in one building. What's more, so are hundreds of girls my age. You can't fucking pay for that kind of access later in life.

But, every once in a while, high school stops sucking. It gets more movie-like. You get reminded of why old people tell you to treasure it. Today was that day for me.

It all started when I walked into my history class and sat down next to my best friend from early elementary school. His real name is Sean Latner, but everyone calls him Stew. They've called him that for as long as I can remember. Nobody really knows why and, to be honest, neither do I. Some theorized it was because he is basically an ethnic stew. With ancestors from Nigeria, India, China, Mexico, and most of Europe, he really comes from everywhere.

He used to hate the name but somewhere along the line I think he realized that, as far as nicknames go, it's really not that bad. I mean, Stew isn't exactly the name of a chick magnet, but it's far from the worst nickname I've ever heard.

He could have the same nickname as one of my classmates in third grade who let out a breathtakingly loud fart while everyone was taking a test. The poor guy was photoshopped onto a movie poster with the title "Shart Boy and Lava Girl" to be hung in every boy and girl bathroom stall for the rest of the year.

Stew's not optimal, but it's miles ahead of Shart Boy.

But either way, Stew is not the focal point of what happened. This entry, unsurprisingly enough, is about a pretty girl.

I first saw her through a window from class while we were writing a response to a question our teacher wrote on the board. She was getting a tour from our annoyingly bombastic admissions counselor, Mrs. Shivers. I sat staring at her until I realized they were coming into our class. Mrs. Shivers brought her through the door, trying and failing to not disturb us. I panicked and turned back to my desk to finish the writing prompt on the board.

I wrote, Look behind you on my paper and pointed to it as I nudged Stew in the side. He looked at it and turned around in the most obvious way to see the counselor not-so-whispering to the new girl about how the class is set up and how good the department is.

She was beautiful. Her wavy brown hair draped over her shoulders as her bright blue eyes pierced the room. She held her books in both hands, draped over the front of her pleated skirt.

I snuck another look behind me and turned to butterflies.

"She's cute," Stew whispered as he turned back around. "Almost as cute as she is out of your league."

"She must have transferred," I said. "No one else would get a tour this late in September."

"Oh what, and you're going to be the one to show her around," he whispered as he began making kissing noises.

The teacher shushed us and I punched him under his desk.

I looked behind me again as she was led out of the classroom. She snuck a smile while she walked out the door.

"Dude, I think she smiled at me," I said excitedly.

"No way!" He whispered back. "That's crazy because I was just thinking about how you're delusional."

"Shut up."

I felt our teacher's stare and fell silent again. I wrote on my paper that I was right and he wrote that I was a psycho on his.

--

If not because I had a beautiful girl to think about, the fact that it was the end of the day should've been a good enough excuse to space off. I was supposed to have my notebook open to notes on whatever we were talking about, but, like most other days, I started drawing.

I drew until I finally heard the bell to leave. Like a racehorse who waited seven hours for its gates to open, I quickly darted through the halls, grabbed my books, and got in my car. I flipped my bag over faded leather seats, stuck the key into the ignition, and hoped for the best. Like usual, it took a few tries before my dusty old sedan slowly rattled to life. I cranked the radio, rolled down my windows, and got lost in myself.

I drove as I dreamt about everything from girls to grades, dreaming of better outcomes in either category.