Chapter Four: A Lined Piece of Paper

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Chapter Four: A Lined Piece of Paper

"So, then I was like, seriously? And then she was like, yeah. And then I was like . . . " My friend, Imogen, continues to angrily describe a dialogue I'm pretending not to have trouble keeping up with.

My gaze falls away from her, but I continue to nod my head to show that I'm still listening, or at least trying to. The sun's shining through the clouds above us and the pockets of sky peeking out from underneath are a mild blue. Our pace is languid as we continue to trot around the track along with a few other stragglers in our gym class while everyone else, meaning the people who actually take this class seriously, are in the center of the football field playing flag football.

My gaze falls on them as they run around, shouting at each other, while the little red and yellow flags dangle precariously out of their pockets and waistbands. I commend people who not only have the coordination to play the game, but also the energy to withstand running around for forty minutes before going back inside and sitting in more forty-minute classes.

"Ugh," Imogen groans beside me and my gaze falls back on her. "It's just so frustrating, you know?"

Although I consider Wren my best friend, I like to believe Imogen is a good friend.

We've known each other since the sixth grade, and even though our relationship doesn't extend outside school, she's one of the few people I actually enjoy talking to. We both vent to each other about school related problems, or gossip about the latest episode of our favorite television shows.

There can be days where we won't see, or talk to each other because we both have our own personal lives that we don't completely divulge into, but at the end of the day I know I can count on her if I really needed to.

" . . . Like why don't people understand that when you're passing a paper back to someone, you can't just chuck it at them?" Imogen roughly brushes a dark piece of hair away from her face before pushing her glasses further up the bridge of her nose. "Like do you want to slash a paper cut through my face?"

I bark out a laugh at her choice of words as I brush away the strands of hair the wind decides to blow in my face as we round the curved part of the track.

For someone who is so petite, Imogen sure has a strong will, but it's one of the things I love most about her. Although she may go off on a tangent sometimes, she has a voice and isn't afraid to use it. I envy her confidence more than I'd like to admit, but when she throws that big, contagious silver braced smile in my direction, I feel some of it rub off on me just a bit. I'm also reminded of the fact that she's one of the few people who knows me as a person and not just a random face in the hallway.

"Oh my god!" Imogen whips her head around to face me, almost knocking her glasses off her face. "Did I tell you what happened in English yesterday?"

I tilt my head to the side and throw her an amused sideways glance. "What'd he do now?"

"He's giving us another damn paper due Friday!" Her hands mimic her frustration as they fly into the air. "Like does this guy not understand that by giving us essays every week he's not actually teaching us?"

I nod my head in agreement, but still let out a breathy laugh at her antics. With the way she throws around the phrase, "oh my god," and her habitual use of the word "like," a habit I'm also desperately trying to break, it's easy to forget her heritage. Not that she was raised with strict cultural parents, but she always has a funny story to tell about the most recent family wedding she attended.

Hindu weddings always seem so beautiful and extravagant, so it's funny to hear Imogen complain about the mishaps that happen when they're all getting ready in the early hours of the morning.

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