James Mandarin

Chloe Butler

We fit in the hallways like sardines in a tin. Our bodies brush along each other as we are pushed, shoved and butted out of the way. I keep on walking, ignorant of those behind me. My wrist itches at the friction between skin and wool. It almost drives me insane.

I stop in front of my locker, 667A.

I like my locker. It's cold, silver and shiny. It reminds me of my razor. With skilled fingers, I unlock the lock around my locker and empty my books inside it. First off is Modern History, then Literature. Large books soon find themselves on my arm and I flinch at the pain that zaps across my wrists. I take a step back and close the locker before locking it once more. As I turn my head to check the clock on the cream walls, she appears beside me with a smile on her face.

Chloe.

She says hi and playfully punches me on the shoulder, asking if I had fun reading my textbooks last night. I grunt and roll my eyes. No one likes reading a textbook. She asks about my painting and I smile.

Chloe makes me smile. She is the blooming of roses in spring and the rain in winter. Her voice is soft like the high notes on the piano and her hair falls over her shoulders like wispy silk.

Together we walk through the crowded hallway to class. I watch from the corner of my eye as she tries to concentrate on what the teacher says. It's something to do with Russia and Tsar Nicholas II. She fails miserably and begins doodling in her notebook words I shall never see and dare to read.

She writes poetry. Not snobby love poetry, real ones.

I can tell by the way she scrunches her nose and tilts her head to the side as she writes. I can tell by the way she vigorously destroys the imperfections in her work with straight dark lines.

I wonder if she writes poems about me. I wonder if she sits there, thinking of the perfect words to put together to make her thoughts come alive.

Does she write about my eyes, hair and love for mathematics? Does she write about our times together reading books and solving geometry questions? I highly doubt it. She probably writes about the sky, the sun, spring, the moon and the harshness of winter. She probably writes about life and the perks of being a blonde. I don't think she writes about me.

School drags out like a child pulling bubble gum from its mouth and twirling it around a finger. Teachers drone words from fat textbooks and set homework and assignments. Art zooms by like the click of a finger and the bell rings. Chloe says goodbye and we part ways. She goes to the beach while I take my worn bike from the bicycle stands and ride home.