James Mandarin

Zen

I like biology, even though I'm hopeless at the subject. I hate remembering definitions and trying to understand the concept of how living things work. At times, I wonder why I'm still in the class. I wonder how I manage to pass every single test, and then I remember him, my teacher, Mr Wilkinson.

Mr Wilkinson has big brown eyes with grey hair and glasses. He's old but not boring. His sense of humour is enlightening. He's an encyclopaedia of everything to do with biology, and at times I wish I had his brain and his sense of humour. Maybe I'd laugh more and see life in a brighter shade of yellow.

Zen sits behind me at the back of the class with his friends. He's a part of the football team and is excellent at biology. He lives beside the school and drives a shiny black Holden. I would say I'm jealous, but I don't have my learner's permit yet. I'm too scared to get behind the wheel. I'd probably kill someone.

Zen comes from Japan but hardly talks about it. He thinks Asians are highly overrated and need to calm down a bit. Being the captain of the football team makes him popular. Being the highest achieving student our year group, makes the teachers love him. It's like a domino effect.

Zen doesn't sit at the back today. Instead, he takes a seat beside me and asks to share my biology book. My heart almost stops beating. Why did he notice me? Why couldn't he sit with someone else and ask if he could use their book?

I hesitate for a moment, before pushing my textbook closer to him. I can't help but watch amazed, as he figures out the biology equations in the textbook and answers all the questions, while I'm still on my first one.

"Do you need help?" He asks when he notices my dilemma. I don't know what to say. If I say yes, will he think of me as a fool? If I say no, will he think I'm arrogant? If I don't reply, will he think of me as the dumb kid without a backbone? I nod my head hoping things remain neutral. He beams, showing off his blue braces and begins drawing complicated stuff –I shouldn't call it stuff. It should be complex diagrams. He draws complex diagrams across my book and begins to explain. I listen wholeheartedly to what he says and thank him when he finishes.

He beams again and continues on with his work, often raising his head to smile at the people who say hi.

I wonder how it feels to be rich and popular. How does it feel to live in a big house with a fast car? Is it really great like everyone puts it out to be, or is it just a fleeting feeling of happiness?

I wish I could ask, but then I'd go too far.

All I can do is dream: dream of being popular and different.

Only the sad people dream.