Boyfriend Backstory

Eighth Grade

"April, you really need a boyfriend."
People always tell me.
"Why?" I always ask.
"Because you're an amazing person!" is always their answer.
"If I'm that amazing, there must be someone just as amazing out there for me; I just haven't found him yet."
Is what I should say. But I don't. Because, truth be told, I'm not that amazing.

"Hey, April!" My friend Donna calls from down the faded green walls of the ancient hallway.
"Hi, Donnie!" I reply as she runs up to me.
It's the start of eighth grade, and I hadn't talked to Donnie all summer. Talk about torture!
"I feel like its been years since we talked, dude!" She says as she gives me a hug.
"I know! Where's your first class?" I ask.
"Mr. Boucher." She says, mirroring my hopeful tone.
"Ugh, I have Mrs. Harrison." I say with disappointment.
"Dang. Maybe we'll have other classes in common. Are you taking French again?" She says as we start to walk to our classes.
"Oui!" I giggle.
"Okay that's one class." She laughs, relieved. There's only one French teacher at our school so that's a definite yes on having the same class.
We reach Boucher's room before Harrison's, so we go our separate ways and say goodbye.

God, my first class is tedious. The chipped baby blue paint on the walls mocks me throughout the period and it ticks me off. Lovely welcome notes that are scraped into the desktop haunt me.
"School sucks" "Your dumb" (I found that one hilariously ironic.) "hugs not drugs." and the fan favorite, "hi".
I just want to get this over with. It literally disgusts me when teachers try to be your friend. They're not good at hiding their burning hatred for this school and it's obvious they don't care about us one bit. They hate kids and love money. Every last one of them. Disgusting.

As old as the hallways are, I can't help but wonder what the walls have experienced through the years. Make-out sessions, bullying, self-harm; they've seen it all. I can't imagine having to keep that all a secret, no one to tell; no one to listen.

In French, third hour, Donna and I get seats right next to each other, thank god, and we make stupid yet hilarious jokes the whole time. The room smells like moth balls. It has white depressing walls with one lonely french poster that I can't translate. Much more enjoyable than Mrs. Bore-ison's class. Disgusting.

Even the cafeteria has the same dull and sad lighting as the rest of this dinosaur of a building. It has the same boring paint as the hallways, yet has probably seen so many food fights and fist fights.
Donna claimed a spot at a table for the two of us. The other table dwellers don't seem to mind us, mainly because we all keep to ourselves.
Donna and I talk about our classes, other kids in our classes, and about our teachers and how they totally don't want to be here.
"I really want a boyfriend this year." Donna says in a distracted tone.
"Um, why?" I say, surprised at the sudden change of subject.
"Because eighth grade is the like, official dating grade!" She says, still somewhere else.
"Dude, if you really think boys have matured over the summer, you can go ahead and learn your lesson. Don't say I didn't warn you." I say.
"Why are you so against this?" She questions as her head gets pulled from the clouds.
"Just look." I say, pointing to a table full of jock boys flinging peas across the cafeteria with a spoon. "Disgusting."
"The one on the right is pretty cute, April." She says, raising her eyebrows.
I observe him and look back at her with a scoff.
"Typical eighth grade boy, Donnie. Disgusting."
"How are they disgusting?! They're angels!" She argues.
The kid takes a spoonful of peas, shoves them in his mouth, and laughs with green sludge flying everywhere.
I look at my peas and shudder as I push my tray away and sarcastically mutter under my breath "Some angels."
Donna shakes her head and eats her peas without hesitation, staring at the boy for the rest of the period.