Flower Boy

1.1 | pastel pink

( 1.1 ) s i m o n

DREAMING DOES NOT HELP when you're trying to think of a way to solve a mathematical question in front of your eyes. Nothing math related comes to mind whilst all you can think about are rainbow colored birds soaring through the ocean. My mind is bonkers, if I have to clarify.

My fingers tapping on the table is definitely annoying the girl in front of me, but she seems too nice to tell me off. Maybe I should be a little more considerate.

But my fingers still continues its annoyance as soon as the teacher's eyes darted my way, soon leaving her seat and walking towards me. I have not written anything for the past twenty minutes.

She stands beside my desk, looking down onto the blank sheet of paper, unamused. Somehow, she didn't bother to yell at me like she usually would nor did she even say a word. Which is weird as she would always give me hell for making the smallest mistakes.

She goes around the class, looking into everyone's paper. I feel like I disappointed her massively, even when she didn't say a word. Maybe it's guilt but you can't really put the blame on me when I clearly can't even write down a correct number or symbol.

I just can't wait for class to end, so that I could just have a peace of mind without math killing my will to live. But I do feel bad for my math teacher for putting so much hope in me, despite the fact that I'll never be an accountant or some sort in the near future.

The clock that hung high above the whiteboard was ticking slowly, as if it was mocking me with the longest fifteen minutes of my life. Time kept moving as I waited with an ink-less pen in my hand, the flowers outside were oddly enticing. They look so beautiful in the morning sun.

I wonder if I could just climb out those windows built between the outside world and I.

I really wish I could.

. . .

My mother was sweet enough to make me a sandwich for recess. She was in a particularly good mood this morning, and I am definitely not complaining.

There are a few groups of people sitting on the grassy soccer field behind the school buildings. It's generally a nice place to sit in comparison with the loud and rowdy cafeteria where peace is never present.

I laid on the ground with a small wildflower in my hand, my sketchbook and a few textbooks next to me. A small little daisy soon came into my sight. Looking so frail and soft, colored like cream.

There were a few more minutes before class starts, I lay on my back, dropping the wildflower in my hand, whilst looking over to the little daisy next to me.

Maybe I should put it in a bottle when I get home.

It looked nice to draw too.

I pick the flower quickly and slid it in between the pages of my sketchbook. I headed to my locker soon after. I really do hope the flower survives. Hopefully it will have a will stronger than mine.

What am I even saying?

People start to clear the halls. I think I should too.

Two more classes and I can go home for the day. My mind wanders in between stops when the teachers speak, thinking one day I could have a chance to just include every single flower into my paper. Dad says it's unavailing while Mom thinks it's okay. But I think it's spectacular to do something like that, even if it makes no money whatsoever. Dad doesn't quite get the whole concept but I don't blame him either.

I wonder how the daisy is doing. Stuck in between two sheets of paper, probably trying hard to breathe. But the morning glory I had last week did just fine in that situation. I'm sure it'll do just as great.

Just one more class to go. Then I can go home.

Time moves so slowly, and yet we're all running out of it.

. . .

I am sure that I didn't walk my way home. I ran, sped, sprinted, or whatever it is. I'm exhausted, undoubtedly, but I wouldn't want my flower to wilt nor do I even want to wait to get that flower painted.

My mother is no where to be seen, but usually she's just at the neighbor's place having tea or some sort.

I unzip my bag, searching for my sketchbook.

Nothing but a few sheets of paper. I tried pouring out all the contents of my backpack, but that didn't help either. My sketchbook's not there, no matter how much I want it to be there.

I try to keep myself calm. Maybe I left it in my locker. I know could still go get it tomorrow.

All that wishful thinking didn't help me get over the fact that the flower is going to die no matter what, even if I find my sketchbook in the locker tomorrow. Maybe I'll be lucky enough to find another one on the field.

But that doesn't really happen.