Remember Me (On Hold)

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This is what I can’t stop thinking about this morning:

Freshman year.

 First period.

I sat next to a girl I hadn’t seen before.

She was scribbling in a journal, drawing all these curvy designs. When I sat down next to her she glanced up at me and smiled. I liked the earrings she was wearing. They were red and looked like buttons.

We had spent the morning crammed in the gym with the whole school listening to the principal, Mr. Jackson, give us pep talk. Mr. Jackson had this round face, small mouth, and enormous eyes. He was balding and what was left of his hair was kind of tufty. If it’s possible for a person to look like an owl, then that’s what he looked like.

I had felt lost, the gym seemed colossal, even the kids from my old middle school looked like strangers. Now we were in photography class, and even though I had never taken a film photograph or really even learned anything about art, I felt so much more comfortable in Ms. Hart’s classroom than I had felt a few minutes before. Ms. Hart called the first name off her roster and continued down the list, making notes and taking forever. I saw the guy rip a page out of his journal and write something. He pushed it closer to me.

It said, Four years of this shit? Dear lord save us.

I grabbed her pen and tried to think of something cool to say. I was the new me, braver. I had on these glass bracelets that chimed when I moved my arm.

I wrote, If you had to make out with any guy in the school who would it be?

Immediately, he wrote, Principal Jackson, of course. He’s such a hottie!

When I read it I had to laugh. I tried to make it sound like I was coughing and Ms. Hart looked up from her roster to tell us that in her mind we were all adults now, and didn’t have to ask for permission to go out into the hall if we needed a drink of water or to use the restroom.

So I did. I walked out, feeling how straight my hair was, how great my pants fit, how nice my bracelets sounded. I bent down and I drank the cold drinking-fountain water and I felt like, This is it. My life is starting. And when I got back to my seat there was a new note that said, I’m Harry.

I’m Arabella , I wrote back.

And then we were friends. It was that easy.

•••

I have English with Mr. Thompson, last period. When I walk in he doesn’t give me any fake looks. He just nods at me, smiles and says, “Welcome back, Ara.”

Louis Tomlinson, who is possibly the most popular guy in the junior class, and also probably the meanest, sits in the far back corner, ignoring a couple of Macy’s followers. ANGEL flicks her pink, manicured nails through his brown hair and SPOILED says, “So you’re gonna have a thing on Friday, right?”

Louis’s always having parties because his parents own a real estate company and are constantly out of town, speaking at conventions and getting richer. When they are around, they throw fund-raisers that my parents’-club new letters—his mom in her crisp black suits and his dad with his golf clubs and smug grin.

Now SPOILED is tugging at Louis’s hair, too. He stares straight ahead with an annoyed smirk, but doesn’t tell them to stop. I choose a seat across the room from them, up front by the door.

Mr. Thompson starts to take roll.

“Luke Lucas?”

“Here.”

“Katie Collin?”

“Present!” ANGEL chirps.

“Ruby Beckham?”

It’s a name I don’t recognize. No one answers. He looks up.

“No Ruby Beckham?”

The door opens in front of me and a girl pokes her head in. Her face isn’t familiar and this school is small enough that everyone looks familiar. Her hair is the darkest brown, almost black, and messy, much messier than the tousled look that a lot of the girls are going for. It makes her look like she’s been electrocuted. She has black eyeliner smudged around quick eyes that dart across the room and back again. She looks as though she’s deciding whether to come in or stay out.

“Ruby Beckham?”  He asks again.

The new girl looks at him and her eyes widen.

“Wow,” she says. “You’re good.”

He laughs and she strides in, a messenger bag slung over her shoulder, a cup of coffee in her hand. Her thin T-shirt has been torn down one side and safety-pinned back together. Her jeans are the tightest I’ve ever seen, and she is so tall and so skinny. Her boots thump, thump, thump to the back of the classroom. I don’t turn around to watch her, but I picture her choosing the back corner seat. I picture her slouching.

When Mr. Thompson finishes taking roll, he walks up and down the rows of desks, telling us about all the things we’ll learn this year.

•••

I’m alone in the science building, standing on its green, scuffed-up floors, inhaling the musty air. Louis and the rest of the popular kids have all probably claimed lockers in the English hall. Last year, Harry and I chose ours in the foreign-language building, right next to English, still visible but without as much school spirit. The science hall is no one’s first choice. It’s out of the way of everything but science classes, completely off the social radar. I wish it could stay empty forever.

 It feels wrong to shut a lock around something that only has air inside. I consider waiting until I have something worthy of locking up, but this is a prize: it’s the northernmost locker in the northernmost building of Vista High. If I crossed the street, I wouldn’t be here anymore. And maybe it’s the idea of escaping that makes me realize the perfect thing to make this locker my own.

I don’t have any tape, so I bite off half a piece of gum and chew it for a second, take it out of my mouth, and stick it to the back of Harry’s hill photo. The locker has a dulled, scratched-up rectangular mirror inside. I am careful not to make eye contact with myself, but I can’t help catching a glimpse of straight brown hair, a few freckles. My face is hazy, narrower than it used to be. I press the picture over the mirror and I’m gone. What’s left is this pretty, calm place.

Someone leans against the lockers next to me, Ruby. Her hair is even messier up close. Strands stick out all around her face.

“Hey,” she says.

“Hi.”

She stares at me for so long that I start to wonder if I look weird, if there’s ink on my forehead or something. Then she gives me this smile that’s hard to pin down. It’s sort of amused, but not in a bad way. Before she leaves, she rummages in the bag she’s carrying and slams her lock onto the empty locker next to mine. She stomps away and I’m alone again. I shut the door slowly, listen to the hinges groan. When I close my lock around the handle, it makes a neat, soft click and claim it as mine.

+

Note:

So basically it’s kinda filler but still part of the story though.

‘til next time.

-s.m. .x