Call Me Crazy

C

cra·zy
/ˈkrāzē/
INFORMAL
adjective
1.mentally deranged, especially as manifested in a wild or aggressive way.

I look at the boy sitting across from me. I notice him because he is reading one of my favorite books ever. And he is beautiful.

He can sing too- I've heard it with my own ears. And I've seen he is kind- the genuine kindness you hardly see anymore- but also with a voice he makes heard.

He is perfect. Too perfect.

I continue looking at him- staring- and even when he notices and looks back like I'm crazy, I keep on looking.

I don't care if he thinks I'm crazy. Everybody does.

But, this boy is kind- the real kind- so he waves before walking right up to me like I'm some old friend. Not like I'm some creep. 

How refreshing.

"Hey." He says, voice like silk and honey and everything warm. "Do you need anything?"

I do not reply. I don't even look at him anymore. Let him think I'm a creep. Let them believe I'm crazy.

I rise from my seat and grin in his direction before walking away. Doesn't he know I'm the 'mute'?

I'm never talking to him, or anyone else. Yup, the crazy girl- that's me. Who cares? Not I.

But alas, the boy is also innocent and curious and he calls out after me. "Wait! What happened? What'd I do?"

As if he did something wrong and I  wasn't at fault. 

As if his perfectness bothered me.

Which it would've. If I cared. But I don't.

So I don't turn around  and I grin again and the whispers start. How crazy ol' me ignored the poor, nice boy who did nothing but be nice.

Whisper, whisper, whisper. Just shut up.

They look at me sideways, like they can't even bring themselves to look at me full on. But I'm not intimidated. 

I look at them in their eyes- and I'm not the one who looks away first. But I don't need this and I keep on going.

'Cause I don't care about him or his beauty and the other less beautiful. Maybe I can't.

But this boy is not only kind and curious but has the will of a stubborn ass, and by ass I do not mean the gluteus maximus, but a donkey. Duh, I don't curse.

And he pulls me back by my arm (I am 'crazy', not rude), so I refrain from yanking my arm away, just stopping. But remember, this boy is nice, so he immediately lets me go and smiles awkwardly at me; scratching the back of his head, brown eyes shining.

Too perfect. But I didn't stop for smile, so I turn away. He once again pulls me back, stuttering out an explanation.

Another boy, a boy would would be cute, with absolutely gorgeous eyes behind glasses, and a face ridden with acne- but appearance marred by the sneer on his face when he stops.

"Better not try it with that crazy girl, she never says a word." He looks down on me. "Psychotic mute."

It is funny how people believe I care what they think of me. But I was taught better than that. I know what they ridicule me of is just a reflection of the bad they think of themselves. So who cares what they believe? Belief isn't fact for a reason. 

So I grin in his face and relish on how falls when he realizes his words don't affect me. Poor, poor child.

But the boy beside me is "perfect"and beautiful in more ways than this poor excuse of a bully, so he defended me.