Before School

Channel Islands High School has three rows of classrooms. Beyond those to one side, are some portables. Beyond it to the other side, is the quad. A mural looks out over it, a painting of a Raider, which is the school mascot. Raiders, at least according to this painting, are approximately Greek-looking warriors. They aren’t, actually. They’re not anything real so far as I’ve been able to discover. Also, the student who designed the mural was not very good at drawing. I’d think the picture was an embarrassment to the school, only I don’t really think much of Channel Islands High either.

Below the mural on the quad, there are benches. I don’t like sitting on them. I bring a book and read, and I hope no one notices me.

People do, though, and not the ones I want to have notice me. There are girls who seem to make a point of coming over to me. I don’t know their names. It’s not like they bother to talk to me any other time. I’m just sitting on my bench reading, not bothering anybody, and they come up and sit next to me, sometimes one of them, sometimes more. Their clothes are flashy, and their faces are hard. They make comments, they ask questions, and whatever answer I give them, they laugh.

“Oh, I like that shirt you’re wearing!” They don’t. This means that the t-shirt I bought on purpose to make me blend in, doesn’t work. Somehow I have chosen the wrong one.

“I like your hair!” Again, they don’t. Their teased hair, dyed unnatural shades of yellow and gold, would make that quite obvious, even without the nasty laughs they give each other.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” – This one always accompanied by various names being suggested, followed by snickers. – “Are you going to the prom? Can I be your friend?”

My mother’s told me to show good manners. I try answering these girls’ questions. “No,” and “no,” and “yes,” even though I know there’s no way in hell I’ll ever be friends with any of these girls, and what's more I don’t want to be.

After a while, I try not answering. “Just rise above it,” my mom’s said. “Don’t let them think they’re bothering you.” I sit with my book down. – Good manners. – I wait for them to go away. This does not seem to shorten the time they stick around tormenting me.

I try reading too. That just prompts their questions about the book I’m reading. “Ooh, Withering Heights? That’s so interesting!” Yes, because you’re totally an expert on the Brontes, I can tell by how you mispronounce the name of Emily’s most famous work. Why do they even bother, I think, but I know the answer: I am one of the ones people torment, and these girls can tell just by looking at me.

You can’t actually read very much, when someone’s battering you with questions. You can’t eat comfortably. You can’t write in your diary. At lunchtime, I avoid the quad. I go to the snack bar and I buy candy, and I take it into the library and eat hidden away in the stacks. I read in there, and I write. No one bothers me. The librarians like me, and the girls I’m trying to avoid don’t like libraries. But the library’s not open before school, and if I waited until the last minute to start walking in the morning, I’d be late for First Period. I always get to school a little early. And I always end up sitting on the quad.