Junior Year Satire.

“It’s 7:15, I really think you should wake up now… You’re going to be late…”
Yeah, Mom.
I roll over as she shuts my bedroom door again. I check my phone. There’s 20 new messages from twitter, none from real people. I snap it shut with a sigh, and sit up in bed. Dizziness rushes over me immediately. Meh, Wednesday morning.
After staring into space for a few minutes, I stumble into my sister’s old room that my mom sleeps in to grab some clothes. Any old clothes. While I’m doing this, my mother knocks on my bedroom door again and opens it. She’s calling my name confusedly as I walk into the bathroom behind her. In my mind, I can clearly see her jumping in shock as I shut the bathroom door.
Fifteen minutes later, we’re on the road, steadily approaching my doom, I mean high school. She never shuts up, my mom. I need a license.
She drops me off in the bus loop. I walk excitedly towards the doors of the school, optimistic and prepared to learn something new. However, this attitude swiftly changes as I enter the building and head towards my locker. Groups of thugs and sluts have been strategically placed in every direction, all ready to stare me down.
I mean, I don’t blame them.
I don’t completely understand their negative reactions. I suppose it could have something to do with my frizzy, frazzled hair or my frumpy, too-large yet size extra-small jeans. Or my wrinkly olive green t-shirt with the word ‘SIMPLIFY’ markered on it. Or the way I walk in a discursive path, taking my time to enjoy each step.
Yes, that’s me. My appearance only shows half of the nerd qualities I have to offer. And I think I like it that way. I treasure nerdiness. And because it is a treasure, than it must be searched for to be truly enjoyed, right? These thoughts carry me through the hallway, and they only remind me of a Math the Band song titled ‘Karl Marx the Spot.’ I chuckle aloud at the beauty of this pun, but my bubble is soon burst by the death glares of those strategically placed conformists.
Whatever, though. They may stare at me as I loaf on by, but they undoubtedly forget about me as soon as I’m out of sight. Soon enough, I’ve reached the safety zone of my locker, only to find my best friend kneeling down before (well, halfway inside, to be honest) her own locker, struggling to remove a book from it.
“Hey, Macy,” I greet her, entering my combination into my locker, which neighbors hers.
“Morning…” She grunts.
I put my lunch box on my top shelf, grab my English binder, shut my locker, lean against it, and slide down to the floor (except not all sexy-like how they teach you to do on America’s Next Top Model). By this time, Macy’s won the battle against her locker. With her book securely in her arms and her cheeks sufficiently flushed, she turns and sits against her locker, too. She sighs.
“Don’t breathe too deeply,” I caution her. “Floor dust.”
She nods, and sighs again.
The Spanish teacher whose classroom is next to our lockers walks hurriedly past and tells us to ‘look alive’ in a cheery voice, his everlasting grin dazzling on his young (‘joven’ en espanol) face, despite the fact that he’s 50. Oh, Colombians.
“To be awake is to be alive,” I mutter to Macy, yawning the whole time. She remains silent, undaunted by my Thoreau quoting. For this, I am grateful.
Five uneventful minutes of silent people watching pass before Macy and I decide to head our separate ways. She dawdles off towards Algebra, and I walk the opposite direction to A.P. English.
Then, Josh appears eagerly at my side. He waves at me, a look of desperation in his eyes. I wave back, and sigh. If only I could tell him that It’s Okay, He’s Not Alone, and that The Mass Of Men Lead Lives of Quiet Desperation. But… I try to limit the Thoreau… This school isn’t exactly tolerant of my dear Henry. He’s got his ear buds in, tucked behind his utterly indescribable hair that creates its own wind. But the ear buds are merely a façade; he is not discouraged from talking.
“So, did you start your essay yet?” he asks.
“Nah,” I reply, fully aware that he’s not interested in my response, but rather, he just wants to talk about his own paper.
“Me either, really.” He says arrogantly. “But I found some sources. I think I’m also going to use Dante’s Inferno in my intro…”
At this point, I’ve stopped listening. But I continue to nod my head to humor him. Unfortunately, he’s also got English first hour… So he strolls into the classroom right behind me like a dog. I feel myself feeling slowly more embarrassed with each step, knowing that my teacher can see me talking (er, listening) to him in broad daylight.
Fortunately, this classroom contains an odd, but charming, assortment of desks and couches. Unfortunately, Josh’s couch is in close proximity to mine. Close enough for him to continue his babbling as I sink down next to my peer Rita.
“Oh, Rita!” I exclaim in disdain.
“Is he being a glibquack?!” She whispers loudly to me, glaring at Josh. I nod in a defeated manner. Josh, who just now realized I wasn’t listening anymore, stares at me with contempt. Desperate contempt. He sits on his couch silently, fuming with anger, and attempting to look sophisticated, or something. I’m never really sure what he’s going for, but it always ends up looking pathetic. I grin at his present lack of vocalization.
“I don’t even WANT to do this essay,” Rita moans. “Mr. G is just going to find some way to fail me!” Well, she’s got a point. He tends to grade her essays much harsher than everyone else’s. Maybe if I lent her a Thoreau-related t-shirt, he might warm up to her…
Really though, I don’t blame Mr. G. He probably just hate’s Rita’s defeatist attitude. “He’s probably just jealous of your ‘tude.” I tell her.
She laughs. “I have a ‘tude? What the heck, J. Ray?! You never told me this!”
“An awesome ‘tude,” I lie.
She giggles and tucks her knees up on the couch. I ignore the disturbed feeling I get when I see her legs, wondering why she wears couch when it seems like she hasn’t shaved her legs for weeks.
“So, I was texting Josh last night,” she says indulgently, lathering her boyfriend’s name with deep emotion that is meant to impress me greatly. Josh looks in our direction, ready to deny any such textual relationship with Rita. “Not you!” She groans. “My boyfriend Josh.” He rolls his eyes.
She tells me all about her unimportant conversation with boyfriend-Josh, and I don’t realize that I’m not paying attention until she’s halfway through a story involving cowboy hats or something. It turns out, something else has caught my eye. And that something goes by the name of Carter Benson….
He slumps into a desk behind Josh’s couch. His dazzling blonde hair and radiant eyes shine through his tired appearance, which seems to be more awakened by his neon green shirt. He sighs, and slides a folder out of his massive back-pack.
“J. Ray?” Rita asks, sounding slightly disheartened.
“What? Oh…” I say, snapping out of my… whatever that was.
“Yeah, well…” Rita continues. I try to listen this time, I really do, but she’s too far into the story for me to catch on anymore.
Luckily, Mr. G’s words are much more captivating, even with a Wednesday morning stupor lurking in the room (like that damn elephant). I listen, somewhat half-heartedly, to his lecture on Invisible Man that he undoubtedly stole from Spark Notes. How’s that for plagiarism?
“So,” he begins, touching the tips of his fingers together in what he believes is a profound fashion. “The narrator says he’s not going to run anymore. What does this mean?”
Silence.
“His feet are tired!” I shout excitedly.
He laughs, because I’m fucking hilarious, but I can also see disappointment in his eyes. He wants us to be serious and apply ourselves, but in all seriousness, it’s mid-May and we’re all sick of school. I glance towards the windows in the back of the room. There’s a clear blue sky outside, but my view is obstructed by Sheldon. His eyes are closed and his head is resting against a framed poster that contains MacBeth in its entirety on it. He calls this Learning Through Osmosis.
Mr. G, bless his soul, continues class in the same desperate attempt to get through to us. A few kids offer up answers and grin smugly afterwards as if they know everything. But my poor teacher remains unsatisfied, and there’s nothing anyone can, or wants, to do about it. In a perfect world, we would all be bald tycoons like him. For an instant, I too share his wish that the class could be a bit more educated and passionate, and that he might receive the respect he deserves. While I find him to be a complete oddball, I must admit I’ve never learned more from life under the guidance of another teacher.
But, it’s mid-May and I’m through being sentimental.
Mr. G drinks his coffee silently as we exit the room at the end of class. Now I head to Pre-Calculus, watching Carter in front of me as I go.