Being the new kid at school blows. And being the new freshman kid halfway through the year blows even more. New school, new house, new classes, new locker, new teachers, no friends. A new start would only be nice if I had killed someone a thousand miles away. This is just torture.
I walk down the hall in my old worn out black converse. The dirt stained heels click on the vomit colored school hallways, echoing as the noise bounces off the light brown metal lockers and of the yellow florescent lights and the faded white ceilings they hang from. They click all the way to room 118, and turn around when they realize they’re lost. They strut past the library for the third time, and take another wrong turn. When they finally are at room 213, they stop. The hall becomes dead silent.
Enjoy bittersweet silence while you can. In just seconds it will be shattered. I think to myself. I take a deep breath. It’s only freshman English. Not that I’m scared, or anything.
My hand makes first contact with the door and it’s handle. I’m ready to burst in and make a scene, in true Stone fashion. Much to my chagrin, the door’s locked.
I tap on the glass. And wait. And wait some more. Finally, I see what looks like a senior, complete with beard and tattoos, stride to the door. His movement reminds me of that of a caveman’s, slow, wobbly. Like he’s too big and bulky to be coordinated enough to look normal.
Caveman opens the door, and sizes me up. He’s ten times taller than I would ever want to be. As soon the door’s swung open, he cave walks back to his seat, complete with hairier primate-ish people, no, creatures. A rare find on my safari, the upperclassmen apes in their natural habitat, a freshman course they have failed to complete the last three years.
I was disappointed in what lay beyond. A “Clique” of every variety sat at each table occupying themselves in idiotic ways. One group making paper airplanes, one sleeping with paper airplanes laying on them, one texting, one talking about how the teacher’s on drugs, yet not one doing work.
The teacher, was slouched on his desk. Following his students in sleeping. I couldn’t tell what he looked like because of the assortment of paper airplanes, ungraded papers nobody did, and drawings of, well, you can guess what.
The room itself was a tiny, thin hallway that opened up into a 30 by 30 foot square. The floors were tiled with cream colored foot by foot squares that were purposely littered with black specks. It looked like they skinned a Dalmatian made of tile.
“Hugo. Mr. Williams. Wake up. Williams. Williams!” said Caveman. “Gimme that shit, Dunn.” He says, picking up one of the pieces of paper the lie before him, crinkling it up and throwing it at the teacher, followed by another. One hit him square in the back of the head. The monkeys around him grunt and laugh in approval.
Mr. Williams slowly lifts his head. He yanks the drawing’s taped to his body, crumples them up, and chucks them at Caveman and the band of monkeys.
“I told you guys NOT to wake me!” He says. “Jesus Christ, Sean, I ask nothing else from you. Don’t wake me up, and you all get A’s. That’s it. Nothing else. And you can’t even do that.”
“Hugh, the new kid’s here.” Says Caveman, pointing to me. I stand still and look like I don’t care. Which I don’t.
As he stands up I can smell him from where I’m standing, scratch that, slouching. He smells like a fresh crack house. He’s the spitting image of responsibility.
“Ah, yes. New kid. You’re a lot shorter than I had imagined. Well, anyways.” He begins, grabbing a class list. I now get a good look at him. He’s tall, but so is everyone else compared to me. He has gold rimmed glasses and blue eyes and a shiny bald head. His face is complete with a pointed chin with dried drool laying across it. He wears Khakis and a coffee stained white work shirt with the collar messed up to top his ‘I just woke up from a nap at work in the middle of the day, but am still hung over’ look. Which he pulls off perfectly.
“Your name is Erica. No, Michelle. No, Amy? No, I was right, it’s Michelle. Michelle Stone.” Like I don’t know my own name. He gets it after looking at his new attendance sheet. “Is that correct?” I nod in affirmation.
“Good. Yeah. Take a seat anywhere.” He sweeps his hand across the room, motioning me to sit.
I look around the room, and everyone looks back. Except for the sleeping kids. In the left corner back of the room, There’s a group of preppy kids my age. The front right gives a home to Caveman and his monkeys twice my age, who all look they should be in, a, prison, or b, a trailer park, or c, Planet of the Apes. The front right lets the sleeping kids and the socially unstable and awkward kids a place to stay. The back right has a group of social misfits, too weird to have a real clique, so they cling to each other. I figure it’s the best place for me, judging by the looks of how they don’t care either.
I walk around to the back right where the misfits making paper airplanes and talking about what drugs Mr. Responsibility is on. There’s six of them total, seven, including me. All but one wear black or gray sweat jackets, zipper halfway down displaying screamo band tee shirts I’ve never heard of before, a dress code I don’t, and would never want to follow. The guys sit on one side of the table, the girls on the
There’s two open seats at the table. One positioned next to two metal heads sharing a desk who look like they haven’t bathed in a year, yet smell better than Mr. Responsibility, making paper airplanes, and one at the head of all the desks, secluded, almost, from the rest of the gang. Can you guess which one I chose?
“Go back to what you were doing. Someone explain to whatsherface what we do here in cellblock 213. and don’t fucking wake me up again.” Sounds simple enough to pass.
I put my bag on the bland gray desk and slide the chair out. The misfits look at me, and one opens his mouth.
“You’re in Eric’s seat.” He says with an accent I wasn’t expecting, going back to folding a paper airplane.
“Tom, does she look like she gives a shit? Besides, he's not coming back today, or the next. Someone told it was him that wrote 'Mr.s Sheppard sucked my cock' in the library.” Says a girl, about a year older than me with straight black hair, a pale face, and a purple band shirt on, sitting across the table from me. “I know you don’t care, but I’m Karla, that’s Andy, She’s Linda, That’s George, but we call him Fuck Face, this shit for brains is Tom, they’re brothers, and that’s Anne.” Karla says, pointing to each as she names them.
“My name’s not Fuck Face, Karla.” Fuck Face says. He has a strong British accent.
“And I do believe my brains are made of brain. Not shit.” Tom chimes in. His accent isn’t as strong as his brother’s, less annoying, if you ask me, not slurring his words. He seems a bit more proper than his brother, in more ways than one. He’s the only one at the table dressed like he cares, with dark jeans and a button down shirt.
“Shut up, George. And stop trying to make yourself sound smarter, Tom.” Karla says sarcastically. She seems rather nice to me.
“Kettle’s black, too, pot.” Says Tom, who, I learn, does have shit for brains.
“Whatevah.” George says, accent stronger now he’s mad.
“That’s not how that saying goes. And you can’t act smart while making paper airplanes.” Karla says. Her sarcasm is a trait I could grow to like.
“Touché.” Tom says, ending Karla’s conversation and continuing the one with brother and fellow paper aviator, George.
I slide into the chair and pull out a book from my bag, opening it to the book mark. Everyone around me is talking, texting, or both. By the looks of it, I’m the only one who looks like they know how to read in this English class. Including the teacher.
“‘For Whom the Bells Tolls’, That’s a classic. Read a lot of Hemingway?” Says a proper British accent. I look up to see Tom looking at me and my book sitting at the desk next to me, across from Karla, next to his brother and Andy sharing a seat. “I like ‘Farewell to Arms’. One of my favorites.” He says, smiling. At least I’m not the only one who can read in this class.
“Once again, Tom. Does she look like she gives a shit? Stop trying to flirt, everyone knows you can’t read.” Karla interrupts. Linda and Anne chuckle at this, then return to their conversation without Karla.
"Yeah, he's one of my favorites. I love 'A Farewell to Arms'." He says, pulling book names out of his ass.
"What part of 'shut the fuck up' can't you get through your thick skull?" Karla says. She might be my favorite here.
"If the pretty lady wants me to to shut the fuck up, I'll shut th fuck up. But, for now, I'm not going to listen to you, Karla." Says the smartass formerly known as Tom.
"Shut the fuck up." I say. Everyone stops their talking, making paper airplanes, and reading at the table and looks at me. I glare back with the innocent 'I didn't do anything wrong' expression on my face
"She speaks!" Says Tom, almost shocked.
"What else can she say?" Andy chimes in, making both him and Fuck Face crack up. If I couldn't have guessed before, both are extremly high.
"Good question, Andy. Maybe if you piss her off more, she'll speak more. It's a great trade!" Karla says sarcastically.
Just then, the bell rings. Shakespeare is a fucking liar.
Parting is not such sweet sorrow.
I'm free from these stoners, cavepeople and dumbasses till tomorrow.
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