Broken Promises: A Tragedy - 1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1- Luke

Tragedy [traj-i-dee] n- A dramatic composition, dealing with a serious or somber theme, typically that of a great person destined through a flaw of character or conflict with some overpowering force, such as fate or society, to downfall or destruction.

What. The. Fuck. Someone shoot me now

A cloud of silence hangs oppressively heavy in the classroom, penetrated only by the incessant low drone of the overhead fluorescent lightbulbs and the soft scratches of pen to paper.

A review test? On the first day of school? Over words like “metaphor” and “drama?” Really? High school is such a joke. Always has been. They teach you all this useless crap, give you all this pointless work, and pat you on the back like the little mindless monkeys they expect you to be. It’s like the last 17 years didn’t mean anything to them. I honestly can’t wait for high school to be over with. Only 174 more days like this, and I’m done with this crap forever.

And soon I’ll be off to college I guess... doing the exact same shit... except with a lot more work, a lot less sleep, and a crapload of debt... Goddammit. When did life become so fucking depressing?

Having finished early this ever so intelligently challenging review test, I look up at my AP Literature teacher, Ms. Cratch, only to see her patrolling down the aisles between the seemingly endless sea of desks and bored-to-death students. I don’t like her too much. She’s this shriveled, old, librarian-esque woman, who probably owns seven million cats. Or at least by the smell of it.

Ms. Cratch is making her way around the classroom in small rounds with this cloyingly sweet smile on her wrinkled face. She honestly has this grandma effect about herself. Ms. Cratch will randomly approach someone, look at their test (despite her cataracts), and, regardless of what you wrote, compliment on just how oh-so-smart and special a child you are and pat you on the head, talking down to you as if you were one of her countless cats at home. Judging from her eyesight, she probably thinks you are one of her cats.

Ms. Cratch unfortunately shuffles her way over towards my desk, and hunches over my shoulder uncomfortably close. Apparently, they didn’t teach about personal space back in the Stone Age. She looks down at my test and exclaims over-excitedly, “Oh goodness! It looks like someone is done!” Annoying giggle. “You must be a fast one!” More annoying giggles.

Christ, she smells like tuna and stale perfume.

Luckily, she soon shifts her attention (and her breath) away from me and one seat over to Aidan Brady, best friend and lazy ass extraordinaire, currently slumped over his desk and slightly snoring.

Aidan Brady. Where to begin? Aidan Brady, a name that simply rolls off the tongue with this air of importance and swagger. Or at least he would like to think so. It’s hard to find an ego bigger than that of Aidan Brady’s. But most people would say he has good reasons. With the unfair combination of being uber-lazy and still getting away with a 4.0 GPA, not many people can really brag about that. Being the quarterback for the third year now on our high school’s undefeated football team, he’s pretty much a household name around these parts of town. So sure, he’s basically high school royalty.

Given the smarts and popularity, that’s enough reason to be an egocentric maniac, right? Personally, my theory is that he’s just overcompensating. For you see, standing at a towering height of 5’5”, what he lacks in stature, he needs to make up in his overly-boisterous personality. But with the height of a prepubescent boy, he also has the temper of one. Short tempered and stubborn as hell, it’s best advised not to tease him, especially about his height. He may be short, but Jesus, he has the muscles of a fucking bodybuilder (Argument #2 for my theory on Aidanian Overcompensation). He seriously looks like an Arnold Schwarzenegger impersonator. But you know, just a miniature one.

But all joking aside, Aidan is seriously a good friend. We’ve known each other since we were like eight. He may be one of the most self-centered and stubborn people I know, but he’s also one of the most loyal. Sure, our friendship is one where we constantly make snide remarks and sarcastic comments towards each other, but at the end of the day, he’s one of the only few people that I can go turn to and rant about how crappy my day was or how shitty my life is, and know exactly what to say to make me laugh. We don’t take each other seriously, but we do have a serious friendship.

We know each other so well, it’s to the point where we can finish each other’s sentences like we’re psychic or something. Nothing about him really surprises me anymore. Well, almost nothing. The first day of school isn’t even over yet, and I still don’t understand how he manages to fall asleep in fifth period. I’m not kidding. Lazy. Ass.

Ms. Cratch is hovering matronly over Aidan, and exclaims, “Looks like someone’s counting sheep!” Annoying giggles. She leans over him, gently taps him on his shoulder, and whispers in her feathery aged voice, “Honey, it’s time to wake up!”

The sleeping lump of muscle, aka Aidan, shifts in his chair, and incoherently mumbles something through his sleepy fog. “...no...nan...be......can...f.........or...pl...errrrrrrm.”

“Sweetie, you need to get up!”

“...Nana Betty, please... just five more minutes...errrrrrrm.”

The class soon erupts into bursting laughter, as Ms. Cratch herself begins to squeal in old lady laughter. A now wide awake Aidan springs up from his seat, flushed with an unfortunate shade of red, one comparable to that of his hair.

Oh. Did I forget to mention he’s a ginger too? Yeah, genetics were never really on his side to begin with (Argument #3). Short stature; improbably large muscles; thick rusty copper-colored hair; a light smattering of freckles; skin that comes in only two shades, alabaster white paleness or beet red blush. He’s definitely one interesting specimen of a human being.

As the class continues to laugh at his expense, Aidan meekly looks around the class and smiles back weakly, as he tries to discreetly wipe away the trail of drool that dribbled onto his chin and shirt. You know, on days where he wears a red shirt, like today, he sort of reminds me of the Incredible Hulk. But a red version. I’m actually not sure now if the class is laughing at his Nana Betty thing, or at that the fact that he looks like some mutant muscular tomato superhero thing.

Geez, I didn’t know it was humanly possible to blush that deep shade of a red. Either his head is about to explode from embarrassment, or he’s really turning into the Incredible Redhead.

As Ms. Cratch starts to calm down from her fits of giggles, she tries to contain the class. “Okay class! Class! Shush! Quiet down now. How about we continue. If Mr. Sleepy-Head here can be done, I think we all should be done!” As the chuckles and snickers from the class begin to die down, Ms. Cratch shuffles her way back towards the front of the class to begin preparing the answers to the review test.

With Ms. Cratch still lightly giggling to herself and sifting through various pieces of paper up front, I looked over two seats from me, the seat on the opposite side of Aidan’s, to see Branson Sullivan leaning over and nudging Aidan in the rib, whispering, “Nana Betty still lets you take nap times, huh?”

Aidan forcefully pushes him back, while silently hissing, “Fuck off.” Branson, or Brando as everyone calls him, sits back in his seat and loudly chuckles to himself in a laugh that can only be described as part hyena, part yodel, part blue whale dying.

Evident from his “distinct” laughter, everything about Brando is definitely brash. He has an abrasive personality that most people find hard to get along with. The only reason I can really tolerate him is because my sarcasm kind of just makes me immune to it. He’s always that obnoxiously loud person in the group who won’t be shy about voicing his opinions. It doesn’t matter how offensive or lewd it is, whatever is on his mind at that moment, he could say it right to your grandmother’s face without even flinching. I’m not even sure why I really hang out with him. I don’t even like him that much. Brando’s more of Aidan’s friend really now that I think about it.

It’s funny, the two of them. Given how short and bulky Aidan is, Brando is almost the complete opposite. At 6’3”, he almost has a whole entire feet in height over Aidan. But as Brando grew up, his body grew inward I guess, because he is probably one of the skinniest guys I know around.

I swear he went to sleep as a normal adolescent kid one night, and he woke up the next morning over six feet tall and laughing his usual donkey laugh, but just in a weird, deep baritone. Puberty hit him really hard I guess. He has the hormones of a sex addict and the metabolism of a fucking garbage disposal. Seriously, the kid will eat anything in sight that even remotely looks edible and/or digestible. Brando’s constantly eating everywhere he goes- at home, in class, in his room, in his car driving, in his sleep, in the shower, on the toilet, at parties, at other people’s houses, etc. Especially the last one. Brando’s diet basically consists of three main food groups: meat products, sugar, and random-free-shit-in-other-people’s-kitchens. My mom and I were seriously thinking of making him a grocery bill for all the food that he’s eaten at our place. And I’m pretty sure Aidan has a lock for his refrigerator for whenever Brando comes over.

You’d expect that being the son of a corporate businessman dad and an attorney mom, he would be able to afford some food of his own. But I guess they just decided to spend their money on more important things. Like their summer home in Tahoe, or weekend trips to New York City. Or his brand new fucking Ferrari he got for his 18th birthday this summer! How could I possibly forget that one? How could I fucking possibly forget about it, when it was the only thing he would talk about this whole entire goddamn summer?

“Hey guys. I totally think we should take my Ferrari out for lunch from now on.” Jesus Christ, will he shut the fuck up! I look over at Brando, and he’s leaning towards Aidan’s desk again. “You remember that hot waitress that served us at the diner we went to for lunch? You know, the one with the huge tits? She was completely checking me out! She kept on smiling and looking over at me and shit. I think she saw me driving lil’ Brando Jr., and she was like, ‘Da-yamn. I kinda wanna drive his stick shift.’ Who could blame her?” He started to laugh quietly again, as he sat back in his seat, leaning back and crossing his arms over his puffed chest, wearing the biggest shit eating grin in the world.

That’s one of the biggest things that I can’t really stand about Brando- his arrogance. Well, that and his gratuitous teenage horniness. I’m not sure if it’s because of his upbringing and that he’s a spoiled brat, or whether he honestly thinks he’s the biggest shit around, but he has a habit of always thinking that he’s the most important person in the room. Brando has a tendency of thinking he’s better than everyone around, including his friends. Even his face gives off this “Why should I give a fuck about your pathetic life, when I have my awesome one?” look. His wide, thin lips are permanently skewed into a cocky smirk, with the right end always slightly curled. He walks around with this crooked smile plastered on his face, head held high, and nose stuck straight up, literally. Brando has a long, elegant, ski-sloped nose that would have otherwise been perfectly flattering. The only problem is that tip of his nose is turned too high to the point where he has this mousy appearance. His nose always makes him look like either he’s sneering at you, or that he just smelled a really bad fart. You’d think that with parents like his and with so much money in his blood, his DNA could have afforded better looks. Oh well, he could always buy a new nose with his parents’ money I suppose.

“First off, you idiot,” Aidan quietly replies, “why the hell did you name your car ‘Brando Jr.?’ That’s just creepy, bro. Second, that waitress wasn’t smiling at you. She was smiling at all of us.”

“Yeah, dumbass,” I interject. “She’s Cici’s aunt for Christ’s sakes! We met her at that party last spring. Remember?”

“Third,” Aidan continues, “Stop staring at tits that belong to our friends’ relatives, because, fourth, that’s really, really weird. Fifth, Cici’s aunt is completely off limits, and lastly...”

“Yeah?” asks Brando in a tired voice.

“You’re a douche!” Aidan and I both tease in unison.

Brandon rolls his eyes at our simultaneous insult, numbed after this millionth time that we’ve done it to him. “I forgot that Cici had an aunt. Shit, guys...”

Aidan and I exchange all-too-knowing glances. “Seriously, Brando, you can’t keep on hitting on all...” I begin.

“You think Cici would give me her aunt’s number? I’d bet I could totally bang her by the end of the month,” Brando interrupts.

My mouth just hangs open mid-sentence, as I’m astounded at just how perverted his mind really is. “Wow. His penis knows no bounds,” retorts Aidan, and that sends me into a bout of laughter.

“But guys, seriously. Cici’s aunt... and her big tits are just...” laments Brando, sighing as he lifts his hands up to his chest to replicate how... ‘voluptuous’ Cici’s aunt’s bosom was.

“Excuse me, Mr. Sullivan! You’re quite chit-chattery back there! Would you care to share to the class what you were discussing? I bet you were talking about the answers to the first ten questions of the test! Am I right?” Ms. Cratch asks, smiling her oblivious, grandma grin.

Brando briefly turns his attention towards Aidan and me, with a desperate look on his face that read ‘What do I do now?!’

“Go ahead and share with us,” Aidan taunts.

“Yeah, go ahead, big tits,” I add, as I bring my palms up to my chest, balancing a pair of imaginary grapefruits in my hands.

Brando looks down at his chest, only to see that his hands are still positioned suggestively in front of him. He quickly hides them beneath his desk, while mumbling, “Oh! Uh... um... sure. Uh, I mean, yeah. Y-yes! I was. Uh, ma’am...” And as Brando clumsily fumbles out of his chair and makes his way to the chalkboard, Aidan and I try to stifle our laughs at his well-deserved spotlight moment.

And that’s how the rest of the class went- reluctant kids going up to the board, writing down answers that they knew already and didn’t care about, or writing down the wrong answers that they didn’t know and didn’t care about. Basically, the last 15 minutes of class were pointless, boring, and a good way to kill some brain cells that I didn’t need.

Salvation finally comes in the form of the 1:35 bell, signaling the end of the class and the start of the mad dash to get through the front door. As Ms. Cratch unsuccessfully tries to remind her class about the assignments and random crap that’s due tomorrow, everyone jumps out of their seats before she can even say a complete sentence, causing chairs to screech harshly against the tile floor, and leaving desks crooked and disarrayed. Pens, notebooks, and other various school supplies are quickly flung into backpacks, which in turn are flung around like weapons in order to be able to fend oneself through the congested crowd at the door.

Because we sat in the back, the three of us decide to take our time, and let the crowd diffuse first. As we all get up from our seats and pack up our stuff, Aidan stretches and lets out this impressive lion-like yawn.

Putting his drool-stained notebook into his backpack, Aidan exclaims, “Goddamn, guys. This has been one of the longest days of my life. I can’t believe it’s not even fucking over yet.” He zips up his bag, and lazily swings it over his shoulder. “I can’t wait ‘til it’s all over and I...” But before he could finish his thought, we hear a tiny “Ummph!” from behind us and the rustling sound of paper falling.

We all turn around to see a small Asian girl leaning down on the floor, trying to pick up her papers and books scattered all over the place.

“Oh shit! I’m sorry, I didn’t... I, uh... dammit... um...” mutters Aidan stupidly under his breath. He just stands there paralyzed, not knowing what to do and trying to form a somewhat coherent apology, all the while the poor girl is trying to reorganize her papers.

“For Christ’s sake, Aidan. Why don’t you just stand there like a jackass for an hour.” I move past him and lean down to offer some help to the girl.

Aidan snaps out of his daze by responding with a profound, “Huh?” He looks down at me and exclaims, “Oh shit! Yeah, of course! Uh...” He leaps forward, practically pushing me out of the way, and frantically scrambles on the floor to pick up all of her papers.

And throughout the whole entire scene, the Asian girl just politely protests with, “Oh, no, it’s fine!” or “You guys don’t have to help, I’m okay, really.”

Thirty seconds later, Aidan is able to round up all of her stuff. We all stand up, and once again, he stands there stupidly, holding her stuff stiffly in his thick hands, with an expression on his face that looks like he’s either constipated or about to throw up.

“Uhhh... Here!” Aidan spats out, sharply extending his arms out in front of her. The girl meekly retrieves her various papers. “I-I’m really sorry about all of this. I didn’t mean to do that! I didn’t see you. I’m sorry, I’ll uh...”

“No, no. It was my fault. I should have looked where I was going or something. I’m sorry for getting in your way,” replies the girl quietly, as she brushes back a lock of hair behind her ear. The girl has an overall disheveled look. She has shoulder-length layered hair running crazily down her small, round face. Her clothing is really loose-fitting, hanging lazily from her tiny framed body as if she just came out of a hurricane.

“What?! No, it was completely my fault! I really should have thought...” Aidan quickly replies.

“No, really, it’s okay. I’m sorry for...” the girl continues, and the conversation goes on for good minute like this with both of them just talking over each other.

Eventually, they both stop, and an awkward silence quickly ensues afterwards. “Thanks. Sorry for the trouble,” the girl finally says, her tiny round lips weakly smiling. Looking at her, once you get past her messy exterior, she’s actually quite beautiful. Her almond-shaped eyes are set far apart from each other, slanted downwards on the outside end, giving her a expression that seems like she’s always thinking about something. Her small button nose sits attractively between her high cheekbones. Her small round lips seem to naturally be slightly pursed, as if she’s holding back a secret. “Thanks again, you guys. Bye.” And with that, the girl cutely does a slight head nod, and scurries between us and out the door. We all watch her leave, with Aidan transfixed and mumbling a weak “Bye!” He even attempts a small wave, even though she’s long gone from the room.

“Nice going, Romeo!” Brando comments, standing in the same spot as before and taking a bite of his beef jerky stick that he presumably fished out of his backpack while the whole entire scene was enfolding. That asshole.

“Shut up!” Aidan yells angrily, gently punching Brando in the rib because he’s too short to punch him in the shoulder. We all resume picking up our belongings and start heading out.

As we make our way to the door, Aidan out the blue decides to ask, “So, um... Do you guys know who that was?”

I roll my eyes, smiling the biggest smirk. “Why do you want to know, Aidan?” I tease. Aidan has an extensive history with yellow fever. Aidan has this thing where he doesn’t date any girl who’s taller than him. So the majority of his past girlfriends have been Asian, just because most of them are short enough. He’s pretty much dated most of the Asian girls in our high school, and he’s probably memorized almost every single one of them. And it’s not like there are a lot of them to begin with. So not knowing who this unknown Asian girl is rare for him.

“I don’t know. I don’t think I’ve seen her before, but she looks familiar for some reason.”

“I think she said her name was Miyuki or something,” mutters Brando through a mouthful of beef jerky.

“You mean Mizuko? Didn’t I date her last year?” Aidan asks.

“No, no, no. I’m pretty sure she said Miyuki too. She’s definitely not Mizuko, but I can see where you get the similarity,” I reply. I clearly remember who Mizuko was, and this new girl was definitely not her, though they kind of look alike. Mizuko is a lot more prim and proper, and her personality is bubblier than this new girl’s. “It’s weird though. I think they have the same last name- Shimizu or something like that,” I add.

“You think they could be twins or something?” Brando suggests.

“You think so? Shit, that means I could’ve gone out with twins at the same time then!” exclaims Aiden.

“You know, I hooked up with twins before,” brags Brando.

“You’re hands don’t count as twins, you jerkoff. But really, how didn’t I notice her in class?” asks Aidan.

As we walk around Ms. Cratch’s desk, I answer, “That’s because you started to doze off ten seconds after your introduction at the beginning of class.”

“Oh yeah. That’s right.”

“Oh Mr. Brady!” Ms. Cratch calls out from her desk, “Next time for class, make sure you come well rested, so don’t start snoozing in here again. We have a lot of important things to learn!”

“Uh, right! Will do, Ms. Cratch. Sorry about today.”

“It’s all right. Why don’t run along now, sweetie. You don’t want to be late to your next class, especially on the first day of school!” she says, smiling as if we were her own children heading off to our first day of preschool.

We were about to leave the room, when Brando suddenly turns and shouts, “Bye, Nana Betty. We’ll see you tomorrow!”

Ms. Cratch starts to just screech with an endless string of her usual annoying giggles. She’s laughing so loud, that she doesn’t even notice Aidan’s hushed threat of “I’ma cut you, Brando,” as he pushes him outside. While I close the door behind me, Ms. Cratch’s high-pitched laugh still echoes so loudly in the classroom that I’m pretty sure two of the windows shattered as we leave.

As we start to walk down the hallway, Brando asks, “So what your next classes?”

Dodging the crowds of late underclassmen rushing towards the classes and maneuvering around the huge reunion parties full of people hugging others they haven’t seen since last spring, I pull out my schedule from my back pocket and unfold it to see what my next class is.

Beaumont High School
’09-’10 Academic Year

NAME: Blythe, Lucas
DOB: 1/31/1992
SEX: M
YEAR: 2010
ID: 857405
LOCK: 1014

H 0/ AP Physics C/ Stern/ 167

H 1/ Student Council/ Miles/ 105

H 2/ AP Calculus/ Borick/ 157

H 3/ AP Biology/ Franklin/ 163

H 4/ AP Spanish/ Mummel/ 124

H 5/ AP Literature/ Cratch/ 139

H 6/ Intro to Art/ Bellamy/ 180

H 7/ Athletic Practice/ ---/ Gym B

“Fuck. Art Class,” I mutter under my breath. Besides english, this is my only graduation requirement left that I have to take. What’s the point though? Why do they need to insist on having required classes when half of them has no relevance to my life. Case in point, my ultimate goal with my education is med school, not some crappy-ass made painting.

For our high school, you need to take at least two years worth of art to graduate. For most kids, it’s not really a problem. The music and performing arts department here are really strong. It’s not surprising to see kids here take band or drama for all four years of high school. So they have no problem fulfilling the requirement.

For the kids who aren’t as talented, there’s the Art History, Humanities, and Mythology classes. These are some of the most popular classes offered at my school, because the teachers are apparently some of the best here, and they constantly take their classes out to field trips. But there’s almost never any room in these classes; it always fills up so quickly around registration time because it’s so popular.

And so for the kids who aren’t lucky enough to get into these classes (like me) or are just plain slackers (like Aidan), the school offers gen ed classes- i.e. the bottom of the barrel classes. No one ever takes these classes seriously; everyone either does homework for other classes, or catches up on some sleep. These classes are pretty much jokes. I mean, seriously, Music Appreciation class? Basket weaving? Or worse, Art.

There’s nothing wrong with art itself. It’s just that at my school, the art department is one of the worst. It’s constantly underfunded, and there’s always a lack of support for the fine arts here.

“Hey, look. We have the same art class,” states Aidan, pointing to his schedule and back to mine.

“Crap, dude. I really don’t want to go this class.”

“Why not? It’s Mr. Gray we’re talking about here, bro. I heard his classes are super easy.” Mr. Gray was one of those relics they stumbled upon when they founded the school 50 years ago. Mr. Gray is easily into his early 80s. He’s old, wrinkled, and basically losing his mind. He’s like the wrinklier, more senile male version of Ms. Cratch. But he’s so much worse at teaching than her. His memory has been fading for some time now, so he barely remembers any of the assignments he gives out. Plus, his nonexistent vision makes it really hard to teach a subject like art of all things. There’s a rumor that one time, a kid showed Mr. Gray a blank piece of paper for an art assignment, and Mr. Gray gave the kid an A+. The only real reason why he’s been around so long is that the teachers and supervisors here all respect him and stuff just because he’s been teaching at the school ever since it opened and couldn’t bear the thought of firing sweet ol’ Gray.

“Didn’t you hear? Gray retired last summer. Check your schedule; he’s been replaced by some dude named Bellamy. It sucks,” I explain.

Aidan looks down at his schedule a second time, and upon a closer inspection, he exclaims, “Crap. Well, there goes my slacker class. But hey, we get some new guy. Maybe he’ll be easier than Gray.”

“Have you looked at his teacher profile on the school’s website yet? I was checking all of my teacher’s profiles last night, and I found his. Apparently, he’s this young teacher who got his Masters in New York City a couple of years ago, and this is his first year teaching. You can bet he’s going to be this hard-ass teacher just because he was an art student from New York, and he’s going to want to impress everyone since it’s his first year.”

“Ha! You should have gotten it over with in sophomore year like I did! Sucks for you guys!” Brando boasts. The majority of the kids at my school generally get their two years of art over with during their freshman and sophomore year. So my art class this year is basically all underclassmen. Another reason why this class is going to suck so hard.

“What sucks?” a raspy, melodic voice chimes from behind us. We all stop and turn around to see a rather beautiful, tall Indian girl running towards our way, with her long, black, silky hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, gently swaying as she runs.

Just as she catches up to where we are, Brando loudly exclaims, “Your mom!” triggering another round of his awful laughs.

“Shut the fuck up!” the Indian girl demands, and unlike Aidan who’s too short, the six foot tall amazonian punches Brando easily in the shoulder, quite hard impressively.

“Holy crap, Minnie! Those really hurt!” Brando yells out.

“Well, if you had some more muscle on your arms, maybe it would pad it some more,” Minnie spats back. Damini “Minnie” Shukla. By all means, a girl blessed with genetics. Unnervingly tall, beautifully exotic looks, well-endowed curves that would have any looking guy start drooling. But to think that she is just another dumb beauty would be a mistake. Because she is not afraid to remind everyone that she has a independent and intelligent mind behind those double D cups. And if you still need some reminding, she won’t be shy about knocking some sense into you. Literally. She’s constantly punching and smacking us guys around. In particular, Brando. I think her life goal is to slap that stupid big mouth of his right off his face.

“So what were you guys talking about before Brando opened his mouth?” Minnie asks.

“Art class,” I respond despondently.

“Do you guys have it next?” Minnie asks, to which Aidan and I both nod to. “Oh my gosh! I think we’re all in the same class!”

“What do you mean ‘all?’” Aidan and I both ask in unison.

“I was talking to Cici in Latin last period, and we figured we were put into the same art class! Apparently, Clay texted Cici that he and Keith are in it too!” Minnie exclaims excitedly.

“Really? Seriously, what are the odds of all of us being put into the same class?” Aidan questions.

“It’s probably because we’re seniors, and we’re pretty much taking the same AP classes, so this was probably the only art class that could fit into our schedules,” Minnie proposes.

“Or. I tapped into the school’s database using my amazing computer hacker abilities, and just rearranged it that way, because I just can,” Aidan boasts, smiling with his conceded over-confidence.

“Shut up, Mr. MIT,” replies Minnie, flicking Aidan’s ear.

Waving away her hand like a pesky mosquito, Aidan asks, “So where’s Cici? Didn’t you have the same class last period?”

“Oh, she decided to go ahead of me, because she wanted to meet up with Clay for some gross couple spit swapping time, and I was not up for that. Plus, I had to drop off some books at my locker. That’s when I saw you guys walking down the hall.”

“That’s nasty. I swear those guys are always trying to suck each other’s face off or something every time I look at them. I feel like puking every time I see them together,” Brando says in disgusted voice, mimicking retching noises.

“Gross Brando! Stop it!” complains Minnie, slapping him upside the head.

“I’m just glad I don’t have classes with both of them together, or else the janitors here would have a bucket specially for me.”

“Wait, does that mean you’re not taking art this semester with us?” Minnie asks.

“No. Before you came, I was just telling these guys that I got that shit over with by my sophomore year, so I didn’t have to deal with that crap my senior year, unlike some other lazy asses I know,” Brando explains, smirking at all three of us.

Punching him once again in his shoulder, Minnie asks, “So are you walking with us lazy asses then, you jackass?”

“I have AP Econ next. The classroom is past the art wing, so, having taken art before, I thought I’d be considerate and escort these lazy asses off to their next class.”

That results in two punches- one in the shoulder from me and one in the rib from Aidan. “SHIT! Those fucking really hurt!” yells Brando.

“That’s the fucking point!” we both simultaneously yell in response.

Some more walking and physical abuse later, we arrive at the art wing. As our art classroom comes into view, we see a couple making out besides some lockers, with a third guy awkwardly standing next to them, talking. Whether he’s talking to the couple or to himself is still to be determined. Keith has been known to do both.

Keith is simply put, an odd kid. A scrawny Iranian kid with long curly black hair and little tufts of hair growing into a promising goatee. That’s right. He’s a Muslim kid who looks like Jesus. Keith is a guy full of contradictions. With drooping eyes and a slight, wry smile, he constantly has a sleepy look that makes him seem as if he was in his own dream world. But he despite his spaced out expression, he’s actually one of the smartest guys I know. It helps to have a photographic memory. I swear, Keith has the entire Encyclopedia Britannica memorized. He would be the type of guy to read it for fun.

As our group joins up with those three, we only manage to hear the last few snippets of Keith’s conversation. “... even a billion bacteria when you’re kissing! And some of that bacteria can even...”

“KEITH! Can you please stop talking, because it’s kind of hard to make out when you go on and on and on and on with those random facts of yours! Seriously!” the girl of the couple suddenly spat out in a fast, high-pitched voice.

“Sorry, Cici. I just thought you guys might be interested, since you guys are so into kissing and stuff,” Keith responds, genuinely in mild tenor voice. Poor Keith. Poor oblivious Keith. It really isn’t his fault. His head is just filled with so many random thoughts that he just doesn’t realize that there’s an actual world outside of his own head.

“Keith, how can I possibly find all of that interesting when I’m actually kissing, and you’re going on about all these gross stuff about kissing, because not only is that really distracting, and disgusting, but also...oh!” Cici starts to quickly rant, only to see our group standing there watching them with amused and slightly confused faces. She all of a sudden switches tracks and chirps out, “Hi, guys!”

“Busy are we?” Aidan asks mockingly.

“Well, we were! Until some nosy people decided to rudely interrupt us,” says the male portion of the couple sarcastically in a surprisingly deep bass voice.

“Well, we had to, Clay. We were doing the school a favor. We were trying to prevent any vomiting from any student who would have the terrible misfortune of seeing you guys try to swallow each other’s tongues,” Brando responds smartly.

Ignoring Brando’s comment, “So why are you guys here? Aren’t you guys going to be late to your next class or something?” Cici asks, no longer entangled in Clay’s arms but now simply holding hands and leaning gently against him.

“They’re have art too!” Minnie reveals.

“Oh my gosh! Really?! So all of us are in the same art class?” Cici shrills excitedly.

“Not me. Got that shit over with already unlike some loser friends I know,” Brando reiterates, once again smirking.

“Oh crap! This class got so much better now, since we don’t have to deal with this douche!” Cici fights back.

“Bitch.”

“Dickhead.”

“Hey, Clay. Did you know your girlfriend’s a bitch?”

“Hey, Brando. Did you know your head’s a dick?”

“Ladies, ladies, calm down, would you?” Clay says, jumping in between the argument. “So Brando, where are you heading to now?”

“I have Econ right now. Oh shit! I actually should be heading there soon, or else I’m going to be late.”

“Hey, guys, we should probably start heading inside too,” suggests Clay.

“Well, I’m off now to learn how to rule the world. Have fun finger painting with the frosh, future Picassos!”

“Have fun having a dick for a head,” chimes Cici.

Our group starts to disintegrate, as people start heading into the art classroom, and Brando begins to leave for his Econ class. While Cici and I are about to file into the classroom, I whisper into her ear, “Remind me later to talk to you about your aunt.” Cici just gives me a puzzled look, and so I nod my head towards Brando. She looks over towards Brando’s way, seeing him hold a pair of invisible grapefruits, while slightly shaking his head as if in disappointment, before turning the corner. As we both step into the classroom, Cici’s face is a mixture of horror and slight disgust.

Walking into the room, I look around the classroom, trying to judge how crappy my year of art is going to be. The room is surprising large, an expansive rectangular box with a high ceiling and lofty windows filtering in beams of sunlight through a hazy cloud of dust. Though its size is impressive, the condition of the room is awful. The wooden shelves and cabinets lining the walls are starting to feel their age. The cabinets are so over-brimmed with various art and non-art related knick-knacks that some of the doors are barely hanging on its hinges while others have simply fallen off and refuse to stay on. The shelves are sagging under the weight of having to hold so many old, unopened art books and dried up bottles of paint. The tables are graffitied with different people’s names and various profanity accumulated over the years. Walking on the splintery wooden floor, splattered with different amounts of color-faded paints, I just know this is going to be a crappy year. No one cares about art here so much, that even the janitors didn’t even bother trying to a good job cleaning up. But who could blame them? It’s probably a lost cause anyway.

Most of the other underclassmen had arrived already and claimed most of the seats, forcing us to break up our group. So we diffuse through the room, finding available seats. Aidan and I spot some seats on the back corner of class, and we starting heading over there. Damini and Keith sit down in some seats they find up front, while Cici and Clay, still holding hands, walk to the back to find some seats, presumably so they can sneak some kisses while no one is looking.

Cici and Clay are honestly the school’s official cutest interracial couple. The only reason why I have to bring it up the interracial part is, well, it’s Kansas. We honestly never see that. Like ever. Sometimes, I seriously feel like Cici is the only Hispanic girl, and Clay the only African American guy in my school. But I guess that makes them that much more cute.

It’s funny, those two. They’re almost the complete opposites of each other, but they seem to suit each other so well. Clay is this tall, hefty (to put it nicely), black guy with the deepest voice you’ll ever hear in your life. Freshly pressed Polos, neatly trimmed hair, he’s bit of a perfectionist to the point of bordering on OCD. Cici on the other hand is this short, size negative two Latina with wild, curly brown locks for hair. But don’t underestimate her tiny frame, because she will surprise you by lashing out at you in a high-pitched whirlwind of words. But if you think it’s funny seeing a girl squeak like an angry squirrel, just call her Mexican, and she’ll rant for an hour about how she is a proud Puerto Rican and Dominica, and how her people have had a long history, and how calling every Hispanic person Mexican is ignorant, and how her high-pitched voice makes it hard for people to take her seriously, and other random stuff like that.

You’d think that because they’re so different, they would always be fighting and getting on each other’s nerves. And you’d be right. They’ve been going out for so long, that they’re in that stage of constantly bickering like an old married couple. But no matter how many fights they get into, they always seems to find a way to make up. I guess that’s why they’re always making out in public. It’s really cute, in a I-really-want-vomit-from-all-this-cuteness way.

They find the table they want in the back, and they sit down with hand in hand, sharing a small peck. And all the while, the teacher up front is giving them a death stare, severely disapproving their blatant public displays of affections. He’s this arrogant-looking man, sitting in his chair up front, with his feet resting on his desk and his hands behind his head. His wavy black hair is pulled back into a small ponytail at the nape of his neck with some shocks of silver hair forming around his temples. A layer of slight stubble covering his rigid, chiseled facial features emphasizes his current expression of disdain. I hate him already.

Still staring at this new teacher character, I whisper to Aidan as we take our seats, “Remember what I told you about what I think our teacher is going to be like. Looks like I was right. No guy wears a ponytail without being a pretentious prick.”

Aidan remains silent at my comment, and so I look over at him. His head is turned, staring over a few seats to the same Asian girl we bumped into during AP Lit.

“Aidan. Aidan!” I call, shaking his shoulder.

“Huh? What?”

“Dude, what’s up?”

“Bro, it’s her,” Aidan states, obviously interested to her. “Look. She’s sitting by herself.” I glance over, and she is indeed sitting alone. Her shoulders are hunched, with her head timidly looking around at the other groups of freshmen and sophomores. “She kind of looks sad,” he says, almost sympathetically with a furrowed brow.

“I know that look, Aidan. You like her, don’t you?”

Aidan finally looks back at me, and he, smiling and shrugging his shoulders, says, “I mean she’s cute and stuff. I guess. I don’t know. You know how I like my Asians.”

As the bell shrills loudly, signaling the beginning of class, I tease, “You mean your Asian fetish?”

“Shut the fuck up, Mr. I-haven’t-had-a-girlfriend-since-sophomore-year-because-I’m-scared-of-girls-and-my-dick-is-too-small.”

“You asshole! At least I have a...” I try to retort, but my insult was cut short with a ear-splitting snap that cracked the air and left the room instantly quiet.

We all dart our eyes towards the front, where the teacher is holding a long meter against his desk, which was presumably the source of that loud snap. “That. Was. The bell,” the teacher articulates in a strong, confident baritone. “Class has started, and now that you are quiet, and I have your attention, we can begin.”

Aidan and I look at each other, rolling our eyes and giving each other looks that read, ‘Fuck. Our. Lives.’

“Now, my name is Mr. Bellamy, and this is Intro to Art I,” he introduces, scrawling his name on the blackboard in neat, fluid handwriting. “Now if this is the wrong class, please do leave immediately. This is a class that is only for students intelligent enough to navigate their way through school.” He has this way of emphasizing some of his words when he talks to get his meaning through. I wonder if he can say, ‘Hi! I’m an asshole.’

“Before we delve any further, let me just take attendance first. When I call your name, a simple ‘here’ will suffice. If I mispronounce your name, I apologize in advance. If you go by a different name, just correct me. Simple, right? I imagine even you people can’t possibly mess up,” Mr. Bellamy instructs, taking out a pencil and a clipboard with our roster.

“Abbington. Mary.”

“Uh...here?”

“Alamilla. Ciela.”

“Um... I go by Cici.”

“Blythe. Lucas.”

“Luke,” I respond flatly and irritatedly.

“Brady. Aidan.”

“Sup.”

“Excuse me? Did someone hear that? I thought I heard some trite little noise, but I guess it was the wind or something. Let’s resume. Brady. Aidan.”

“...Here?”

“Chen. Jack.”

“Here!”

Who the fuck does this guy think he is? I mean, I know it’s his first year and everything, and he wants to impress all the faculty or whatever, but does he really think being an asshole is going to accomplish that?

“Gonzalez. Michael.”

“Mike.”

“Hardwin. Clayton."

“Clay.”

“Huff. Jessica.”

“Here.”

I honestly am fed up of all these teachers who are so full of themselves. They think they know everything and that it’s their God-given right to spread their self-absorbed knowledge to us lowly ignorant students.

“Luther. Sarah.”

“Here.”

“Melpone. Corbin.”

I mean, aren’t teachers supposed to, I don’t know, teach us something important? Like actually teach us something worthwhile? Sure, academics would be a given. It’s what they’re being paid to do. But aren’t teachers supposed to be role models? Not assholes?

“Melpone. Corbin.”

Is that too naive of me to think that? To just want one good teacher who’ll actually make me think about something important. Something that I can personally relate to. Not another jerk teacher who will be condescending and treat me like shit. I guess a high school is just a chain of one crappy teacher after another.

“Absent.”

Maybe it’s too childish to say that I’m disappointed. I mean it’s my senior year, and this is my last class of my day. Mr. Bellamy is the last teacher I’ll ever have in high school. I was kind of secretly hoping that he would be different. But it’s high school, I guess. Full of disappointment and shitty times.

“al-Sameer. Kadir Farid Latif.”

“You can call me Keith.”

“Shimizu. Miyuki.”

“...Here...”

“Shukla. Damini.”

“Minnie.”

“Smith. Ra...”

We hear a small click, the doorknob turning up front. Everyone head’s, including Mr. Bellamy’s, turn towards the door to see a late student shyly enter the room. As he softly closes the door behind him, he turns around only to meet the indifferent eyes of thirty or so kids and the disapproving pair of Mr. Bellamy’s. He suddenly becomes paralyzed, standing still out of not knowing what to do.

“Excuse me. Do you belong in this class? This is Intro to Art I.” The kid responds with a small nod.

“Do you realize that you are late, sir?” Small Nod.

“Do you realize that this behavior shows me a lot about you? It shows me that you have no respect for my class. That you are lazy. That you don’t have the basic abilities to even navigate yourself. Next time, please, if you are late, don’t even bother coming to class.” Smaller Nod.

“What is you name?”

“...Corbin...” he whispers in an almost inaudible voice.

“Melpone?” Even smaller head nod.

“Please, take a seat, or do you think you’ll have a problem navigating yourself around this classroom?”

This time, the kid slightly shakes his head, and walks off, but not before letting out a soft, “Sorry,” with his voice slightly cracking at the end. With his head down, he walks gently past Mr. Bellamy and towards the front of the class. The way that he walks makes him look like he’s almost gliding, like a ghost. His oversized gray hoodie and baggy jeans are ragged and worn. The colors so faded, he almost blends into the background as if he were invisible.

He walks down the middle aisle, and he meekly looks side to side to see any available seats without trying to meet anyone’s eyes. With no luck, he eventually looks up, removes a lock of stringy black hair from his eyes, and looks around. With glistening eyes, he looks towards my direction and spots the empty table behind mine. He starts walking again, head once again downward, towards my area of the classroom. We walks past my table, pulls out his seat, and gently sits down without making even a fraction of a sound.

All the while, the whole class had their eyeballs glued to this kid. After sitting down, his head is still bowed, refusing to look into anyone’s vision. So all our eyes dart from him back to Mr. Bellamy, who is still staring at this Corbin kid intently, with a strange, hard to determine expression on his face.

In a voice that lost a little bit of its edge, Mr. Bellamy continues, “Smith. Randy,” still staring at Corbin.

As the list of names continues to be called out, I can’t help but feel bad for the kid behind me. I mean, sure, he was late. But it was like only three minutes, and he definitely didn’t deserve to be treated like that. Seriously, what is up with this teacher? I understand that he’s the teacher and everything, and that there are rules and stuff, but that doesn’t mean he’s allowed to treat us students like fucking bugs that he’s allowed to shit all over us whenever he feels like it.

“Walker. Alexander.”

“Here.”

Checking off the last of the names on his clipboard with his pencil, Mr. Bellamy puts them down and faces towards the class. A very tense silence persists, as he glares us down one by one with an intense gaze. He abruptly clears his throat, and addresses us, “So why are you here?” Silence.

He continues, while slowly starting to pace around his desk, “You guys, of course, wouldn’t know. But that’s why I’m here to tell you. That’s why they hired me. So why are you here? For those smart asses out there who want to say ‘to learn art,’ what does that mean? You might think you’re here to learn about creativity and about yourself and etc. But I’ll be the first one to tell you, art is none of that crap.” What the fuck?

“No one cares about what you find beautiful or not. No one cares about how creative you are, or how great your individuality is. No. Art is about rules. It’s about obeying those rules that people in the past have set. It’s about adhering to convention. It’s about strictness and hard work.” I’m definitely no artist, but I can tell that art is the complete opposite.

Who the hell does he really think he is, preaching us like this.

“For those of you who think this will be your “slacker” class, you are sadly mistaken. You will be given daily assignments and homework every night. You will be learning everything that art has to teach you. Would you like to care why? Because some of you need a rude awakening. Art will teach you that nothing about you is special. You may think that you are a creative individual, but in fact every one of you is a boring, unoriginal waste of space.” I can feel the anger throbbing through the vein of my right temple. This is complete bullshit! I look around the room to see the faces of uncomfortable and insecure underclassmen. The faces of my friends show expressions of pure confusion.

“And another thing, you...”

“BULL!” I scream, pounding my fists on the table, and jumping up from my seat. My voice echos alongside the screech from my chair in the otherwise unnervingly silent room. Every pair of eyes dart towards me; everyone’s attention solely on me now. But my flash of anger blinds all of this to me, except for the asshole teacher whom I stare down. I finally had enough of this self-conceded bullcrap.

“Ex-cuse me?” Mr. Bellamy challenges.

“This. Is. Bull! You fully well know that that’s all bull! Sure, I may just be another science kid, but even I know that art is none of that. Art is everything about us! About beauty and individuality. Art is about human emotions, and it allows us to unlock all that potential inside of us. It allows us to explore our emotions and express in ways that some of us can’t otherwise. How could you belittle our emotions like that when it’s the only thing that we have? When it’s the only thing that makes us who we are? As individuals? The emotions that we feel, the moments that we experience, its the only thing that truly makes us unique. And art allows us to show those emotions, those experiences, our individuality. So how can you stand there and rant pedantically about how art is none of those things when it’s in reality it is all of those things? Dammit! You’re the teacher! Shouldn’t you know that already?” My chest heaves, as I try to catch my breath. As the anger slowly starts to drain from my blood, I realize that everyone is still staring at me, making me self-conscious about the situation. I have no idea where that came from. Once I started, everything just came out right after the other like word vomit.

Several seconds that felt like years pass before anyone says something or even moves. Finally, Mr. Bellamy, who had been leaning back against his desk with crossed arms this whole entire time, breaks the awful silence by asking, “You know what?”

I could feel his arrogant and overly-articulated argument coming on. I just stand there tensely in response, waiting to spit back in the verbal fight I could feel coming on.

“There’s one more thing that you guys are. Out of all my classes today, you guys, in particular, you,” the word stabbing at me. Bring it on fucker.

“Are the most... gullible class I’ve had so far!” exclaims Mr. Bellamy, his previously wry thin lips softening into a wide smile, laughing a hearty, uncontrollable laugh. While I just stand there stupidly, everyone in the class looks around at each other to discern if anyone knew what the hell was going on.

Mr. Bellamy’s crazy fits of laughter start to fade, and all the while he manages to get out, “Oh man... Ha ha, I can’t believe it actually worked on you guys.... Ha! And I was actually worried.... Hehe... whoo...”

“But... I... uh... and you... but then... we all... What the hell just happened here?!” I expertly articulate.

It takes another couple of minutes before Mr. Bellamy calms down and can talk coherently. “So you guys really believed me, huh? And here I was, scared that you were my last class of the day, and I’d mess up. Did anyone realize that I was joking the whole time? Anyone?” he asks, looking around the class.

But no one raises a hand or even moves. I think we were all paralyzed from being so stupid enough to actually think that what this guy was talking about was actually true. All of a sudden, I feel like the world’s biggest jackass. “... Wow...” I mutter under my breath, as I sheepishly take my seat again.

“Hey! No! You shouldn’t be ashamed at all! That was actually a really impressive speech. Hey, I applaud you for standing up like that,” Mr. Bellamy addresses me. Impressive speech? Then why did I have this overwhelming urge to just crawl under a rock and die? Aidan and the others look back at me and give me the biggest smirks in the world. I just send back daggers with my eyes. Jerks.

“Guys, really though, what he had to say was pretty damn good. I mean, how many of you honestly thought that what I said was true? Honestly, raise your hands.” We all look nervously around the room, uncomfortable but unmoving. “So you guys didn’t agree with me, is that right? So you guys think that there’s more to art than just drawing stick figures and painting blobs of color?”

Mr. Bellamy got up from his desk and started to pace around the room. “The reason why I put on that little ruse was that I wanted to show you why you were in this class and what it means to do art. Plus, I think it’s funny pissing off students.” He walks over my way and pats me on the back, saying, “Isn’t that right, Mr...um...”

“Uh... I’m Luke...”

“Well, obviously Mr. uh-I’m-Luke here understands what it means to be in an art class,” Mr. Bellamy says, patting me one last healthy pat on the back, before walking off to some other part of the class.

I reluctantly look over at Aidan and see him making a face while whispering in a mocking tone, “Uh... I’m... Luke!” His face becomes distorted in laughter, only to end up in grimacing in pain from the kick I give him in the shins.

After pacing between all the tables, he returns back to his desk. He grabs a piece of paper from a stack, and then hands off the stack to Keith up front, whispering to him, “Could you please pass these around?”

Holding the piece of paper up, he announces, “So what will this class be like? Well, this syllabus here will pretty much sum up everything,” pointing to the sheet. “If you want to follow along, then by all means. If not, then you can recycle this piece of paper, or you can doodle on the back, or you can make a paper airplane. This is an art class after all.

“I guess I’ll start off by just introducing myself. My name is Hugh Bellamy. You guys can address me as ‘Mr. Bellamy,’ or ‘Mr. B,’ ‘Hugh,’ ‘Hugh-y” if you want. Even ‘Huge Hugh.’ That was my nickname in high school. I’m not particularly fond of that one. I really don’t want that, so you can take that one if you want.

“I’m originally from New York City. Born and raised. I went to New York University for school, and I ended up getting my Master’s in art and psychology there. I worked as an art therapist for a little bit in New York, before moving out here to Beaumont. So what brings me out here to Kansas of all places, you ask? I really like corn, I guess. Well, that and my girlfriend is actually from Beaumont. We met each other in a sociology class back at NYU, and we’ve been going out ever since. Once she graduated, she wanted to come back here to Kansas. So I decided to relocate to be with her.” A loud ‘Awww!’ can be heard, coming from Cici’s direction.

“While here in Beaumont, I decided to teach, so that brings me here to this point. This is my first year teaching ever. So I really have no idea what I’m doing right now. But nothing exploded so far, so I’m guessing I’m doing something right.

“So my philosophy on teaching is that I could say words I want you to say, make you draw what I want you to draw, make you think the ideas I want you to think, and I guess that’s considered learning. But at the end of the day, if you don’t understand why we’re doing all of this, then I haven’t been teaching you. It’s my job as a teacher to present you the subject of art in a manner that you can relate to. You don’t have to like art, but as long as you understand the basis of art, then I’ve done my part. The next step is yours. In this class, I’ll teach the foundations of art, the process, the mentality, the ideas. But I won’t force any of that on you. You guys are teenagers. You’re old enough to make your own decisions and your own ideas. If you take something meaningful from this class at the end of the semester, great! If not, then at least you’ll hopefully walk away knowing more than you did.

“But don’t think this class will an easy A! Just because it’s my first year doesn’t mean you won’t do work. I know because of some previous classes, some of you may just think that this is another class where you can just sleep and pass the class with an A. But I’m sorry to say that my class will not be that type of class.” An audible sigh can be heard, escaping from Aidan’s lips. “I’m not trying to say that this class will involve eighty hours of homework each night. No. But you will have to work in order to get that A. As long as you try your best, and you put enough effort into this class, you’ll be fine. And maybe you’ll even enjoy it along the way. Who knows?

“So what do you have to do technically to get an A in this class? There will be weekly assignments in this class. Most of the time, depending on the medium, it’ll just be 3 pieces of art due at the end of each week. Every other week, we will be learning about techniques in a different medium. From your basic sketching, to some painting, to photography, to even some sculpting. Everyone is different. Everyone has their strengths and weaknesses, and in the past I’ve noticed that some people are good at some mediums and others not so much. The reason we’re going to be learning so many different disciplines is to give everyone an opportunity to find that one special medium that they like the best.

“In this class, we won’t have tests.” Sighs of relief. “Instead, we will have projects.” Sighs of disappointment. “These projects will have different prompts, but for the most part they will be very lax. They can be in any medium you want, in ones we’ve learned or ones that we haven’t covered yet but you feel like experimenting in. And if you want to put a little twist on the project, as long as you have the A-OK from me, go for it!

“And that’s pretty much it, I think. I’m telling you guys, this class won’t be hard. As long as you guys just show up, try your hardest in this class, and won’t annoy the hell out of me, then you’ll be fine. And with that said, it’s time to move onto your first project!” announces Mr. Bellamy, with the biggest grin on his face, as if this was the best news in the world.

Groans erupt from every corner of the classroom, with kids slumping their shoulders and Aidan dramatically banging his head to his table. “Aww shut up! You honestly thought you would get away this easy with no work? This class may be easy, but not that easy. And besides, the assignment isn’t even that bad! OK, listen up. This assignment actually serves a lot of purposes. One, to start having you guys thinking about what like creatively. Two, to have you guys get to know each other better. And three, to let me know you guys better. The project is to team up with someone else in the class, and do an art presentation that represents something about your partner, so that the rest of us can understand him or her better. It could be a collage of her favorite animals, or a painting slideshow showing his kindergarten graduation, or a simple portrait showing your partner’s emotions. As long as we know something more than we did about him or her at the end of the presentation, mission accomplished! Not too bad right? And let me tell you what, I’ll even let you pick your partners.

“Alright, even though I love hearing the sound of my own voice, I feel like I’ve been going on and on and on and on and... well, you already get the picture. Enough of me talking! More of you mingling and working out the details of your project. Commence art!” And with that, Mr. Bellamy loudly claps his hands and walks back behind his desk, leaving the class rustling around and chattering about gossip from over the summer, about the class and Mr. Bellamy, and on the rare occasion about the project.

Looking around, the general order of the room is kids teaming up with other kids of their year. Four juniors girls form a quadruple team, sophomore kids teaming up with other sophomore buddies, and the poor freshmen pairing up with a semi-familiar person they recognize from their english or math class. I look towards the front, and it seems Minnie and Keith have already partnered up. I then shift attention to Cici and Clay, who unsurprisingly are whispering and giggling into each other’s ears, which I take as them deciding to be partners.

This is one of the reasons why I’m so thankful for Aidan. I hate partnering up with random people. I think it’s always awkward trying to introduce yourself to some random stranger, who won’t probably care about you ten years from now. But thank God for Aidan. The perks of having a best friend in a class, I guess. “Hey, Aidan. It looks like Minnie and Keith are together, and I’m pretty sure Clay and Cici are going to need a crowbar to separate them at this point. I guess we’re partners, huh? So what do you want to do for this project? I was thinking of maybe...” I look over my shoulder towards Aidan to discover that I’ve been talking to an empty chair for the past minute.

I whip my head around and scan the room for the little fucking traitor of a friend. It only takes me two seconds to spot the flash of copper red hair leaning in to whisper something in the ear of the quiet Asian girl. That fucking man whore. Whatever happened to the Bro Code of bros before hoes? I’m so glad he values his penis over his friends.

His eyes happened to look over my way, and I glare at him, giving him an expression that reads, ‘What the fuck, dude?’ He responds by just shrugging his shoulders with a smirk on his face and nodding his head over her way while giving a face that reads, ‘Sorry, bro. She’s really hot and I’m really insecure about my small penis and I have the impulsive need to hook up with every Asian girl I can find so I can feel better about my small penis and short height because I’m a complete bastard that way.’

I squint my eyes even further, and look away with repulsive hatred. I then look around the room to see if any other students had been ditched by their traitorous best friends and needed a partner. In the crowd of mingling kids, it looks like all of them are in pairs, even the underclassmen. As I’m searching for any potential unpaired students, my vision falls upon Mr. Bellamy who has gotten up from his seat and starts walking towards my way. My gaze follows him as he walks down the aisle, past my table, and to the table behind me where that Melpone kid was sitting at. He sits down at the empty seat next to Corbin, who apparently hasn’t found a partner either.

“So I’m sorry about what happened back there,” Mr. Bellamy starts, “I didn’t mean to put you on the spot like that when you came in. I guess I went overboard with my acting, huh? I’ve been known to do that. But just because I was acting a while ago, doesn’t mean I can excuse your tardiness just like that. Well, unless you have a good reason. Do you have a good reason?” Mr. Bellamy stares at him with a very serious face, with bulging eyes and pursed lips.

“...Umm. Well, I’m a new student here, and... I haven’t really figured my around the school yet, and... um, yeah...”

“New student, huh?” asks Mr. Bellamy quizzically. He takes a few seconds, as if he was pondering about it really hard. His eyes bulge out even more, as he stares harder at Corbin, clearly making him insecure. “Mmmm... Yeah, OK,” he says, shrugging his shoulders and replacing the previous look with a lax one. “That’s a pretty good excuse. You’re off the hook!” I give a small amused laugh. Sarcasm. Maybe I was wrong about this Bellamy character.

“So I am severely regretful about my outlandish grievance, and I do sincerely apologize for my most terrible mistake,” Mr. Bellamy apologizes in an overly-dramatic voice, followed by an equally overly-dramatic bow. The previously frowning Corbin cracks a small smile. “So can we call this a truce?” asks Mr. Bellamy, holding out a hand. Corbin reaches out with a meek hand and shakes gently.

“Great! Now I can finally sleep peacefully tonight with a clear conscience! And guess what? I need to make it up somehow! Hmm... but what to do?,” Mr. Bellamy ponders, as he strokes his chin. “I got it! You don’t have a partner, do you?” Corbin answers with a small nod. “Well, you know what? I’m going to find you one.” He surveys the room really quickly, before his eyes happen upon me, who’s still apparently staring at them. “You there! Mr. uh-I’m-Luke! It looks like you don’t have a partner either. Do you mind if you join this kind fellow here?”

I quickly look left and right, hoping that there happens to be another Mr. uh-I’m-Luke somewhere nearby. Realizing there are really no more options left, I let out a small sigh. I reply while smiling, “No! Of course not. I’d be happy to.”

Fuck. This is going to be so awkward.

I pick up my belongings, and get up from seat to walk over to Corbin’s table. As I approach, Mr. Bellamy enthusiastically jumps up from his seat, and pats me on the back, exclaiming, “Look at what I found for you. A partner! And a partner who I suspect is really good at art too, judging from his speech a little while ago. Aren’t I right?”

“Actually, I’ve always been really good at science, and I sort of never...” I try to explain.

“AH! Ah! Ah! But... but... zzzt... zzzt... zzzt!” Mr. Bellamy interrupts halfway through my thought. “This is where you just nod along with what I’m going with. Just nod your head. It’s very easy. Do it with me,” explains Mr. Bellamy, demonstrating. With my mouth still gaping wide open from being interrupted, I nod with an incredulous look on my face that reads ‘Are you kidding me?’

“See! I found the best art partner in the class for you! Aren’t I the greatest?” he boasts. As I sit down at the table, Mr. Bellamy walks towards the front of our table and turns around, leaning down on the table with his elbows. “But seriously guys, I’m really sorry, to both of you,” Mr. Bellamy says in a genuine voice. “I really didn’t plan on putting both of you on the spot like that. So if I ever am on the verge of being an over blown drama queen, Corbin, you have the full right to throw anything at me to bring me back to earth. Just make sure it’s something soft. Like a ball of paper. Or a bunny. And this goes to you too, Luke. I don’t want to spark another speech out you again. You’re like the next JFK, or Martin Luther King Jr.... or Hitler or something!” he says with teasing sarcasm.

“But I’m really sorry about that. And to make up for it, how about I let you guys present last, so you can have some extra time to work on the project. How about it?” Mr. Bellamy suggests, quickly winking his eye. OK, so I was wrong. This Mr. Bellamy is an alright guy.

Rapping the table with his palms, he ends the conversation with, “Alright! Why don’t I leave you guys to work on art? Don’t worry, I know you guys will do some great art. You’ll be great together. Go at it!” And with that, Mr. Bellamy departs from our table smiling and approaches the table next to us to act as peacemaker between two arguing sophomores.

As I watch Mr. Bellamy try to calm down those two hot-headed underclassmen, I’m reminded about Aidan and how much I was hating him the moment before. How could he honestly abandon his best friend like that. Short of zombies and killer bees, I would never leave him like that. He knows how much I hate these situations with new people. Oh well. I’ll find some way to get back at him later.

But how am I supposed to get through this art project. It’s going to be so awkward. It’s already awkward with this dead silence between this Corbin and me. Dammit! What indifferent, noncommittal question should I ask to break the ice? ‘What grade are you in, not that I’ll remember next week?’ ‘Where do you live, not that I really care?’ ‘So what do you want to do for this project, not that either of us want to be here in the first place?’ I think the last one should be fine.

I roll my eyes, and let out another sigh. I finally turn away from the bickering sophomores and turn around in my seat to face him. He’s still in the same position where his head is bent down towards the floor. Let’s just get this over with, I guess. As I inhale and start, “So what...”

He interrupts. “Sorry.”

Having been caught off guard, I just look at him. “Wait. W-what did you just say?”

“...Sorry...”

Confused, I ask, “What do you mean? You didn’t do anything.”

He looks up from his seat and looks at me eye to eye, giving me this weird jolt. His eyes are unusually large. The color is a extremely pale blue. It almost looks like they transparent or something, as if you can see right through him... I’m not sure why, but looking into his eyes, it sent this electrical surge through my nerves. Maybe it was surprise. Or maybe it was guilt. Or maybe something else.

“... I know you don’t want to be my partner. I saw how you were upset that you couldn’t be with your friend over there. I’m sorry you got stuck with me...”

Shit. I feel really awful now. I mean, sure, it would have been nice to be partners with Aidan, but it’s not like it’s the end of the world if I’m paired up with him. “Hey, look. It’s not like that at all. I really don’t mind being ...”

He looks away, staring back down at a worn ‘Fuck You’ engraved into the table. “It’s fine. I understand... I know I wasn’t exactly your first pick. Sorry about that...”

“No, seriously! You were one of my top picks when I saw you come in during class.” Lie. “I was actually really excited when Mr. Bellamy paired me with you.” Another lie. “And besides, I’m sort of glad I’m not with my friend, Aidan, anymore. Now that I think about it, he’s just a really lazy jerk who values girls over his friends. Plus, he probably would have made me do all the work too.” Truth.

He still has his eyes cast downward, probably sensing my not-so-effective lies. “So...” I say, trying to start a conversation, “Um... You’re a new student, right? Where did you come from before? ”

“I transferred over from Topeka East.” And the conversation deadpans there into an awkward silence. Goddammit! I wish I was better at this small talk thing.

“Oh! That’s pretty cool. So what year are you in? I’m a senior myself.”

“I’m a senior too.”

“Really? You’re a senior too!” It’s so surprising because he looks younger than he does. I thought he was maybe a junior or a sophomore even. His face is thin with slightly androgynous looks. His features are relatively small: flat, thin lips; long, elegant nose. But his large eyes, in comparison with everything else, make it seem like he’s this small child who’s seeing the world with this innocent, naive look.

“Wait. So that means you must have transferred before your senior year then. Weren’t you upset about that? What did you say to your parents? If that was me, I would have been pissed!”

“Umm... I mean, it’s nothing really...”

“But what about your friends and stuff? I would have at least asked my parents to stay for at least one more year or something. I mean that really sucks for your parents to make you leave your friends like that. Senior year of all times.”

“... I really don’t mind. I mean... I didn’t really have a lot of friends. People there... um, didn’t really like me anyways. Besides, I had to move... because of my dad...”

Corbin kind of left the conversation lingering there. I immediately feel guilty again. I must have touched on something really sensitive with him. Desperate to change the topic, I reply, “Hey. No, that’s cool. I completely understand. So... um, what do you want to do for this project?”

“...Um, whatever you want to do is fine.”

He hasn’t looked up at me ever since the beginning of our pitiful attempt at a conversation. Several seconds fly by without one of us saying anything. I want to lighten him up or something. Or at least get him say something more than a simple noncommittal response. But I don’t want to offend or hurt his feelings anymore than I already have. God, I feel like the biggest asshole right now.

After a tense, quiet break, I finally decide to swallow some pride and just apologize for being the douche-iest partner to him. “Hey, Corbin... Listen, about earlier, I just want to...”

But the crazy shrill of the alarm goes off, interrupting me, and sending everyone else jumping loudly out of their seats and running towards the door.

Corbin and I both stand up from our chairs, and our eyes lock for a second time. I try to continue my apology, but I’m just standing there paralyzed. His eyes are still that unworldly shade of pale blue. It’s funny, his eyes. They almost look like they’re transparent, but I couldn’t understand a single emotion about him. Staring at his face, it looks like one of those white porcelain Venetian masks. His flawless, milky white skin. His symmetrical, fragile facial features. His random locks of stringy black hair falling down onto his face and hiding his two eyes that seem to be glowing against his mask-like face.

“...I’m sorry,” Corbin whispers in the most inaudible breath, with the saddest and most hurt expression I’ve seen.

Suddenly, a shove in my shoulder causes me to turn around, only to find Aidan randomly babbling something about girls or art or his horribly bad timing. I try to ignore Aidan, and I turn back around to apologize to Corbin.

But it’s too late. He’s already gone.