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7-Dirty Little Secret-All-American Rejects

January 2nd

“You’re not the only one who needs to know…”

History class wasn’t too terrible: mundane and achingly dull, but still. It could’ve been worse. I know it’ll be an easy class, though. Take the notes. Study the notes. Take the test. Two plus two. Equals four.

Room #622(who comes up with these random numbers, anyway), English, Navarro.

I feel soft and exposed in all this pushing, shoving, and hormones run rampant in the halls. All they seem to do is gossip and occasionally stare at me.

I crank up All-American Rejects catchy rock to drone out the cacophony of voices, still wedging my way through.

I’m becoming more convinced that monkeys number these doors. #512, #607, #325, #622? Is this some sort of number crypt straight out of the Da Vinci Code?

Okay, it’s all right. I’ll walk through that door, try to find a seat in the back, hopefully Sam will/won’t be there…I’m hoping he won’t because he’s somewhat annoying, hoping he will because he seems like he might be the only person I can relate to here. English isn’t that hard.

Meandering into the classroom, I stop dead in my tracks.

Holy shit.

It’s…

No freaking way.

I’m having an epiphany.

I dart towards a desk in the back, and hide behind my binder. Praise Whoever-Is-Up-There, his back is turned, he’s writing something on the whiteboard with a blue marker.

HEMINGWAY:

The compassionate brute.

Yes, he was.

And I’m going to DIE.

Time passes. Someone exceptionally unaware sits in front of me and turns around.

“Hi, Drew. Why are you hiding behind your binder?”

“Shut up, Sam,” I hiss.

His brow furrows. “What? Why?”

I slink farther down.

Mr. Navarro (wow, how do I think of him like that?) begins to speak.

“Of course, I know you guys finished your reading over break…”

A chorus of mmm-hmms ensues, the singers including Ponytail-Girl sitting to the right of me, Star Wars Shirt-Boy sitting to the left, and Sam.

“BS. But oh well. You guys still need to write a poem about it.”

Apparently, this is not uncommon.

“Any questions?”

A girl in a short black skirt and a nose ring raises her hand.

“Yes?”

“Who’s she?”

Nose-ring girl points to me…

Fuck.

Sam, probably thinking he’s being helpful, moves out of the way so others have clear vision.

The man blinks. Several times.

“Oh, they told me there was a new student…Drew Salem.”
His voice is wavering.

Well, now I know his full name.

Simon Navarro.

When the bell rings, I try to flee, but he catches on. “Drew, may I see you a moment?”

No. Go away.

Sam looks confused, but still waves goodbye before he leaves class.

Silence can be so freaking noisy. It fills you up just like music, only it fills you up with emptiness.

He is standing up, almost towering, but at least I have the dignity to look him straight in the eye.

“You’re not…nineteen, are you,” he says in a hollow voice.

It’s not a question, but I answer anyway.

“I wouldn’t be standing here if I were, would I?”

A flash of anger goes through his eyes, and they become blue flames.

“Then why did you tell me you were?!”

“Well, puh-lease, I didn’t think you’d actually believe me.”

He breathes in. “You have no idea how much I believed it.”

?…

“Do you even know what-“

He stops, maybe because of my bewilderment, or some unseen force.

Okay, he cannot just leave it hanging like that

“Do I have any idea how…what?”

“Never mind. Have a nice day, Drew.”

My peculiar English teacher sits down at his teacher chair, picks up a pen, and starts savagely marking papers.

It’s probably best I leave.

Description
7-Dirty Little Secret-All-American Rejects

January 2nd

“You’re not the only one who needs to know…”

History class wasn’t too terrible: mundane and achingly dull, but still. It could’ve been worse. I know it’ll be an easy class, though. Take the notes. Study the notes. Take the test. Two plus two. Equals four.

Room #622(who comes up with these random numbers, anyway), English, Navarro.

I feel soft and exposed in all this pushing, shoving, and hormones run rampant in the halls. All they seem to do is gossip and occasionally stare at me.

I crank up All-American Rejects catchy rock to drone out the cacophony of voices, still wedging my way through.

I’m becoming more convinced that monkeys number these doors. #512, #607, #325, #622? Is this some sort of number crypt straight out of the Da Vinci Code?

Okay, it’s all right. I’ll walk through that door, try to find a seat in the back, hopefully Sam will/won’t be there…I’m hoping he won’t because he’s somewhat annoying, hoping he will because he seems like he might be the only person I can relate to here. English isn’t that hard.

Meandering into the classroom, I stop dead in my tracks.

Holy shit.

It’s…

No freaking way.

I’m having an epiphany.

I dart towards a desk in the back, and hide behind my binder. Praise Whoever-Is-Up-There, his back is turned, he’s writing something on the whiteboard with a blue marker.

HEMINGWAY:

The compassionate brute.

Yes, he was.

And I’m going to DIE.

Time passes. Someone exceptionally unaware sits in front of me and turns around.

“Hi, Drew. Why are you hiding behind your binder?”

“Shut up, Sam,” I hiss.

His brow furrows. “What? Why?”

I slink farther down.

Mr. Navarro (wow, how do I think of him like that?) begins to speak.

“Of course, I know you guys finished your reading over break…”

A chorus of mmm-hmms ensues, the singers including Ponytail-Girl sitting to the right of me, Star Wars Shirt-Boy sitting to the left, and Sam.

“BS. But oh well. You guys still need to write a poem about it.”

Apparently, this is not uncommon.

“Any questions?”

A girl in a short black skirt and a nose ring raises her hand.

“Yes?”

“Who’s she?”

Nose-ring girl points to me…

Fuck.

Sam, probably thinking he’s being helpful, moves out of the way so others have clear vision.

The man blinks. Several times.

“Oh, they told me there was a new student…Drew Salem.”
His voice is wavering.

Well, now I know his full name.

Simon Navarro.

When the bell rings, I try to flee, but he catches on. “Drew, may I see you a moment?”

No. Go away.

Sam looks confused, but still waves goodbye before he leaves class.

Silence can be so freaking noisy. It fills you up just like music, only it fills you up with emptiness.

He is standing up, almost towering, but at least I have the dignity to look him straight in the eye.

“You’re not…nineteen, are you,” he says in a hollow voice.

It’s not a question, but I answer anyway.

“I wouldn’t be standing here if I were, would I?”

A flash of anger goes through his eyes, and they become blue flames.

“Then why did you tell me you were?!”

“Well, puh-lease, I didn’t think you’d actually believe me.”

He breathes in. “You have no idea how much I believed it.”

?…

“Do you even know what-“

He stops, maybe because of my bewilderment, or some unseen force.

Okay, he cannot just leave it hanging like that

“Do I have any idea how…what?”

“Never mind. Have a nice day, Drew.”

My peculiar English teacher sits down at his teacher chair, picks up a pen, and starts savagely marking papers.

It’s probably best I leave.