Fall, Falling, Fallen

Tilly Benson

               I stumbled around my room to the closet as I tried to slide on a pair of underwear above my waist. The closet doors opened as I sighed looking at my options. Don't go for anything too flashy, just go for normal, go for you. That's what I had learned worked best for the first day of school of the year, at a brand new school. While I had a variety of options, most of the shirts were blanketed in stipes. Any person could tell you I had a bit of an obsession with stipes I had accumulated in my closet. Mother always told me I didn't need anymore, but whatever store I walked into, the stripes were what always gravitated towards me. I would argue that mother had no room to talk. Her wardrobe was painted with blue floral prints and nothing else. Maybe I had got my one-design-only trait from her. Who knew? It wasn't like I knew any other family members who did that, let alone any family members for that matter.

I bit my lip debating before grabbing the maroon, off-white, and burnt yellow striped tee and a pair of mom blue jeans. It was a simple look. My hair I noticed was not looking simple. My pixy undercut was rather untamed from going to bed with it the night before wet. I groaned as I franticly tried to brush it only for it to poof out further. Knowing I had no options from waking up late, I quickly grabbed the black and paisley bandana from my bedside table and tied it in my hair. I threw on my gold-rimmed glasses and headed out the door.

The house was quiet as Mom had already left for her shift at the diner, but a bag with my name on it was placed in the fridge and some pieces of toast out on the table. With that, I grabbed my key to the house and headed out.

The air was cool as I biked down the street. I guess I shouldn't have expected anything more or less from Davenport, New Hampshire on a September day. Each of the eight places Mom had moved us was slightly different. Yeah, eight places since I had been in kindergarten and now I was in tenth grade. I had never minded being the new kid when I was younger. I had blonde hair and blue eyes that drew everyone in. Puberty obviously complicated that, with Mom saying I wasn't gifted in the chest region, a thing I was always glad about. I had simply perfected the art of being the perfect average person. Don't stand out, don't go unseen, it was where I had always wanted to be. I never understood why mom felt the need to pack up and run to another place. She would say things like "Honey the next one had better jobs, "We can get a bigger house", or "This one will be safer", all those things, but nothing ever added up fully. It wasn't that she was a bad mom, she just hadn't ever had the time to figure herself out before having me.

As for Davenport went, it wasn't terrible from what I could see. It was your average small middle-sized town with its own hospital and all. It had its main street of local stores and a half-abandoned mall of the box stores. It had a lake and bridge, with a plethora of trails and coffee shops on every corner. I couldn't complain, it fit the average town for the average person like myself. As I biked down the street the fresh smell of pines grew around me and the streetlights flickered off with the sunlight coating the town. Tunes could be heard filtering out of the coffee shops as the commuters and store owners picked up their daily orders.

Davenport High then appeared to my front. I hadn't even gone inside, but I had biked by it two weeks ago while exploring. It had at the time the "Congratulations Seniors" banner still hanging from the doors with the "have a nice summer break" on the electric screen near the road. The large brick building was now littered with other students with the first day back. I swung off my bike, parking it where others were, and headed up to the building. I navigated through the groups of friends coagulating outside and into the hallways. There was always a theory for how to find your way through a new school building. Act confident, listen in for cues of where others are heading to learn where the hallways are and don't ask for help. Maybe it wasn't the most efficient theory, but it got me always to where I needed to without getting picked on. I eventually found my way to first-hour math: Algebra. The class was a skip introduction and get to business. I didn't mind. The first day of school was always like Russian Roulette with the new kid. There are three kinds of teachers: The ones who act like the first day of school is just like January 27th, the kind who have everyone introduce themselves like everyone is the new kid and its kindergarten, and then the least favorite type: the ones who singles out the new kid and spends way to much time on them. It's like they forget that everyone else are the new kids to me.

Anyways, the day went on like how I planned it to. I brought my latest book to read at lunch while I observed the climate of the cafeteria. I smiled, raised my hand, and sat in the middle of every classroom to blend in through all five hours. My 6th hour was the AP English 11. English had always been one of my best subjects that I was ahead in. I wasn't the kid who read 24/7 and never did anything else. I was just the kid who lived with their single mother while she worked her way through an English program at Berkley. It wasn't like the little baby in classrooms or like the video of a professor holding the student's baby as he taught. My mom just left me with her friends at the coop English majors house we lived in. It was a house full of poets and self-proclaimed radical thinkers. There were nightly discussions on sexism in books or the nightly poetry jam; of course, accompanied by the overwhelming smell of weed. By the time of 6th grade, I was bored in English and my mom pushed for them to raise my level. I guess that was the only not-average person thing about me.

But that was why English was never my favorite class. Most of them were taught by pretentious white men who couldn't see past the words written by their equally white and male counterparts. I sighed and walked in, knowing in an hour I would be back on my bike and home. I walked in and took a seat in the second row. The bulky football jocks were all high-fiving each other as the bell rang.

"Jack and Collin please take tour seats," a woman said walking in behind them. "From what I remember football practice starts in an hour."

"Okay Ms. P," one of the guys said.

"Okay class," the woman said with a smile, "As many of you know or if you can read; which I sure hope you can, I am Ms. Perkins. I know many of you know me from English 10 and you have now opted for AP 11. We do have two tenth graders here, though. Jess Harbor and Tilly Benson."

The girl who I assumed was Jess, turned around from the first row and nodded at me. And there I was, singled out, and everyone knew who I was: Tilly Benson.