Renegade

April - II

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The first day at my new school, when the bell rang for lunch, I walked timorously down the hallway, keeping my arms close against my body and the stack of books I was carrying so that I wouldn't accidentally scrape the grime off the crusty, white-washed cinderblock walls with my bright pink, chunky, cable-knit cardigan that matched my candy-colored eyeshadow. I was vigilant, looking around me, because I didn't want to be trampled under a swarm of sneakers, cowboy boots, and heavy work boots. I passed by rusty lockers in a cloud of hoots and hollers. Some kids were running down the hallway; some teachers still bothered to yell after them in a reprimanding voice. Other teachers looked frazzled even though the semester had just started and like they couldn't wait for their thirty-ish minutes of peace and quiet.

I cautiously approached the cafeteria. I took one look. I didn't know anyone. Based on the glares I'd gotten during my morning classes, I didn't go in because I didn't want to be pummeled with mashed potatoes and grapes.

That's why I turned away, slunk down a back hallway that echoed with the lunchtime commotion but was otherwise as still as death. The whole walk there, I was holding my breath because the hallway reeked.

I found the classroom for U.S. History at the end of the alley. The door was inset between a gap in the lockers. I sat down on the floor in the alcove in front of the locked door. I took out a peanut butter sandwich from my lunchbox and opened the book I was reading.

I had my sandwich in one hand and my book pressed open on my thighs when I saw you dragging your feet like a condemned prisoner being led to the guillotine, slowly making your way down the adjacent hallway with a look of pure hatred and repressed anger on your face. You had a scruffy, dark gray messenger bag hanging across your body and scruffy, black shoes. Your pants were black, too, and fraying slightly at the hems, not from purposefully executed denim distress. In one pale hand, you were carrying a large portfolio made from two pieces of black posterboard that had been taped together with silver duct tape. Dark blue sleeves ran up your arms to a navy hoodie slouching and sagging on your nonchalant frame. You carried in a gust of Antarctic chilly impregnability.

I knew you were a caged soul the moment I saw you: piercing, icy, light blue eyes. You were a phoenix that had been frosted over, an Arctic wolf that had been dappled with the shadows of prehistoric evergreens.

You looked at me once, then leaned your back against the other wall in the alcove and slowly sank down onto the floor with your legs extended straight in front of you and feet crossed out of habit at the ankles. The large portfolio was rested against the wall, next to your shoulder, on the side that was closer to the door. You removed a black sketchbook and mechanical pencil from the messenger bag and opened it to a partially filled sheet. You balanced the sketchbook on one forearm, and meticulously, from memory, one hatch and crosshatch at a time, your pencil caressed the page. I could see a person's face gradually coming to life. Sometimes, you'd switch hands and rest the sketchbook on your other arm while the opposite hand guided the pencil through its laborious magic. Then, you'd switch again. I still can't write my name in a halfway-decent script with my left hand, much less draw, and so perfectly.