Different colored minds

F Scott Fitzgerald's Eyes

ALIANA POV

"Good afternoon," the too cheery English teacher begins. I rapidly extract my binder and pencil case before the room falls silent.

Although I've had my schedule the past week and a half, I'm still not used to it.
Usually I'm so anxious about classes that I end up early to most of them. But not today. My alarm didn't go off today so I've been running around like a chicken without a head since the minute my mom woke me up. I can hear the teacher talking somewhere in my consciousness and I pull out of my revelry.

my notebook is covered in penned swirling designs. The paper inside is filled with flowers and characters. I flip to a fresh page and push my graphite into the paper.

"For the next month and a half we will be working through the Great Gatsby. But before we begin, has any of you read it before?"
A few hands shoot into the air.
"Did you enjoy it?" He asks, his eyes glimmering in excitement. There is a mixed response.
He chuckles.
"As I thought," and then with a wide grin he turns towards his computer to start the slide show.
"You will all read the first chapter on your own for the duration of class. What you do not finish will be homework for tonight. And tomorrow in class we will
discuss this book. For those of you that have read it before, I am going to be grouping you together. I'm excited to hear your take aways!" I believe he is the only one that feels that way. The rest of the class looks appalled.
I chuckle as the teacher's arms fill with books. The paper back book slides into my hand. Most of the time I enjoy the literature my teachers have us read more than the teacher. I find it intriguing how the meaning is maintained over the expanse of time. Not to say, the teacher is an intriguing and meaningful over an expanse of time.
"Sir, I've heard about this book. My mom says it's inappropriate." A kid shouts from the other side of the room.
The teacher chuckles,"they were the ones that signed the permission slip, not me."
The student does not look amused. My school always has us fill out a permission slip with our parents signatures before we get approval to read a book. My parents were hesitant to give me approval for this book, but ultimately decided I was old enough at 17.
I flip open the book to the first words:

"In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I've been turning over in my mind ever since.
'Whenever you feel like criticizing any one,' he told me, 'just remember that all the people in this world haven't had the advantages that you've had.'"

from what I've learned—the quieter I am the more people feel that they can open up. It's a strange phenomenon, and to be honest, I don't really understand it myself, but people want someone to hear them. To understand them without judgement. I guess I know that because that's how I feel—Afraid of judgement. Most people write it off as weakness, but I rather think of it as a sign of sincerity. If my words hold throughout time they were meant to hold throughout time. I am afraid of judgment because I'm afraid that the other person is correct. But I guess that that's the issue, I shouldn't be afraid of correction. Why must I be so afraid of being wrong? today after I get home I'm reading the whole book before it can get spoiled in class. I wonder if the author felt this way—searching for approval deep within himself. Some sort of reassurance that he is not alone. Pity? Empathy? It's strange to think that a book written in the early 1900s would be mirroring my same sentiment through the glass of literature. A mentality that transverses time. But why?

I can hear the movement of students getting more comfortable in their chairs, others squirming so hard I can't believe they haven't fallen out of their chairs. The teacher puts on some classical music and sits down at his desk—leaving us to read while he grades. like always, I'm a slow reader. I get through five pages before The bell rings, marking the beginning of the lunch period.

The crowd blooms out of the doorways into the hallway. I think I hurt the most right now. I can't breathe. There are too many people here. my body hits into something hard. I look up. A boy with shaggy dark brown hair is clutching the handles on his bag. - he keeps his eyes locked onto the ground with music thumping so loud in his ears that i can hear it. He reminds me of me—
"Sorry," I mumble as he maneuvers around me and continues down the hall. He has a theft protective backpack. I recognize that backpack. I've seen him in these halls before. He has this really expensive computer but he doesn't talk to anybody. He creeps a lot of kids out, stinks, and I've never gotten his name.