My Name Was Ramona

1

August thirteenth, the first day of seventh grade, I was sitting in a sad room with too many chairs with too few students in the class to fill them. I was leaning on the heater next to my desk tucked away in the corner, with a sad cat drawn onto the chipped off parts of the old now off-white colored paint of the biology classroom. Smiling I added a small top hat and tie to the cat and wrote ‘Reggie’ next to him. The name made me smile, it sounded so stupid. It was normal for middle or high schoolers with nothing better to do than to draw on any surface that wasn't a piece of paper or someone's skin, which I liked doing, even if I wasn't very good at drawing. Something about how my glossy pen glided across my skin leaving a trail of wet ink behind it felt calming.

I could feel everyone's mood shift when our newest teacher, Mr. Rai, a tall skinny man with dark tanned skin, green eyes and long curly hair that looked like it came straight out of a hair cream commercial. I somewhat envied him, but then I remembered how bad long hair looked on me and why I cut it short in the first place, then how my skin would get patchy and dry if I got any darker during the summer. When he called out my name, Ramona, I cringed a bit. I've never liked my name, it always sounds wrong. He had a very slight indian accent, you couldn't tell unless you really listened, but when you did you couldn't unhear it, even then he spoke perfectly.
Mr. Rai showed us a slideshow about himself with plant-themed graphics and emotes. He explained why he decided to teach at my school, a crappy private academy that I only got into because my dad was the school's varsity soccer coach. If he could read my thoughts he would've told me some fancy speech about how “important it is to be grateful for what you have!” The only thing I wasn't grateful for was having to wear a skirt everyday to school. I was supposed to go to the middle school right up the street from my apartment buildings, where the girls could wear pants and not have to iron their skirts and button ups everyday before heading off to learn about genetics or impossible to remember math equations. Mr. Rai reached the slide where he showed his elderly pitbull named Harpy. She was light brown with more gray fur around her face and the sweetest brown eyes. I looked at the picture on the board wishing I could pet her instead of being in this school with annoying boys and girls who think they're better than everyone else. Mr. Rai had assigned us to our seats and given us all a paper with differently sized boxes labeled for us to write about ourselves into, I didn't know what to write for most of the boxes so I left them blank. I crossed my arms on the table and looked outside the dusty window. The summer sun was blaring into my eyes, blinding me slightly making me skint them. I looked away soon after and watched Mr. Rai collects papers from the other kids in class. I handed him mine and he looked at it for a second, he smiled at me softly and walked away.
It was almost the end of class, The other kids were already talking to each other, the girls were in one of the corners giggling to themselves and talking about boys and how long the teacher's hair was. Sometimes I’d feel their eyes on the back of my head like they were judging me, laughing about my moles or how I had forgotten to shave my legs that morning. My thoughts were quickly cut short by the door opening loudly, a boy way too tall to be a seventh grader walked into the classroom. He was panting slightly as if he had just ran up the stairs, even if we were on the first floor.
“Sorry I'm late! I had to, uh,” he looked desperate for an excuse.Mr. Rai just smiled and told him something like
“It's okay, first days are always a mess.” He was right about that. The boy had short black hair and eyes, pale skin with light freckles on his uniform was too small and too big at the same time. He sat in the seat directly in front of mine and looked back to wave at me, I waved back and smiled a bit. It felt awkward.

By September, I had my schedule fully memorized and band rehearsals were starting. The teachers were already announcing Thanksgiving break, it wasn't anywhere near November but I understood why they’d be ready for a longer break already.
I was on my way to my third period, Mrs. Burnings, a middle aged white woman who wouldn’t stop talking about my dad, I ignored it most of the time. As long as she left me alone by the end of it. I liked being alone, though it was the one thing teachers didn't seem to get behind their thick knowledge filled skulls. Most of the time they paired me with Skylar Jameson, a short, light skinned girl with dark blue box braids with beads at the ends that reached down to her mid back. She didn't speak much about herself. I could tell she was always anxious, and I mean always. As in sometimes our history teacher Mrs. Burnings would have to call the counselor over to talk to her in the hallway, anxious. It scared me sometimes, to be that anxious.
But for the very likely chance Skylar was pulled out of class, they'd pair me with Seth Parker. The tall, black haired boy who'd come at the very end of class the very first day of school. He wasn't as shy as Skylar for sure but he always seemed off, like he was hiding something, and all I could think of was getting a magnifying glass and figuring it out. Seth was one of the art teachers' kids, I didn’t know which one because I had chosen band as my elective that year. The only reason I knew was because some girls kept harassing him about how he couldn't draw. I always felt bad for him. He was too nice for his own good, he'd let people copy off of him without asking or doing any of their own work. It made me mad when he'd finish his work and just give it to the other kids. Everytime I’d get paired with him we'd split the work, so he didn't have to do it all himself. After finishing our work we’d talk about whatever was relevant, mostly about the lesson and what we found interesting about it, he was a total tech nerd. We were learning about the industrial revolution that day and Seth kept telling me facts about the machines invented and how he'd fix them to be more safe, because of all the deaths that happened during the time period. I joked that I'd vote for him for president and we laughed about the dumb laws he’d hypothetically make. I think I'd learned more from him than I did from the actual history class. He was really smart.
The only part I hated was when the girls would tease us about being friends, They would make kissy faces at us and say things like “what a happy couple,” but I of course didn't like Seth that way, he was just my friend. I could tell it made him uncomfortable too, he’d get quiet and draw on his paper until it was time to leave.
The bell had rung for fourth period and I’d said my goodbyes to Seth and his machine street smarts. I did my best to avoid the crowds of middle and highschoolers while heading to the secondary building, down the band hallway and into my classroom. The second I found my seat, the bell rang, and I sighed. I was usually late, and the band professor would scold me for it. I didn't decide to have my third period be in the other building, or that my flats made it almost impossible to walk. I’d always trip over my own feet and scruff up the fake leather at the tips of my shoes. I sat down in my chair and lay my head down onto the music stand and waited for instruction to start, hoping that my instructor, Professor Brooks, wouldn’t come in that day and our substitute would let me sleep until it was time to go home.
As soon as the dismissal bell sounded I was out the door and in the freezing 67 degree weather. I hated the cold, I hated how the school's dress code didn’t allow the girls to wear leggings under our skirts even though the tights they offered didn't do anything for us. I was starting to shake a bit as I walked to the soccer portable. My dad was sitting at his desk looking at his cheap computer screen, too focused on the screen to notice me walking up to his desk.
“Dad?” I said, my voice breaking slightly.He looked up at me and smiled,
“Hey kid, how was school?” His voice was cheery as ever.
“It was fine, we didn't do much today.”
His smile faded slightly and he told me to sit down, saying he'd turn the heat up so I wouldn't freeze to death.
I sat at the desk closest to the heater remembering my first day at this school. But it wasn't the same, the portable was new, the paint crisp white with no chipping or imperfections, it looked like a different place from the inside. The outside was painted like the school's old dirty red bricks that looked older than the entire town. My dad had turned the heat up to 85 and sat back in his rolling chair which distracted me for a second. I felt immediately better when the heater shook and turned on. I placed my hand onto the top of the now hot metal and felt the warm air push against my hand as I began to doze off as I waited for my dad to finish what he was doing. I watched the clock hanging above the smudgy whiteboard behind my dads desk. It read 3:53. My hand started burning a bit, i hadn't realized it until i moved it, the red lines from the aluminum metal hurting from the tips of my fingers to my elbow. I began to feel cold again. Without even thinking about it my cheek was already glued onto the heater, it was going to leave a noticeable mark, but I didnt care, I just wanted the warmth radiading straight onto my face. Before I realized it I had fallen asleep and was woken up by my dad. I stretched my legs a bit feeling my joints snap into place with a satisfying sound, My dad had my bag across his body, the strap not adjusted to his size making it look more like an oversized fanny pack. He really gave off those cool suburban dad vibes, especially when he wore button ups or kaki shorts.
the car ride home was filled with silence and  awful country music playing on the radios, no other stations really reached the countryside where our school was. It took nearly 30 minutes for any other station to work. Me and my dad would always count down the time it would take for our favorite station, 187ROCK-ON!, to stop being pure static. It was always the best part of the drive. When my dad would hold the wheel with his knee and play a sickening riff of his air guitar, we'd laugh about it afterwards, then do it again the next day.