Out of My Mind

Chapter 1

I sit in the back of the class, in a dusty corner filled with severely outdated English textbooks and crumpled up pieces of paper. The louder kids sit at the front of the class and in the middle, which is practically a student-constructed mosh pit of flying papers and spitballs. Dangerous area, that is. That's where the Cool Kids are.

The paper I'd been working on has sketches of nonexistent creatures, some hanging off of letters and winking at me, others a devilish grin with half of their body off the page, suspicious all-around. I've been done with the assignment for twenty minutes, and since the teacher has failed to provide a second task, there is only drawing and eavesdropping to be done.

One boy, not a part of the Cool Kids but close enough, tells his friend about a girl he likes and is hoping to ask out after gym class. Ugh. Gym. Looking forward to that. Anyway, another student, a girl named Marlene (aka Little Miss Perfect) gossips with her friend about a girl that wore the same outfit for two days in a row. Personally, I think it's unnecessary and mean to talk bad about someone behind their back because of something as petty as wearing the same clothes for two days. I mean, really, what if she doesn't have enough money for new clothes and has to make clothes last? What if she-- oh I don't know-- has a washer and dryer? What if she just likes the outfit? Honestly, it's like these girls think everyone has money to burn.

A guy named Carter, a member of the Cool Kids, talks to another member about shoes. Nike's, Osiris's, Stilettos, what's the difference? They're all shoes. Being me, I wear Converse or Vans because I hate regular sporty looking sneakers and I wouldn't be caught dead wearing Uggs throughout the summer.

"Hey, Lyric-- oh, whatcha drawin'?" says a southern, bubbly girl to me. Karren, her name is. She looks at my sketches with a lock of dirty blonde hair dangling in front of her eyes and gasps. "Are those, um, yours?"

"Yeah," I reply. "They're, uh, some creatures I thought would be cool. To make, I mean. Er, draw." Great. I guess I can't talk now.

Karren laughs lightheartedly and comments, "They're really good. I could never do that."

I mumble something unintelligible, a "thank you" making its
way into the mixture of murmured words. Why can't I speak normally? Like, really?

"Nice," Karren responds to my word jumble. A call from a classmate from the front of the classroom drives Karren away.

Thank God that's over, I think to myself. It's not that I don't like Karren, its that-- however smoothly I may narrate my thoughts-- I tend to stutter and stumble over my own words when I try to voice those thoughts. I go back to doodling.

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At the end of class, when the teacher dismisses us instead of the bell (since only teachers have the authority to dismiss the students rather than the ringing alarm that was made for that sole purpose), students file out into the cramped hallway. Freshmen are trampled, sophomores mind their own business, juniors walk with a bit more authority, and seniors fucking rule the place. Seniors are the ones trampling the freshmen and causing the ruckus in the halls, shouting to each other and using an unpleasant amount of profanity. What's worse is the couples that use their free time making out against the lockers for everyone to see. I'd rather not see that on a daily basis, thank you very much. Teachers have tried desperately this year to separate some couples in particular, but after an abundant amount of detentions, calls home, and emails, they've given up.

I'm in my first year of high school. Yeah, laugh it up, call me annoying, go ahead. Whatever. I'm counting down the days to graduation as much as Charlie from The Perks of Being a Wallflower. When I graduate, I won't have to deal with the stupidity and immaturity displayed so often at school. The schoolwork is okay, I'm good in classes but don't stand out too much, but I would enjoy school so much more if all these people with their flaunting and sympathy-seeking personalities weren't here. School was made for one purpose; to educate. And to make a friend or two, but mostly to educate. And that's what I'm here for, not to judge a person's clothes or lipstick color.

Teenagers bustle down the halls and I stick to the edge of the action, near the lockers, while I walk. A few say hi to me, mere acquaintances, but one girl jumps on my back, sending my backpack flying across the densely packed hallway. This girl happens to be my best friend, and a loud one at that.

"Oh, sorry!" Wen says to me. "Didn't mean to do that, it's just I'm so excited since this is our first art class together next period but since we have a free period now we can talk about all the stuff we're going to do and I'm really happy right now and there's this new guy that's been looking at me for, like, all of third period, and gosh what if he asks me out? What will I wear? Where will it be? When will he even ask me out? What if--?"

"Wen, chill. He's just been looking at you. Dear help him if he holds your hand, that'll be a marriage proposal in your mind, " I interrupt her rambling while making my way toward my launched backpack, cramped between the moving students and temporarily separated from Wen.

I make my way back by shoving through the current of students. . . the students in a school (like fish), following a current. Gotta love those pointless puns.

Wen is still talking: ". . .and I know but he's new to the town and what if he ends up being one of those scenarios where he's just, like, all mysterious and I try to get to know him and it's all romantic and--" she says, stopping herself before she gets too off track.

"Just go with the flow," I advise (being a hippy at heart). Wen has a habit of overthinking things. And talking for long periods of time with way too much speed and not nearly enough relevance.

"Fine. Okay. I'm cool. I've got this," she steels herself.

We shove our way out of the overpopulated hallway, through the school doors, and sigh with relief as the peach tree at the front of the school greets us along with the wooden picnic table that's been etched to death with things like "A+J" and "this school sucks" and some inappropriate phrases I'd rather not go into detail with.

I sit down at the worn table, trying my best not to get a splinter on my legs or butt. Not doing that again.

"Lyric?" Wen asks after setting herself gently down on the bench.

"Mmm?"

Rather than being some philosophical, thought-requiring question, she inquires, "What did you get for number fourteen on the math homework?"

I take out my math assignment and wonder how long this free period will last