space • girlxgirl

Prologue

Philosophy is bullshit. High and mighty white men spewing shit about convoluted ways the world works. You know there's one theory that explains that nothing ever touches? Because "if you divide space in half, you never reach zero." But everything reaches zero at some point: the soda in a bottle, a person's life span, the space between us, and my patience for fucking philosophy. God, how long can one class last? One quick glance at the clock tells me twenty more minutes. Wonderful. Maybe I can stare at the back of Derrick's head for the remainder of this hell. Wow, nice bald spot, jackass. That's what you get for not returning my pencil last week. It was a mechanical one, too, you dumb-
"Pearl!" Oh, dear god. "Is it just me, or are you zoning out in the middle of my class?"
I clenched my hand into a fist and sighed, fighting the urge to not snap. "How many times do I need to tell you not to call me by my last name?" I muttered, nearly inaudibly.
Mr. Conch let out a hearty, boastful, ugly old man laugh. "Well, it seems like I can't hear you. Just like you couldn't hear me announce your homework for tonight. Tragic. At least pretend to do your classwork, Pearl."
I want to scream at him that my name is not, in fact, Pearl, and rather that it's Katherine Pearl. However, I also want to call him a condescending prick, but I'll cut my losses and keep my mouth shut. I still won't give in and lose my sanity over his bullshit classwork, though. So instead, I opt to doodle on a scrap of paper until the bell rings. Soon, spaceships and stars and intergalactic alien gals litter the paper in a disorganized fashion.
The end comes sooner than I thought it would, and I sign my masterpiece with a bold lettered "Katherine," and meekly beside it, a faint "Pearl." I stuffed it in between the bottom of the desk and the spot where the leg meets it, grabbed my bag, and blasted out of the room.
The halls explode with teenagers, shoving and yelling, jeering with their buddies, all trying to exit the school. I can't blame them, it's hell being in here for 8 hours, and I'm particularly excited to have a date with Orange is the New Black all night. And definitely not doing anything for that dick of a teacher, Conch.
The walk home is uneventful. Step after step, I try my best to ignore the sweltering heat, and ponder why the hell some old guy would ever believe that space between two people can never equal zero.
-
You know, one thing I agree with that these dumb old philosophers say, is that all good things must come to an end. And every single one of them ends when I step foot in this fucking classroom. Conch calls me cynical, I call him a dick who's teaching a useless class. Everyone's got an opinion, I guess.
Here's another good thing that must come to an end: chewing gum. You have it in your mouth for two damn seconds and suddenly it feels like you're chewing on saliva putty. You know what'll grind Conch's gears? Gum under his desk. I fake a cough, and suddenly the saliva putty is in my hand. Disgusting. I slyly squish it under the desk, and as I draw back my hand, it brushes against a square of paper. My drawing must still be there. Well, good, I'll add to the masterpiece to pass the time.
But it isn't mine. This square of paper is folded much more neatly, with crisp folds that align with each other. Who could have left this alarmingly perfect square, and more importantly, who stole my paper filled with cute space girls? Disgruntled, I unfold the pristine piece of paper as gracefully as I can, however I am uncoordinated, and my fingers jumble together even when doing this simple task. The paper is unfolded but wrinkled, no longer pristine. Even the handwriting is neat.

Dear KATHERINE Pearl,

The author of this note took liberty to bold my first name and faintly add my last, just as I had on the original paper. I appreciate that.

I found your drawings, and they're really quite impressive. I personally favor the one where the astronaut is plugged into the Earth by an electrical cord on his suit. However, the one of the girl with cartoon aliens covering her breasts is very creative, too.

It's incredibly hard not to laugh at loud as I read that sentence. The use of the word "breasts" makes this anonymous author sound like one of my grandparents. Who says "breasts" anymore? I bet old white philosophers do.

I'm assuming you drafted these doodles because you're bored in this class. Well, I'm drafting a response to your doodles because I'm bored with this class. I can't stand philosophers, they draft up ideas about the world because they're so aristocratic and well-off to the point where they don't need to deal with common problems of the average person. Which, I think, is a tad bit stupid.
I don't know why I'm ranting to you. I don't even know you, you may love philosophy. In that case, I take all of that back. Philosophers are lovely and have a wonderful creative outlook on life.
Write me back, if you find this. Maybe we can fill time in each other's classes with these notes.
Have a nice day!
Signed,
Quinn

I'm momentarily stunned, both at the fact that a person would write me such a long and invested note based upon my scribbly doodles, and that this person sounds like a 1920's bourgeois. I stare down at the neat handwriting laid against lined paper with crisp folds, aside from the dent I put in the bottom right corner. A sly smile lands on my face, and I decide that doing my classwork just isn't for me today. I remove a piece of paper from my binder and get writing.

hello quinn,
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