Honest || h.s.

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Harry.

Their eyes follow me like search lights. I'm trapped as I force my feet, one after another, blue after orange, down the busy hallway. They didn't even need to be there to know what happened. My red cheeks tell them just as much as the whispered rumor does, following me like fire across the school. Everyone is gasoline, wearing bright red sports team sweatshirts and white shoes. My eyes are burning from trying not to cry. The gasoline paves a direction for the fire to take. 

Maybe I'm the gasoline. It seems to trail behind as I make my way to Physics.

"Is that him?" mutters a boy in a striped shirt. He's shorter than me, and doesn't wear glasses. His friend does, the one who shrugs.

"I think so."

I tell him that his shoes are untied, closing my eyes in embarrassment. The other friend snickers.

"Freak..."

More red sweaters. The school spirit practically radiates off this group of people. I try to stay close to the lockers, but they notice me anyway.

"Hey, Hazza," drools a particularly large one. I look up, straight into his face. "Is it true you called Ms. Green fit?"

"Yes!" I whimper and tear my eyes away, hurrying faster down the stretch of floor between me and my sanctuary. 

The red sweaters are moving out of my way, snickering and calling me names that hurt my feelings. People seem to forget about how they were taught when they were younger not to hurt other people, physically or verbally. But I have no room to complain. People make me very emotional, on occasion, and I, too, have said things I didn't mean.

"You aren't being nice," I say to someone. She's staring straight at me as I near the door to the classroom. Her sneakers are blue, and her sweater is grey, but I won't have it. Not any of it.

She begins to shake her head. "Harry, I don't--"

"I would like to get to class," I dip my head, on the verge of tears. "Please."

"I don't care what they're saying about you. Listen--"

"I would like to get to class," I plead, hugging my books. The floor makes a pattern. Diamonds of red and grey, red and grey. I don't like the floor. Not only is it dirty, it isn't appealing.

She is quiet as she steps aside, and I feel like I have hurt her feelings. I hurry past, as if ducking through a closing doorway, taking a breath when I finally reach my seat and sit down. The back of the class is quiet; nobody comes this early. I sit and I wait for it all to be over. One more class. Then home.

The sky out the window I sit near is a hazy blue. My eyes watch a black bird float by and land on a lilac tree. Curiosity instills in my chest, making my heart flutter at the small animal's behavior. He collects himself neatly, flapping his wings to rile the feathers on his chest. I don't realize I'm smiling until the boy next to me laughs quietly. I look over. He's got gages and a ripped black hoodie, but no red. I frown, and do my best to say nothing. I mumble a lyric under my breath, hoping that the glaze of would-be tears in my eyes disperses soon.

"What are you looking at, Harry?" he drawls, quiet so the teacher doesn't hear.

"A beautiful bird," I breathe out on command, curling my fingers on the edge of the desk.

"A beautiful bird?" He's making fun of me. His tone is innocent, but I am not. I know their tricks. I want to disappear. He sat next to me for this very reason.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

"What's the bird's name, Harry?"

"If I knew, I would tell you."

"Name it. Give the bird a name," he urges. His friend, a seat over, is filming with his phone.

"Lenny," I mumble, pulling my knees together and my arms to my sides. My eyes lock on my hands, in front of me.

"Lenny?"

My knuckles are turning white on the edge of the desk.

He scoffs, then, per request of his friend, moves on to another question. "Why did you hit on Ms. Green?"

"I didn't," I turn my face away.

"Thomas and Duce, leave Harry alone," warns Mr. Cobalt from his desk. They slip the phone out of view, adjusting themselves to face forward.

"What a freak," one murmurs, glancing sideways at me.

I'm shivering. It's never been this hard. There have been rough days, here, but never this bad.

I should have distracted myself when Ms. Green asked what I was thinking. I should have avoided the question, or used my emergency pass to leave the room. I shouldn't have opened my mouth. She had been asking about The Great Gatsby, and how I felt about the book, not about her. I knew that. It was the stupid way I think. No other kid would have made the mistake. I wish I were still home schooled. The tutor never minded how open I was. But then, I also didn't think the tutor was beautiful.

With a whimper, I lay my head down on my desk, trying to block out the stares as students file into the room. The bell rings; class begins. We're educated on the sciences of movement. The teacher avoids me when he popcorns the class for answers. I feel small, or at least, I want to. I don't want to be here. 

The girl with the grey sweater and blue shoes keeps looking at me from the front of the room. I think she's new, because I've only started to notice her around this week. She's pitying me and I don't like it. The sooner she learns that I can't properly communicate with her, the better.

I'm just kind of a burden.

The whiteboard is covered in orange marker, which would look good next to her blue shoes, but instead of comparing, I look down. My own shoes are blue and orange. I'll compare my own shoes, not hers. Jackson Sommers suggested that I wear what colors interest me. I don't think he knew I would be made a fool of for it, but I still do it, anyway.

"Makes sense," I say aloud, then sink lower in my seat in embarrassment. Mr. Cobalt looks at me, raising his brows at my remark.

"I'm glad you're following us, Harry."

I nod, and don't exhale again until he continues on with the lesson.

Carefully, trying to look inconspicuous, I pull out my miniature sketchbook and begin to doodle. The grey lines of my pencil aren't as good as my paints at home, but they allow me to sketch out a scene with a youthful, dark-feathered bird in a blooming spring lilac tree. The bird is about to spread his wings, the tree is bursting with life. It's not as good as the picture in my head, but it's enough. I hide the work from Duce and Thomas, who keep glancing over. But I know that it's sitting underneath my textbook, and even though I can't see it through Kirchoff's Law, I know it exists. And I smile.