The Difficult Conversation

           

The teacher calls my name. Shakily, I stand up and wave my hand to my new grade 12 classmates. The teacher introduces herself, I don't catch her name but she follows up by saying: "Class, this is our new student. His name is Wolf". As always, a couple students snicker and begin to wonder: who calls their son "Wolf"? "In fact, it's short for Wolfgang," I want to tell them, but instead I sit back down in my seat, found at the back of the class and listen quietly.

Has it already been a month at this new school? I don't even know our team's name yet but I guess I won't be here for long anyways. My parents are always moving around looking for work so I never spend more than a year in the same city. I don't even bother making friends anymore because it has become so useless. Why create bonds that will eventually be broken?

Good news: My English teacher hasn't called on me in class yet! Despite my happiness at this lack of interest in me by my teacher, I don't dislike English. In fact, it's quite the opposite; in my free time, I enjoy reading and analyzing the English language because there are so many beautiful and euphoric terms in it. I like to think that I am a good writer, although my public speaking skills are definitely sub-par. I have an oral presentation coming up at the end of the term. Math, as usual, has been an easy ride since it's pretty much all I do at home. I love math and all the sciences because, only here are others forced to be like me; it's quiet and peaceful. Everything is factual and if you want to solve something, you do it on your own. There's no debating it or analyzing it, you just put in the solutions, follow the mathematical rules and solve it.

Rose.

That's her name.

She told me her name was Rose Paris and that she wanted to talk soon, maybe hang out.

She's beautiful.

She has been mocked for having a funny name like me but I love the sound it makes every time I hear it come out of someone's mouth.  She talks to me but I don't answer her. Usually people just walk away after realizing I won't answer them and call me an introvert (or something worse). I don't see why she keeps trying to be my friend, even though we have most of our classes together, there's no point in talking. I'll be leaving Montreal shortly and everyone will have soon forgotten about my stay. I also refrained from doing my English oral presentation on Hendrick Avercamp. Rose's oral was about Martin Luther King Jr.

On the other hand, I want her to keep talking to me. She doesn't have the light blue eyes every supermodel and movie actress has but I don't care. She has nice, relaxing hazel eyes that feel like they're full of warmth and comfort. But her smile, oh her smile makes my heart skip a beat and dance a tune. Her smile when she talks, when she laughs (not at my jokes obviously, I don't tell any) drives me crazy. Her teeth glisten white like pearls found in the ocean, preserved by a clam that would never let anything harm them. Her small insecurities like the bumps on her forehead and the pointiness of her nose remind me that she isn't entirely a perfect goddess, but a faulty and beautiful human version of one.

Am I crazy?

What is happening to me?

Am I in love?

Then I remember.

I can't be with her.

            How am I supposed to learn more about her? Can I even find the nerve to ask her on a date? How will I ask her on a date? I am worthless and besides, I will be moving away soon. I would just be wasting her time.

At home, my dad tells me that he found a job that should last him a couple months at best. He then goes back to drinking his 40 ounces of Malt Liquor while my mom tries to finish preparing supper before he throws another one of his fits. Usually, he leaves me alone, but sometimes he comes into my room and intimidates me, although I don't believe he has ever hit me. My mother usually suffers the most from his drunken rage because she will often get hit trying to pull him away from me. My mother is powerless against his large, hulking body and she is merely tossed aside like a rag doll. My father's drunken barbarism usually ends with him passing out on his bed while my mother is stuck cleaning up his mess.