The Columnist

Chapter 2.

Maggie's classroom is exactly five doors away from mine and six away from the cafeteria. Don't ask why I am counting this, I just am. It comes naturally when you have a logical brain, I guess. It takes exactly three minutes and forty three seconds to get to her classroom, the entire time filled with her tech-talk and my own dreary thoughts.

Six seconds. That's how long it takes her to get inside her classroom and close the door behind her. Fifteen seconds. That's how long it takes me to get to my desk in my own classroom. My teacher does the usual. He introduces himself and then goes around, asking each of us to introduce themselves. When finally, after seemingly a thousand different names that I already recognize, it is my turn, I offer a simple, "Lizzy Hail. Liz, most call me."

"Well, hello, Liz," the teacher greets. He gives me a smile, something I don't return. I simply turn my attention back to the doodle of a rose I have going along the edges of my paper. On the paper are several questions about myself - what is my favorite color, food, where am I from, do I like it here at Jacklyn, am I a hands-on learner, ect - but I haven't answered any of them. No instead I've gotten quite far along in my detail sketch of a thorny bleeding rose.

"Alright, class, answer your questions now. And tonight I expect you to write a full paragraph for the first question. I want a paragraph for each question done by the end of the night, laid out sort of like an autobiography," Mr. James explains. He waves his hands in a go on motion.

I look at my paper blankly, unsure. I want to finish my rose - I'm missing three petals on the right side and two in the back as well as half the stem, though that part looks kind of bad-ass - but I also want to get this paper over with. Honestly I've never been much of a school person. I keep to myself, bury my head in books or pour my heart into writing my own stories and poetry, but I've never been into the socializing that comes with school or the focus that comes with classes.

I return my attention to the question after a moment of tapping the end of my pencil absently against the bridge of my nose, which attracts a disapproving glance from Mr. James. 

1. What is your favorite color? Why?

Below it I write a quick word. A specific word. I don't just like red, I like a specific shade of red. A crimson color, a bit darker than blood but a lot lighter than, say, an apple. So I jot down, crimson. Darker, even. Because it's lighter than black but darker than white. Next question. Okay, I got this. I can do this.

2. What is your favorite food, drink, etc?

I've never understood the necessity of a favorite food, I scribble busily. It all goes to the same place. It's like saying you had a favorite sin, but all sins take you to the same place, right? How can one be your favorite? The sentence is true to me. I never understood why you need a favorite food. I remember asking my Mother at a young age why others always asked me what my favorite food was, but she never gave me a straight answer.

3. Where are you from?

I begin etching the words, Oregon is beautiful. Full of green trees and blue skies during summer, while having brief storms and snow fall during winter and fall. Spring is the best. Everything is blooming and bright. 

I'm barely done with that when the bell rings, signaling the end of first period. As I quickly clip the paper into my binder, I wonder idly if Maggie has second period - art. I don't particularly like art, but there wasn't much else unless I wanted to take an off period to do the school newspaper. I guess that wouldn't be so bad, but I don't like the idea of sharing my thoughts with all of Jacklyn Monroe. Would you want to? Didn't think so.

I leave my class and make my way slowly towards art class, wanting to relish the last few minutes before I reach the room. I don't want to take the class, honestly, and think about skipping - which isn't that big of a deal here, I mean no one ever does anything about it - but I don't take pleasure in the idea. Skipping has never been my thing.

So wrapped up in my thoughts I don't even hear Maggie's words until she is half way through a sentence. Hell, I didn't know she was there until half way through her sentence. I glance at her and gave a small grunt of acknowledgement. She may be my best, and only, friend but I don't need to play nice. She knows I love her.

"Well then, grouchy." She mumbles.

Okay, maybe she doesn't. At least not at this moment. I should say something to make her feel better - Maggie is delicate - but I can't find the right words. Another thing I've never been good with. I can't comfort worth a dime. I'm a useless friend sometimes. I can't help Mag through her bullying issues or her self consciousness. I wish I could, but I can't.

So I settle for a quiet sorry and a forced smile. She looks like she'd rather slap me than accept my apology, but she instead nods and continues on her way with hurried steps and a ducked head. She ducks into a class room marked with a sign indicating that it's a math class. I guess she doesn't have art with me. Dammit. I shake my head and turn to the art door, decoratively painted with an aquarium, and go inside. Art class, yay. I said yay.

Just as I predicted, the class is boring. Another round of introductions, questions and other stuff. Except this time rather than asking us to write about us the teacher - whose name I've already forgotten - asks us to sketch out something about us. That's good. I've always been good at drawing. Hey, I said I didn't like art. Never said I wasn't good at it.

So I sit there and sketch out my thoughts and feelings and whatnot and once the bell rings I leave and the rest of the day goes on in this wonderfully uninteresting fashion, with me not wanting to be there and Maggie not being there.

When lunch finally comes, relief bubbles up inside me like a geiser. I rush happily from the last class and out into the lunch room, already pulling out the little card with my lunch number on it as I push through the line to grab a trey of inedible pizza.