From a Distance: Stories in Second Person

09. Back to School

American public high school in a nutshell.

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One day. Damn, kid, you’re a mess. Eyes like colored glass, pretty and blank. Whiteboards that reflect florescent rays into your eyes. Pencils that scrape, scratch, chairs that do the same, accidental eye contact. Glancing away, quickly. Writing in the top right corner, name, bell, teacher, legible, legible. Due Wednesday, remember that, Thursday gets half credit, Friday none. Conferences soon. Backpacks falling, calculator batteries rolling on the floor. Posters fluttering, falling, making a mess. Empty lunch tables and a sun that doesn’t warm. Emptiness, all around. Small talk, but it’s empty, too, superficial, gliding on the surface of the wood polish desks. Hearing too much and saying too little. Blank sheets, lines, due dates, lines, sheets, essays, quizzes, lunch tables, lines, lines, listening but not speaking, speaking but not listening, lines, colored-glass eyes, lined, damn, mess, pencils, lines. Silence, too, despite the noise (because of the noise?) except inside, where voices thunder and reverberate across the walls of your head and collapse like the posters, on the floor. 

One two days. PA announcements, gaffes, feigned laughter, dancing, half-smiles. Shifting a chair away, subtly. The same question in different clothing—Tell me about you or Anything you’d like to tell me? or the stolid Comments? section. The same, uniform answer. Photocopies of each other, memorized answers. Old films and awkward brushings of fingertips. Sorry, sorry, a kick, sorry, a nudge, sorry, books piled in front of the lockers, sorry, waiting, sorry, forgot to finish that, sorry, sorry, sorry, it’s all or nothing, sorry, measured the angles wrong, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry. And sorry again, for good measure. 

One two three days. Misspelled bathroom graffiti in felt-tips, eyeliner notes dropped to an anonymous depressed kid, Damn, kid, snap out of it, torn bindings and notes tucked away in book margins—Peter is gay—assemblies, long, edited speeches, applause, cheers (always the demand for more applause, more cheers). Rain twisting down the glass, cold glass, enthusiasm, school spirit, yes, yes, school spirit, football game Friday, yes, yes, five bucks each, yes. Fall pep rally, class president, yes, clap, yes, more clapping, hashtag, homecoming, clapping some more, high school career, clapping again, louder, freshmen, louder still. Spirit is physical, longitudinal waves bouncing back and forth, traveling through the bleachers. No more rain.

One two three four days. One left. 1-10, rate it. Try-hard, slacker, slut. Trees shiver. Word spreads like rain, fanning out, no one immune. Try-outs, try-outs, cuts, workouts, try-outs, workouts, auditions, captains, try-outs, screams, humiliation a collective blush, torrents of fire, poured over the heads of the unsuspecting coach, the mother, the goalie. Longest month, ever, countdown, chilly, sweater weather, exam prep, not failing, listening, not speaking, not failing. Not thinking, not wondering, not learning. Filling out forms, typing out papers with a structure augmented by simplicity and tedium. Blank white rubrics with a tiny number in blue and, occasionally, the cheerless exclamation points. Picking out shapes in the cracks on the wall, quiet spectators imprisoned in quiet walls. 

One two three four five days. A collective sigh as every breath is expelled into clouds of perfumed vapor. Films, exchanges of glances, great expectations, exclusive party invite smirks, yawning teachers, papers due, naps after tests while furtively texting. Inside jokes and aimless wandering. Avoiding most gazes but that gaze in particular. Looking down and not thinking, not thinking—wanting to not think, anyway, but failing. Minds drifting and touring the room, watching each other, critiquing. Don’t stare, don’t smile, don’t give it away, don’t look, don’t listen, don’t nod or even glance away too fast. Don’t do anything. Paralysis of the upper body, of the facial muscles, of the vocal chords. Wordless terror and stiffness spreading to every branch of the body.

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A/N: Starting August 14th...

"One drop of rain. Clarisse. Another drop. Mildred. A third. The uncle. A fourth. The fire tonight. One, Clarisse. Two, Mildred. Three, uncle. Four, fire. One, Mildred, two, Clarisse. One, two, three, four, five, Clarisse, Mildred, uncle, fire, sleeping tablets, men, disposable tissue, coattails, blow, wad, flush. One, two, three, one, two, three! Rain. The storm. The uncle laughing. Thunder falling downstairs. The whole world pouring down. " Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury