Living Dreams

Rut

Paisley Wolfe, small and quiet. Maggie Hurst, curvy and loud. One would think I would go with the girl I didn’t want to punch in the face every minute. One would be wrong. Why? Those damned expectations . . .

I seriously have no idea how this happened but when I moved here in third grade, I was cool. I was from somewhere other than this “godforsaken town” as they called it (though it would probably be “Godforsaken” because most of the kids are Catholic conservatives. Or at least the adults are; the kids are so bored of sitting in church that they became atheists. That’s my theory at least). Point is I was cool. I wore these glasses with thick black frames that covered most of my face. When I took them off people thought there was another new student because they couldn’t recognize me. Mommy gave me a bowl cut (and I still called her and call her Mommy). I played and I play with Lego’s. And my music taste isn’t some trashy white girl with that computer music in the background. Point is I’m not sure why I’m cool but I was cool in third grade and the façade continues on now.

Girls say I have a charming dimpled smile and lack a douche-like demeanor. I grew out of the glasses and a nice face emerged. I still have a bowl cut though. It suits me well I am told . . . by Mommy . . . while she places a bowl over my head. But I’m six foot seven, I dress like some actor all the girls wet themselves over, and I play football in the fall, basketball in the winter, and baseball in the spring.

I’m pretty smart too. But the cool kids don’t care about that. I could have graduated a year early too but I stayed back. I had my reasons.

Maggie appeared out of nowhere. She had these piercing blue eyes and tumbling blond hair that she twists into a new hairdo every time I see her. She was five feet of arrogance and eight inches of snootiness.

She tilted her head back and puckered pink lips. Remember what I’d said about damned expectations? Well, apparently cool guys have to date cool girls. And Maggie is so cool. She’s so cool that even the cheerleaders are beneath her. They scrap together a reason to talk to her. She’s there in the female hierarchy and I’m here in the male hierarchy with a dimpled smile, the occasional sports jacket, and the athletics. They say it’s only natural that we’d be high school sweethearts.

I gave her a small peck on the lips, ever so small and so very awkward. I was immediately reminded of why they were wrong on the “high school sweethearts” theory.

I made an effort though. “The freshmen did their mural this weekend. Do you want to go see it?”

Maggie snarled. She snarls a lot. “I heard [insert popular person male] and [insert popular person female] broke up last night. I want to go catch the latest gossip.”

That’s not what she actually said:  “I want to go catch the latest gossip.” She said something else that means that without saying it. But she might as well just admit she wants to collect dirt on people. But she won’t. And she never will.

“See you!” she whistled to me as she scampered off. She doesn’t want me going with her while she does her dirty work.

I went over to the mural. There was a wall by this one stairwell that had been embarrassingly blank for years. They finally had a contest between the seniors, juniors, sophomores, and freshmen to see who could come up with the best design. The freshmen were the only ones that cared so they won. Sometimes giving a damn about something can get you the win. Not always but it can be a general rule if applied carefully.

The design was all of the little freshmen’s handprints on the wall in school colors. They all wrote their names on their handprint and it all spelled out the school’s initials. Not a bad idea, considering the seniors drew a lousy picture of our mascot that said something that was supposedly clever in a talk bubble.