Simply Stanford

Chapter 2

I lightly jog to my next class. English is probably one of my worst subjects, so I always procrastinate by talking to Abbey, since Hazel frantically leaves everyday. This class isn't as close to the cafeteria as my math class, so it's a bad idea to procrastinate like this, but I really don't care. Fuck English class.

The warning bell rings, notifying everyone that class will start in one minute. I speed up a bit and make it into my seat with a few seconds to spare.

The classroom is pretty ordinary. Desks all in neat rows. Encouraging posters that don't actually encourage anyone are scattered on the painted white brick walls. The white board has the day and the bellwork written in cursive that no one really reads except for the teacher.

The teacher, Mr. Wilson is a cheerful middle aged man with thinning brown hair, and green eyes you can tell have seen it all. While he's a cool person, I hate the subject he teaches. I get I need to know how to read and write, but who cares about rising action and falling action? I'd like to just enjoy the story for once.

I unzip my bag and quickly pull out the needed supplies: notebook, laptop, pencil and a couple of pens for grading. I don't notice the person sitting in the normally deserted desk next to me.

The bell rings and some of the students that were talking to their friends scramble to get in their seats while the teacher keeps talking out in the hallway. Only then did I notice a pair of curious eyes staring at me.

I instinctively shrink down into my seat, then scold myself. Honestly, this is why no one sees you as a male. Sit up, be confident. Do what other boys do. I sit back up, and start to feel my heart again. Dammit, this morning really threw me off. I start to turn to the pair of eyes, pleading in my head, Please don't notice my chest, my round face, my high pitched voice.

I pull at my shirt out of habit, and make eye contact as my thoughts start to focus on everything wrong. Don't notice, don't notice, please just don't notice!

He has dirty blond hair, and grey eyes. His face looks soft, matching his expression. My hands start shaking as I realize how attractive he is. No, don't think like that. People are going to think your a straight girl!

"Hi" I say, and almost flinch. Too high pitched. Why did I speak? I should have kept quiet. He definitely noticed. I should have kept silent, pretended that I didn't see him. Why did I speak?

"Hey! I'm Harriet," he says, and surprisingly puts out his hand to shake. Most teenagers just wave or do finger guns, or just nothing at all.

"Stan," I mutter my preferred name, and beg that he doesn't notice how soft my hand is. How girly it must feel.

I quickly retract my hand and awkwardly shove both of them in my pockets. While sitting down. Oh my god he must not want to sit here now. What if he doesn't like me and all of my unholy awkwardness? I smile slightly at the ridiculas term. Unholy awkwardness? What other kind of awkwardness is out there?

"You don't really look much like a stan?" He questions. Here we go. My heart starts pounding stronger.

"Um, yeah I'm... I'm trans" I say quietly, hoping he understands.

"Ah, okay," he says casually. "So what pronouns do you prefer?"

Relief floods through me, and I smile genuinely. "He/him, please" I answer, more confidently then before. Maybe I really should befriend him.

Mr. Wilson walks through into the classroom with a hearty "Good afternoon 6th hour"

There was a mixed reply of "Good afternoon Mr. Wilson" and "Good afternoon 6th hour teacher".