inspired by The Breakfast Club
I don't study art but being in that class was my newly found safe house. It didn't take me long to figure this out considering this was my first full week at school. I preferred to keep my self to myself sometimes in a society where who you know and what you do counts but not truly who you are and what you can do.
I had only been at Shermer for a week now and I already had 38 labels tossed at me when I was doing something as simple as eating a sandwich.
"Dyke!"
Because I'm not a fan of dresses.
"Freak!"
Because I have no posse.
"Cherry!"
Because no guy has fucked me in public yet.
Ect.ect.ect.
Conventionally I am not really those things but even if I was I didn't mind because they mean nothing. This generation doesn't truly understand the fact that there is no such thing as 'important'. What could be important to someone like say Claire Standish was completely different to someone like me.
I was content with my own little bubble, painting random lines and shapes on cheap canvases and I didn't want anyone or their designer purses to burst it.
But, it's when you see someone that suddenly puts a billion trillion different ideas into your mind, like what new rug I should get, is what's really important at the moment. Starting a new school was tough, but when you looked forward to something, someone it made it all bearable like the innocent days of childhood.
That happened to me once already this week and he could never like me because we were too similar but so different.
I had nothing at all against the conventional bad boy but I wasn't ready to ditch my parents for a ride into the sunset on a Harley Davidson. I didn't want anyone other than me to ruin the next 30 years of my life until I inevitably die in a hot tub from a drug overdose.
Nevertheless, John Bender was so compelling.
I had guitar blasting in my ears and I felt the pain of how loud it was only when it stopped due to me going to the art cupboard at the other side of class. Class was empty. The teacher gave me some spare keys because she and I bonded over David Bowie and trench coats. She was cool, I was desperate.
I was alone. I went in the cupboard, spotting some white paint that I needed for some snow in my landscape painting just for fun, cursing my genes as I was unable to reach it. I was jumping and stretching and huffing and puffing, I'm sure at one point I even went full ballerina just to get taller. But, it was only when a long arm came out of nowhere and grabbed it for me did I finally feel the cold plastic in my hands.
I gasp, turning around and clutching the bottle as if I was being robbed and that was my purse.
It was my dignity I was holding onto more than anything.
My eyes took a while to travel up the tall frame but the flannel and the white long sleeve undershirt screamed John Bender almost as loud as my brain did as I realised who I shared this place with.
"T-T-T-Thanks..."
As much as I wanted to look at the ground I couldn't. His big brown eyes drew me in harder than if he actually pulled me.
He leant against the narrow doorframe, perfectly lazy hair grazing the top and shoulders framed perfectly by the boxy shirt. I had something similar back home. I was gripping the bottle so hard that when white paint squirted out of the side, I wasn't even shocked until I realised how unnecessarily suggestive that was.
