The Firefly Field Theory

|10| The Art Of Bemoaning: Part IV

PART IV:

Things didn’t look to good at first, with Ritz spreading her dark energy in one corner of my room, and Wall-e crumpled up in a ball under his bed. But then we split up to tackle the problem or problems.

Omi went to handle the class ‘sensitive’ issue. But Bravo was kind enough to give him the tip to get it done quickly.

 Pinky swear.

 Apparently, the fifteen year old boy believes in the pinky swear like a priest in monogamy. I don’t know what Omi said to him as a pinky promise, but whatever he said got Wall-e really hooked. I could hear them laughing together about something. Best buds again.

Bravo and I tried to convince Ritz, while she avidly threw poetized comebacks at us. Since I have zero experience with Poemos, her verses threw me off massively. It was almost admirable, had it not been insulting to admit. Because of my sheer lack of interest in poetry throughout high school, I found myself poorly equipped against her versified onslaught. I always thought poetry was as useful as used tampon. I never imagined I would come across such an ordeal, where you need to know verses better than your curses. Otherwise get ready to bleed from the ears, bitch.

 I don’t even know how the hell, she thinks them up so fast. Must be years of practice. Much to my embarrassment, it took me a while to both understand and respond to her. And when I got tired of all the understanding and responding, I utilized a mechanism dating back to the early mornings of strenuous mental workout; where Mr. Turner, my former English teacher, read Whitman in class

I nodded. I nodded repeatedly. I nodded the crap out of head.

I like to imagine it was my nodding that kept Mr. Turner from pointing me out in class, a task he thought himself to have an eagle eye for. Also, it was my nodding that convinced Ritz to come along and tolerate Omi for about fifteen minutes. So that makes me not useless, God please give me a chance to pen down these legendary methods of survival before I die.

Now the situation is under control, I excuse myself to go and change into something less obscene and oddly incorrect before leaving. There is a buzz going through me, the kind prey often experiences in close proximity of a predator. I’ve encountered bullies for a major part of my life, but the inescapable consciousness comes as a package deal that never expires. I lock the bathroom door behind me, and pull the red hoodie of, it electrifies my hair a little and some of them rise up. I can’t help but double check, and am weirdly disappointed to find what I expected; there is in actuality the same repulsive statement stamped on my sanity in big, bold, white font.

I change into a baggy grey baseball shirt and sweatpants, in hopes that this would look both masculine and intimidating.

It doesn’t.

Whenever I wear a loose shirt, it hangs from my frame and my chest fails to make an impression. Creating an illusion that I’m a guy. If I ever chose to wear something a little more figure-hugging I suppose people won’t assume I’m a guy.

My shoulders are broad and their width is basically the entire definition of my body. The selected width of my shoulders extends in a boringly straight alignment down to my hip line. It never tapers down or shows any particular variation even past the edges of my ribcage. It’s like God placed a five foot five inch ruler down on a flat piece of tanned leather, and cut its shape out with a razor blade. No curve along my length. My stomach is flat but it’s not the tinnie tiny waist of a super model either. Every part of me comes with an exception. And screw the world, I can live with exceptions.

I step out of the bathroom, it’s about six.

I pop my head through the doorway and ask, “Are we leaving yet?”