While You Were Here

Chapter 3

"Well that was fun," remarks Zoe. I stay silent.

"Want to talk about it?" She asks. I shake my head.

"Alright then. Wanna talk about Supernatural?"

I perk right up and Zoe laughs. "Remember when I bought you all seven seasons?"

"I think I cried," I laugh. She grins. "I am pretty awesome."

"Yeah, you almost ran over S.J. Talk about awesome," I say.

"A girl's gotta get her kicks somehow, babe," she jokes. We link arms and Zoe walks me to class.

"Have fun!" she teases, walking away. I elected to take Calculus this year which is possibly the worst mistake I've ever made. Admittedly, I'm in a class full of geniuses who are more than willing to help but there is only so much math I can handle. I fly through the do-now which is an Algebra two review. I see that I have time left so I take out my red notebook. Zoe calls it "The Book of Doom" because I once drew a map of a made up island that existed only in my head. I could tie it into everyday life and it drove her crazy. I doodle quotes onto the page. I have "Bad Moon Rising" stuck in my head and so the margins are filled with bubbled in song lyrics.

I'm halfway through the second verse when I hear ACDC from an obscure corner of the building. A fun fact about our school, in addition to the fact that football is a way of life, is that we have drifters. Drifters are people who never go to class but somehow graduate anyway. Maui is the drifter for the math hallway. His dad was a deadbeat from Hawaii-hence the name- and gave him an intense passion for rock music. So Maui hooked speakers up to his backpack and made a phone port so at any given time classic rock will blare down the hallways. No one really cares anymore, least of all me. I alternate between rock and indie. My two favorite songs are "Black Betty" by Ram Jam and "Ripple" by The Grateful Dead. I listen to "Highway to Hell" before my teacher shuts the door. By then, no one is paying Ms. Jones any attention. She has the deer-in-headlights look so you know instantly she must be a grad student. We eventually calm down when Maui gets hauled off back to class or wherever he goes.

I half listen to the lesson because now there's music in my brain. Sometimes I can hear the marching band practicing and I catch myself trying to match my feet to the beat. I wish I'd marched when I had the chance. Even though I know from secondhand experience that selling your soul requires less work, I still would've loved to do it. Soul selling makes me think of Supernatural, my second love in life. Ryan has long since accepted that talking to me will end in injury if you interrupt me while I'm in the middle of an episode. I think he still has the scar. I love the characters and the dynamic and the storylines and the British cast and Jared's little family and Misha and ugh. All the feels may very well kill me.

"So Colette, how do you do number seven?"

I jerk my head up. "What?"

"Number seven. If you weren't too tired to notice, I'm teaching," teases Ms. Jones.

So that's what the noise was, I think to myself. I mumble a half-assed answer and she rolls her eyes. I listen to her explain and smile and nod. Like any high school senior, I can't imagine a time when I will ever need this crap. I am not going to want to know the slope of a hill and the people who do want to that will have the information right at their fingertips. I know for a fact I will not be one of those people. I'm waiting for a response from my top college, Emerson. They have a special book publishing division that I applied to. I attack the mailman daily waiting for a response.

I try my hardest to pay attention to Jones but it's no use. I start to sketch out an idea for a story featuring two little animals. I have the bare bones of the story planned and even some horrible drawings of a lamb and a giraffe when we get our homework and are sent on our merry way.

My merry way takes me to the band room which some days isn't so merry. I was sacrified upon entry as a freshman. Some idiot named Branden. I nearly broke his face but I ended up bruising my nose. When I walk in, I duck. Somebody was trying to throw a banana into the garbage pail as I tried to walk in.

"JESUS George, watch it," I yell. He rolls his eyes and goes back to his trumpet. I flick an old gum wrapper at him and he flinches. I smirk and walk into the woodwind closet only to have the door shut in my face.

"This is juvenile!" I call out.

"You're juvenile!" I hear Branden yell back.

"You asked for it," I say sadly. I rear back and kick the door open so hard it slams into the wall.

"MOTHER OF GOD!" he howls, leaping backwards.

"I don't think Mary takes calls from douchebags," I say.

"Low blow, Col, low blow," he says, shaking his head.

"You know who else is a low blow?" I joke. "You."

Branden looks at me disbelievingly. "What does that even-no. You know what. I don't even want to know. I can't even."

"I think a ten year old is more articulate than you, honey," I rib him. He flips me the finger in response.

"S.F.C, man, I'm tellin ya," remarks Matt.

"He speaks," I say in wonder. Matt is joined at the mouth with his saxophone. And potentially his section leader but let's not go there.

"I don't want whatever drugs you're trying to sell me," huffs Branden.

"Did someone say drugs?" Jerry Rosen, our resident band stoner jerks awake at the mention of his next high. I smirk at Branden. The poor bastard screws up his A scale thirds and it kills him that I aced them.

"It stands for so f-"

"If you swear, you'll do ten pushups," warns Mr. Carver. I bite my tongue.

"She's been silenced," proclaims Branden. "This is a glorious day! Somebody mark the time! She actually can stop talking!"

"I can't hear you over the sound of my A thirds," I snap. He sits down, red-faced and aggravated. I stare him down as he butchers them and then switches to our concert songs out of shame.

"Damn straight," I say. I wet the reed for my clarinet and we try to outplay each other.

"If you're going to make me go deaf, go do it somewhere useful," says Carver, pointing to the closets.

"Seven minutes in heaven, eh buddy?" jeers Matt.

"I'd rather eat myself," snaps Branden.

"Well don't let me get in the way of your happy ending," I gasp.

"You can go f-"

"PUSHUPS people, PUSHUPS! Your scrawny little buddies are gonna be whipped if you keep this up!" Carver interjects again.

"It's not his upper buddy that's scrawny," I add. Branden chokes on his water and Matt cracks up. Mr. Carver smirks at his laptop screen. In a totally platonic, not-watching-porn kind of way.

"Why doesn't she get pushups for innuendos?" demands Branden. Let us never forget the famous banana incident of 2013.

"It's not punishable if it's the truth, Branden," remarks Carver. Branden stays silent for the rest of class and I sit there, smug and happy.

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