We'll Burn Brighter

oliver

Why does God hate me?

I ask, sometimes shout, this question quite often. Whether it be because I stubbed my toe, had my phone die right when I need it, or because God made me a dirty bisexual, the question, in all its forms, is asked often. However, I've never asked it in an authentic, who-pissed-in-the-higher-powers-cereal way. That is until God put me in Melissa Learny's classroom at 4:47 p.m. with Noah Andersen on a warm August afternoon. 

There are so many other things I could be doing right now, but I'm tutoring Noah Andersen. I knew as soon as Learny approached the subject that she was going to ruin my life. Call it dramatic; I can't help but replay the memory in my head with Ave Maria playing over it."

Are you looking for good karma?" she asked, to which I responded with:

"I volunteer at the humane society on Saturdays, I'm good." 

And of course, Learny wouldn't leave it at that. 

"Come on, Oli," she pleaded. "I really think you tutoring Noah would help him. I'd let you get National Honor Society hours for it."

"I'd rather eat nails."

"Please?"

I knew she wouldn't drop it. That's why I love Learny—her determination is stunning. While that's usually a good trait, it was shoving a steak knife into my thigh then. "

"Fine."

After that, she asked me why I hated Noah Andersen so much. Maybe the resentment is a little rampant and a little biased, but what resentment isn't? The answer to her question was this: he was the antithesis of me. Not in the right way, the "opposites attract" way, the unabridged joy to unabridged misery way. He didn't take anything seriously. He makes Gov + Econ miserable. Why is he taking an AP class if he isn't going to give a fuck? He doesn't realize that AP classes aren't for shenanigans. They are for suffering—pain. Everyone should just get them over with and try to move on from the trauma afflicted by the College Board.

However, no matter how much I curse God, I'm still sitting across from Noah Andersen.

"This is dumb," Noah says, staring off.

"Tragic," I say.

"I don't know why this class takes this much studying," he says.

"If you don't want to study, I wouldn't recommend taking one of the hardest classes in this building," I say. "That's just my opinion."

"Ah," Noah says, standing up out of his chair. 

"That would require common sense, which is something that plebeians like me lack." You finally say something accurate. I can't help but let out a laugh.

"So he does have the ability to laugh," the brunette says, approaching the cinderblock wall. "I'm shocked." I watch as he starts to do a handstand against the white surface. His long sleeve shirt falls down his torso, revealing his admittedly toned body. I feel the blood rush to my cheeks. Why were the annoying ones the hottest?

"What are you doing?" I ask.

"Doing a handstand," Noah says, his shirt covering up his face. "What does it look like?"

"Clownery," I say with another laugh. Where the hell did that come from?

"Clownery?" Noah says. "I call it a focus strategy."

"Care to explain?" I ask him.

"Handstands make the blood rush to your head," he says, then falls out of the stand. "It also makes you blush." Another example of God hating me—I'm in the minority of black people who can noticeably blush.

"Wha—" I'm interrupted by his phone ringing.

"It's five," he said. "See ya." I stare at him as he grabs his bag and leaves the room. I can't stand him.