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The days dragged by dreadfully. It was routinely, I would walk to school rather than catch a ride from Steve, endure the lengthy classes and lonely lunches, then head back home to my room to be locked until the next morning. The most mundane living I'd ever experienced. I even found myself getting sick every time I looked at the colors of my walls, a warm blue, which after gazing at so aimlessly I wish I'd made a more mature color. The only person I could think to talk to at that point was Dallas, but he was locked away and there was no way I would be allowed to see him.
Sodapop and Two-bit were two others I considered joining at lunch, but they sat with Steve and I didn't want to put myself through that awkward experience, so i sat lonesome at a vacant circular table by the garbage. It smelt rancid but I figured it was better than the tension I'd have sitting next to my brother. I'd go to the library sometimes and read, since they had a copy of the book Mr. Hanson had given me. My father had taken it away in hopes that sitting with nothing to do in my room would straighten me out. Kind of his job, I found myself thinking when I gazed up at my ceilings with nothing else to do.
When he'd first found out after his day from work, Steve was waiting patiently in the kitchen to tell him. Hands locked and everything, he looked like an anxious mother. I sat on the sofa with my eyes rolled to the back of my head for an hour before my father came home clad in his police uniform, brow cocked wondering what all the tension was about. Steve dropped the news, my dad gave me a scornful look and grounded me without much hesitation. Then, he proceeded to take away my book that Mr. Hanson expected me to finish that Wednesday. All in all, other than the obligated grounding he didn't look too shaken up, maybe a little disappointed but I'm sure he'd gotten over in a few minutes time.
The first week locked up in my room, I'd finished my essay. I had some paper I scrounged from my brother and a pencil I'd discovered lying at the bottom of my desk. The tip was dull and I didn't have a sharpener, but then again, I didn't care all too much of what my english teacher thought of me. For all I cared, he could give me an F and I'd be content, because personally, I didn't have too much of an opinion on Romeo and Juliet.
So that's what I wrote about. Of course I'd taken into consideration Mr. Hanson's words on the topic, but they still didn't do me much good. In a brief synopsis I considered them immature and young, which is a fact, but never in love. Love is something strong, but I didn't think that's what they felt; maybe it was their impulsiveness that drove them to suicide, instead. But surely not love. Of course, my english teacher wouldn't agree, but then again he thought everything had a deeper meaning. Maybe he was right, maybe I just couldn't see it.
I'd finished the essay that friday, a week since leaving Dallas in jail. When I was writing he was all I could think about. Our impetuous acts, the foolish things I'd done because of the way it made me feel. Kind of like Romeo and Juliet, in a delinquent sort of way. I figured Steve was right and Dallas was bad news, but I wasn't sure if I wanted to end my rebellious escapade just yet. I was sort of enjoying it.
