Something Bad

Chapter Ten: Leather Jacket, Converse, and All

      “That we do,” Preston agreed, looping his arm through mine so that there was still a good amount of air distancing us from one another, but contact still made. Because it was within my extremely restricted comfort zone, I chose to not remove myself from the position. “Shall we, Livers?”

      “Uh, yeah,” I rolled my eyes at his antics.

      “Bye, sis,” Preston bid. “Nice seeing ya, Matty boy.”

      “You too,” Matt countered eagerly, “Bye, Olivia.”

      “Goodbye, Matt Smith,” I said politely. “Piper, please don’t get pregnant by third period.”

      “Oh, shut up!” Piper rolled her eyes at me playfully, grabbing Matt’s hand and walking away before Preston and I could. After they had gone about yard, she turned back to her brother and me and stuck out her tongue childishly. At that, Preston and I just laughed, commencing our journey to our first (and my favorite) class that would allow us to delve into the linguistics of one of the greatest languages created by man: English.

      Though we weren’t skipping or singing and there was a carpet below our feet of a burgundy with specks of brown in it, I couldn’t help but feel as though there was some likeness to Dorothy and her crew as they bounced down the yellow brick road. Maybe it was just the arm-in-arm thing. I was certainly no Dorothy, and the closest Preston was in the Wizard of Oz analogy was probably the Tin Man, for at times it appeared as though he lacked a heart—from an emotional standpoint, of course. Preston never actually was bereft of the vital organ. That would’ve been bad.

      The more I thought about it, the more flaws I found in my metaphorical comparison. If any character, I would’ve probably barred the most resemblance to the “Wicked Witch of the West,” for she was misunderstood. Also, I happened to have seen the musical and read the book more times than deemed rational that sprouted from who the green-skinned “villain” really was.

      Wicked. The music, story, theme, lessons, and overall everything about the musical was perfect. The protagonist was an outcast, only having ever experienced life looking in from the outskirts. It took such a classic antihero that petrified little kids and, through song and enchantment, told her story. The first time I saw Wicked, I cried. I never cry. I cried because there was so much about Elphaba (the Wicked Witch of the West) that resonated with me. The most recent (and fifth) time I had seen it, I also cried. There was just something so compelling and relatable about Wicked that I loved.

      “She is so hot,” I heard Preston mutter under his breath as we entered the room that I at times sought consolation or used as haven of silence. A faint grin materialized on my face as I inhaled the familiar scent of must and aged books that greatly differed from that of the library, for I actually enjoyed spending time in this particular classroom.

      “I’m not even going to ask whom,” I mumbled back, as both our arms found their respective places back at our sides.

      We continued into the class, stopping in the front row of seats, as was customary. There weren’t assigned seats in the class, but everyone had their seat. An unofficial habitual seating arrangement had been made since the beginning of the year within the class. Since it was an Advanced Placement (AP) course, the majority of the students were geniuses on fast tracks to the Ivy Leagues. And then there were people like Preston and me.

      Now, Preston wasn’t exactly what one would refer to as “dumb,” for he was actually relatively intelligent. That being said, he wasn’t the brightest bulb in the batch, either. He was smarter than his sister (though it wasn’t a hard standard), and put in more effect than I. Alas, he was an athlete, and his loyalties lay with the world of sports—not academics, no matter how much potential he may have had.