His Blue ✓

1| Class with the QB

      Still, as I watch the students milling around on the lawn, I feel my anxiety kick in. Ignoring the nausea I've become accustomed to, I open up the passenger-side door and step out. I give my mom and Bryn a wave goodbye.

    With the Ford Escape no longer behind me, I'm alone. I put my hood up and stuff my hands into my pockets before slipping through the crowded groups of students.

    When I make it indoors, I trudge to the cafeteria. I get free breakfast every morning, because yes I'm poor... but, I would get it even if I was rich.

     Free is free, and food is food.

    I go up to the line and get my biscuits and then find a small, unsteady booth located in the caf corner.

     A place where no human will disturb me.

    I shake up my chocolate milk and sit my bag beside of me. My backpack sits where a human otherwise would. I let my fingers fumble for the zipper, before I pull it open and take out my composition book.

     Maybe I can get some writing done.

    In no time, I'm writing. Thoughts I have become married to the paper I'm scribbling them on. My ink pen scruffs against the paper, I'm filling pages upon pages with my thoughts.

     I take a bite of biscuit and continue until I hear the morning bell ring. I quickly pile my things back into either my bag or the nearest trash can. I follow the students exiting the cafeteria. When I get to class, I take a seat in the back.

    My teacher, Mr. Hawkins, smiles at me.

    I return it.

    Mr. Hawkins is one of those few teachers that make a draining school day worthwhile. He's thoughtful, helpful, and encouraging. My anxiety is always at bay when he is teaching.

     I get out my composition book, excited to show him my most recent work, when he stands and utters the words I'd never thought I'd hear.

     "Indie Jasper, come here, bring your things. You're being transferred."

    My mouth drops and I grasp at my things before obediently going to stand at his desk.

    "This is your lucky day!" He smiles.

     I frown.

     No no no. I do not do "lucky" or  "transferred" .

     "I've had the guidance counselors change your schedule." He beams at me expectantly. I briefly wonder if he assumes I will thank him.

     Thanks is the last thing on my mind.

     "Why?" I croak. This class, senior English, is my way of expression. Expression without recognition and social suicide, for that matter.

     "Indie, you're a fabulous student. It's only early September and I'm already fascinated by your writing. As much as I'd love to, I can't selfishly keep you in my basic English class. I've had you moved to honors."

     My mouth drops. Honors?

     Everyone knows that honors is a mix of popular jocks that don't belong there but somehow always get advanced placements, nerds that are also full-time dual enrollment students, and artsy kids that are far better at expressing themselves than me.

     I shake my head. "I don't- I don't understand."

     Mr. Hawkins smiles. "I'm going to miss you." He hands me a slip of paper (an excuse for arriving late to my new class) and my new and improved schedule. Surprise surprise... no class is in the same spot.