Deja Vu (Take Two)

Will-1

Dedicated to a world worth saving, and people worth saving it with. 

My brother is gone.

I scan the crowds to check if this is some joke, then look beside me as if he might appear, unimpressed by my forgetfulness (like a scornful pair of glasses that had been situated on your head throughout the five-second heart attack their absence caused). He is neither visible from the crowd nor is he on either side of me, which means amongst the pulsing, chanting mob of ninth graders, I am entirely alone.

Hand shaking, I lift my phone, which has a digital copy of my soon to be routine schedule. All the room numbers mean nothing to me, but I'm going to assume they're in some kind of order, and the main office is about twenty off from my first class. I could always solicit help from the older teenagers set up in corners (like gargoyles... the school thus far is giving me more prison vibes than gothic castle, but we can roll with whatever), but the crowds around the upperclassmen are even more concentrated, and right now the priority would be getting away from people.

I take one last look out at the crowd, then down to my phone. Adam and my mom are the only two people I've texted within the last week. I open the conversation to text him, but nothing seems sufficient. I stand there for a moment, reflecting, but after I almost get hit by a kid who has somehow attained the superpower of phasing through solid objects, like crowds, I just put the phone back away. Adam and I can talk later. He'll probably apologize for ditching me within the hour.

Now, the art room. I'm up against the wall, but I can see a stray student painting down the hallway, and then another. There's a sharp bend in the hall where they've clustered, which, if I've judged right, and I think I've judged right, should be the hidden oasis that is the art area. I scoot down, trying not to disturb the plaques for "academic excellence" my new home away from home is littered with, and at last find the wall falls away behind me.

The roar quiets to a din as I'm greeted by portraits on either side, faces whose composing brushstrokes are just ascending past novice hood into professionalism watching me with mismatched eyes. I follow them to a room number that seems familiar-- 1022, right? Right.-- and push the door open.

The air smells like pottery and fresh paint, which already reminds me of middle school. It's much larger, though, and the amicable cream walls are almost hidden behind untidy cabinets of supplies strewn across its perimeter, which makes it feel like someone's studio. Teacher's name is on the board, so I don't have to ask, even if I'm late-- Mr. Green. Yeah, I can definitely handle this. All I need to do now is sit down. Right now, I'm plastered up against the wall again, scanning for seats, which is fine, but I don't see any empty tables, so I guess I'll have to--

"Will Rosenbloom?" asks the teacher.

My backpack swings around before I do. Just as I say, "Here," and turn in his direction, I bludgeon several cans of acrylic paint with my brand-new, fifteen-pound book bag, and the resulting clatter ends with a rainbow crime scene and me still standing in the corner, not red-handed, but at least red-backpacked.

"Sit down," says the teacher, with intense, forced calm. "This happens every year."

"Yes, but-- I mean, I could-- do you need?" I almost bend down to pick up the paint can, but what am I doing? It's a paint can. I'd need towels. My hands are shaking violently. They're definitely still all watching me. Where are the towels in this room?

"Sit down," says the teacher, his voice constricting with his patience.

I sit at the nearest table, fearing his eyes on me, and put my head down. There's a round of giggling, which I'm used to, and then there's a hand on my back, which I'm not.