feather

two: so i can be awkward

I straightened up quickly, banging my head against the locker door. "Hey, Matthew," I replied, smiling awkwardly. When I was pulled from the edge of the roof, he was there. It was awkward. We were awkward.

Matthew was at least two heads taller than me, which wasn't a huge feat since I was only four inches above national midget height, and had the coolest gray eyes ever; I remembered once I told him I'd gladly trade my eyes for his. Mine were more of a vibrant shade of dog poop, while his reminded me of storm clouds. How effing cool was that?

"You're doing it again," he smiled, tapping his hand on his thigh. "My eyes aren't that cool, Jamie."

"Yeah they are!" I insisted, suddenly having the urge to see if hair dye worked on eyes, "Your eyes are bootiful, and never tell yourself any different."

Matthew smiled and didn't say anything, as he usually did. The only time I'd ever heard him speak louder than my grandma was on the soccer field; there, he became a totally different person. Matthew was the main sweeper for Varsity Soccer, and he was very good at it. He didn't really like to talk to his teammates after the game though, or hang out with the other sports jocks.

'They're too loud,' he'd always say. I didn't understand why he stayed around me then, since I was pretty talkative myself.

"Anyway, um, thanks," he said quickly, gave me an awkward side-hug, and then shuffled away with his head down. He always walked with his head down. He claimed it was because he didn't want to walk over midgets like me, but I had my doubts.

Hoisting the sack of dead weight that others call a 'backpack' over my shoulder, I trotted towards my first class period. Despite the crazy rumors and weird looks I was getting, I was glad to be back. The three weeks of the same question "and how does that make you feel?" was pretty close to driving me to insanity.

How does that make me feel? Fucking annoyed, because you won't stop asking me that question.

•••

Okay, I was wrong. This wasn't any better than therapy was. I felt three spitballs zing into the back of my neck in the past ten minutes, and I could see students blatantly passing notes while staring at me.

Like, seriously? If you're gonna pass notes, at least be discreet about it. No one has to lean back and reach an arm out to the person behind them's desk. I could see suspicious movement fill the room. Except for that guy in the corner; he was just scratching his crotch. Good on you, scratchy crotch guy, good on you. 

And was Mr. Feldman doing? Nothing! He just kept lecturing about polynomials and functions even though no one was listening. I slowed my breathing and tried to focus on the parabola he was currently drawing on the board (which was totally uneven, by the way).

A note hit me me on the back of the head. I uncrumpled the note.

Delia says girls' Locker room @ 5. don't be late whore xx