Chapter Four: A Lined Piece of Paper
"So, then I was like, seriously? And then she was like, yeah. And then I was like . . . " My friend, Imogen, continues to angrily describe a dialogue I'm pretending not to have trouble keeping up with.
My gaze falls away from her, but I continue to nod my head to show that I'm still listening, or at least trying to. The sun's shining through the clouds above us and the pockets of sky peeking out from underneath are a mild blue. Our pace is languid as we continue to trot around the track along with a few other stragglers in our gym class while everyone else, meaning the people who actually take this class seriously, are in the center of the football field playing flag football.
My gaze falls on them as they run around, shouting at each other, while the little red and yellow flags dangle precariously out of their pockets and waistbands. I commend people who not only have the coordination to play the game, but also the energy to withstand running around for forty minutes before going back inside and sitting in more forty-minute classes.
"Ugh," Imogen groans beside me and my gaze falls back on her. "It's just so frustrating, you know?"
Although I consider Wren my best friend, I like to believe Imogen is a good friend.
We've known each other since the sixth grade, and even though our relationship doesn't extend outside school, she's one of the few people I actually enjoy talking to. We both vent to each other about school related problems, or gossip about the latest episode of our favorite television shows.
There can be days where we won't see, or talk to each other because we both have our own personal lives that we don't completely divulge into, but at the end of the day I know I can count on her if I really needed to.
" . . . Like why don't people understand that when you're passing a paper back to someone, you can't just chuck it at them?" Imogen roughly brushes a dark piece of hair away from her face before pushing her glasses further up the bridge of her nose. "Like do you want to slash a paper cut through my face?"
I bark out a laugh at her choice of words as I brush away the strands of hair the wind decides to blow in my face as we round the curved part of the track.
For someone who is so petite, Imogen sure has a strong will, but it's one of the things I love most about her. Although she may go off on a tangent sometimes, she has a voice and isn't afraid to use it. I envy her confidence more than I'd like to admit, but when she throws that big, contagious silver braced smile in my direction, I feel some of it rub off on me just a bit. I'm also reminded of the fact that she's one of the few people who knows me as a person and not just a random face in the hallway.
"Oh my god!" Imogen whips her head around to face me, almost knocking her glasses off her face. "Did I tell you what happened in English yesterday?"
I tilt my head to the side and throw her an amused sideways glance. "What'd he do now?"
"He's giving us another damn paper due Friday!" Her hands mimic her frustration as they fly into the air. "Like does this guy not understand that by giving us essays every week he's not actually teaching us?"
I nod my head in agreement, but still let out a breathy laugh at her antics. With the way she throws around the phrase, "oh my god," and her habitual use of the word "like," a habit I'm also desperately trying to break, it's easy to forget her heritage. Not that she was raised with strict cultural parents, but she always has a funny story to tell about the most recent family wedding she attended.
Hindu weddings always seem so beautiful and extravagant, so it's funny to hear Imogen complain about the mishaps that happen when they're all getting ready in the early hours of the morning.
"So, does it still hurt?" I turn only to see Imogen's staring at the now slightly faded, but still visible bruise on the top right corner of my head.
"Not really," I murmur as my fingers involuntarily reach up to touch it.
Imogen scoffs and shakes her head as she casts her gaze forward again. "I still can't believe someone hit you with their locker door."
Someone hit me with their locker door. I left out the minor detail of who that someone was because that's the same basic answer I gave to everyone else that cared to ask, which only amounted to be two other people.
"People can be so damn oblivious."
"Tell me about it," I mumble as I run a hand through my hair.
I left it down in attempt to distract from the bruise a little bit, but since people still noticed it, I find myself bending over and pulling the long strands up into a ponytail, no longer wanting to be bothered with them.
I happily inhale the light breeze that blows past us when I straighten back up. It's as if my hair was weighing me down because I suddenly feel refreshed. Usually not a feeling I'd associate with school, but I embrace it as I notice we are now walking down the last hundred meters of the track before we'd complete our fourth lap. I turn to Imogen and open my mouth to start discussing the mess that was our last pre-calculus test before I hear a faint shout.
"Heads up!"
I swivel my head around only to see a football in my line of vision, spiraling straight towards my head. Instead of moving out of the way, like any sane person would do, my legs decide to lock into place. My eyes widen as I find myself practically gawking at the prolate spheroid while my brain mentally prepares for the substantial impact it'll have on my face. My whole body stiffens just imagining the point of it landing straight in my eye.
Then suddenly, the ball it swiped out of the air. The cheering that ensues is expected since it just so happens to be Ryan Cassidy who saved the play as he tumbles over the last few inches of grass just before the track in a perfect flip. I'm thankful that he saved me from the fate of having another bruise on my head, but find myself flinching when the cheers only get louder as a few guys help him up, and everyone crowds around him. The guys on his team pat him on the back while the girls offer him some high fives.
"Well, that was close," Imogen says beside me, reminding me of her presence.
"Yeah," I breathe as my hand falls over the heavy beat inside my chest.
We slowly start walking again and I turn my gaze back over to the flag football game only to see it's back in full swing. The fly away football did nothing to inhibit the competition. My eyes find Ryan, who's back to signaling people with two yellow flags dangling out of his pockets.
Today, I realized he's in a lot of my classes this year, and the thought weirded me out since we haven't been since freshman year. The only reason I even realized, though, is because he also kept catching my gaze, giving me the same slightly deranged look as everyone else at the sight of my barely there bruise.
For some reason though his gaze also seemed to hold something else that I couldn't entirely pinpoint. On one hand, it could have been because he was a witness to the mediocre hallway crime. On the other hand, the light could have just given his eyes a weird reflection. Either way, I decided to stop analyzing it because my lack of quality distance vision tends to warp certain images and I'd rather not think about the incident. Ever-again.
I flinch again at the shrill sound of a whistle, but I am happy it's our cue to head back inside.
"Aw man, I have a history exam next period." Imogen dramatically snaps her fingers.
My laughter carries me along for a few steps before I'm stopping in my tracks once again because I remember we are in the same class.
****
The second I step in front of my locker I begin to twist the combo into the metal lock. People chatter and shuffle around me, but I pay no mind to them as I pull down. Irritation flares my nostrils when the lock doesn't open right away, but my fingers are already restarting the combo.
It seems there always a problem. My locker either refuses to open, or my lock decides not to accept its combo. Either way, each scenario only promotes my general irritation towards this dreaded place I'm forced to spend a majority of my days.
I pull down on the lock once more and am content with the world once again when it releases. By muscle memory, I pull the lock off, open the door, and pay no mind to the paper that instantly flutters out of it. My last period binder gets shoved inside, and only when I'm sure I have everything I need to do my homework later do I finally bend down to retrieve the rebel lined piece of paper. Since my laziness to hook the stray notes into the binder is what most likely prompted the rebellion I unfold it to see which subject it belongs to. Instead of baring witness to my jumbled handwriting, though, I find someone else's as it makes up only one sentence scrawled out in tiny letters across the page.
Every time we're in the same room, I can't help but stare.
My eyebrows furrow, and I instantly through my confusion outward as I dart my gaze around the hallway. My confusion remains when I see that the hallway is almost empty.
When the last bell rings everyone who doesn't play a sport barrels out the school doors without turning back, and I'm usually one of those people. However, today I'm stuck holding this lined piece of paper, and I can't help, but look back down at the note and read it again. I flicker my eyes around the page, but there's no name, no initials. Nothing that could possibly hint to who wrote it besides the small handwriting in black ink at the dead center of the page.
I have to say it's . . . a tad creepy, but at the same time cute. I can only assume it's a guy, by the slightly slanted structure of the small letters and use of all caps.
It must have been placed in the wrong locker though.
I know the girl who always has the locker next to mine, because of our last names, has a longtime boyfriend, so this was probably meant for her.
Oh, well.
My shrug matches my thoughts as I slip the note into my messenger bag. The hopeless romantic in me refuses to part with it even though it would not only be romantic, but also morally right to give the note to its rightful owner.
My muscles, once again, move on their own accord as I pick my lock back up, close the door, and securing it on. I begin walking down the hallway and reach up to play with the end of my ponytail before feeling a small smile working its way onto my lips.
I guess that lined piece of paper just goes to show that solid relationships can exist in this day and age. That even with the increased use of technology and it's corruption of face to face interaction, people can still have solid relationships based upon communication and romantic gestures.
Then again, what do I know?
I've never been in an actual relationship before, which I guess is assumed with my whole "never-been-kissed" declaration and all.
But even so, I like to believe that's all it really takes.
There's no need for fancy gifts, or flowers. Just a few heartfelt words scrawled out on a lined piece of paper.
I freeze in my tracks.
Maybe I should go put it in her locker then . . .
I stare at the door I'm steps away. I blink once, then twice, before my legs eliminate the distance, and my arms push the door open.
Nah.
I never really liked her anyway.