Chapter Ten: Leather Jacket, Converse, and All
Liberation and freedom. When one was to think of the two terms, generally “slavery” was the first word associated with them. With some, a mental image of cotton farms surfaced which then led into an association with the American Civil War—or the War of Northern Aggression, as some confederates so fondly referred to it. Anyway, people didn’t generally link emancipation with one’s first day back from a suspension. One who didn’t automatically make the connection between the two concepts of deliverance and being finished with a suspension was most certainly not Olivia Ross.
While serving my time, I had learnt three very important things that would aid in my growth as a person: No.1, I hated our school’s library. No.2, I hated Brenda Meriwether more than could be expressed in a thousand-paged novel written in sized-six font. No.3, I hated being suspended more than I hated school, and that was saying quite a bit.
As I walked down the carpeted hallway, I felt as if a weight had been lifted off my being for about two seconds, only to be replaced with an even heavier one. The in-house deferment may have been bad, but school was worse. Over the past week in my academic environment, I had come in contact with about five people: Piper and Preston, Harry (who occasionally would visit me in the dungeon, just to say hi, because he secretly had a soft spot for me), Brenda, and Luke Daniels. The limited interactions did wonders for my social anxiety. It was incredible…except for the fact that it happened to be a form of punishment that didn’t involve watching TV and eating sushi, but rather being stuck in the back of a library with a bad-boy-wannabe and Brenda.
I came to a mindless halt at the place that my locker of a deep wood with the gold painted number of “152” had been previously, but instead found something else. In the space where my locker door was intended to be was instead a white banner that read, “WELCOME BACK LIV!!!” in pink and gold glitter. At the corner of the poster was a signature I had learned to like, “Love, PK.”
Considering that both Piper and Preston had the same initials, they had decided long ago that whatever Piper was willing to put her two letters of identification on, it would apply for Preston too. It was mainly due to Preston’s laziness to not care about anything other than him when Piper had established the ruling, but it worked. Well, most of the time. Like most systems, it wasn’t flawless. For example, when Preston had decided to ask a girl to a dance last spring, he made the mistake of signing his invitation “PK.” The girl was misled, and thought that Piper had feelings for her, instead of the male Kent twin. Yeah, it didn’t exactly end neatly.
“Surprise!” a feminine voice shouted out, arms encircling me in an awkward and unexpected hug. I immediately pulled back, not liking the suddenness of the touching without warning, though I knew whom it was. The girl pulled back from me, a wide smile on her glossed lips of pink. “Do you like it, Liv?”
“Not really,” I admitted truthfully, staring at the decoration she had made.
“I told you she wouldn’t,” Preston joined the conversation, sneaking up out of nowhere and wrapping his arms around me in a hug, of which I also managed to squirm my way out.
“Oh, shut up!” Piper whined, hitting her brother on the arm, but not even fazing him slightly.
“Look, Pipes, it was a thoughtful idea and crap, but I’m not a marine coming back from the Middle East,” I told her, beginning to peel the white construction paper off, in order to gain access to the storage unit that lay beneath, “I don’t need recognition.”
“Sure you do!” she assured me with a grin, her eyes sadly drooping down to the sparkling piece of severed tree that lay in my hand. “And I worked hard on that!”
“I never said you didn’t,” I expressed, turning back and handing her the creation she had made to commemorate my return. There were unusual bursts of time when Piper would unleash her inner crafty side and bring out her hot pink glue gun and plastic rhinestones. Evidently, my coming back from the depths of the library called for her secret superpower to surface once again.
“So, how does it feel, Livy?” Preston asked, slinging one of his arms over my shoulders in a manner that he had done so many times before.
“How does what feel?” I returned, shrugging his ligament off of me.
“Uh, being back,” he rolled his blue eyes in an annoyed way.
“Well, I didn’t like school before I was suspended, and I still don’t like it now, so about the same,” I determined with a yawn.
When it came to mornings, it was a tossup whether I was going to be either moderately sociable or downright intolerable to the point where I was worse than an enraged lion. Today, I was actually pretty mellow for my personal meter, and was just tired. I wasn’t about to maul a passerby’s head off with my teeth, which was definitely a good sign.
“Hey, Olivia! Great to see you again!” someone said, their voice unrecognizable from my ears’ perspectives. Slowly, I allowed myself to twirl around so that I faced a boy who I had seen once before with bright cobalt eyes and brown hair of a lighter shade. I couldn’t quite place his name, but I knew that he held some connection to Piper—a more than friendly connection, at that.
“Who are you?” I inquired dully as I searched my brain for a name to tie with his face. Names had never been my thing. Though I loved to write, I was a much more visual person than auditory. Thus, I was one of those annoying assholes who could never seem to remember names unless if hounded with the individual’s presence for an extensive amount of time.
“Matt,” the boy said, walking over to Piper and pecking her cheek lightly, “Matt Smith.” And then everything came flooding back to me.
I had met him last week during lunch. He was Piper’s “boyfriend” (the term was used very loosely when it came to Piper’s associations with males) and the type of guy who probably spent his free time when he was younger collecting baseball cards or being the exemplary Boy Scout. Mr. I’m Your Average American Matt Smith. Honestly, I was surprised that the two were still “together.” Piper’s “relationships” generally only had a lifespan of about a week or less.
“Oh,” was all I said. “Why is it ‘great’ to see me again?”
Matt blinked, carefully deducting my less than typical response to his greeting. Obviously, he was caught off guard, for he probably expected me to answer with a simple, “It’s great to see you again, too!” Alas, I wasn’t like the “typical.” I was Olivia Ross.
He opened his mouth as a wary smile found its way across his perfectly straightened teeth. Well, I certainly had to give Piper props on this one—he was definitely a looker. “Because you’re my girlfriend’s best friend and I haven’t see you in, like, a week!” he finally responded in an optimistic and amiable tone.
“We have English,” I stated, the declaration aimed at Preston as I stared at him. I didn’t bother replying to Matt, for I had nothing more to say to him. It wasn’t that I disliked Matt Smith, per se, as he seemed like a relatively sane, genuinely nice guy—I just didn’t like him, either.
I was really hoping that the next guy Piper “dated” was someone intellectually interesting—not a nerd, but someone with a brain. Sometimes she went for smart guys, and I always liked that. Personally, I was by no means “smart,” but I liked conversing with smart people. Since Piper happened to be one of my two best friends, I was exposed to her “boyfriends” by default of hanging out with her. Some I liked, others…not so much.
“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.
How he had landed himself into the AP English class was simply by convenience. It was the only period of juniors’ English that fit his schedule, so he was simply placed by chance. I, on the other hand, was there for a reason. Somewhere on my journey within the past three years, the administration had figured out that I actually took rather well to the class, didn’t cause scenes, and—for the most part—treated it as “real” class. Consequently, I was enlisted in AP English and, surprisingly, was not failing. I liked English.
I sat down in the center seat of the first row, and Preston took the seat to my left, closer to the door. He began to text (either a friend of his from the sports scene or a girl), and I turned to my own devices: my notebook. I began to flip through the pages, coming across the multiple sheets that I had reserved space to write a composition for this particular class last week. Eventually, I had finished the assignment about the challenges faced by teens, and was relatively satisfied with my work.
“Olivia!” someone called in a sickly-sweet manner that I just knew was fake. Begrudgingly, I lifted my eyes from scanning what I had written and stared up at a tall brunette girl with a headband and her hair tied back tightly, twirled into a coherent corkscrew. She was an Ivy Leaguer. Being consistent with my terrible remembrance of names and the fact that this was the only class I shared with the girl, I knew who she was, but I didn’t know her name, and, frankly, didn’t care.
She was the type of girl who tried to act nice to everyone, but secretly was just a control freak who liked everything to go her way. Academically, she put too much (in my opinion) effort into school, accordingly becoming one of the top students in our grade. Her clothes ranged from collared shirts and colored pants to sweaters and flats. My parents had probably hoped for a girl like her when thinking about the different breeds of children there were. Based on her fierceness and dedication in the class, I guessed that she was leaning towards a profession in the law—much like my mother had.
There was just something about her that didn’t resonate well with me. She was always so neat and organized with her planner and appearance, and never seemed to let loose. I wasn’t one to care about others’ clothes, but I had noticed that not once during the duration of the year had she worn normal blue jeans, like the majority of the population at THE Academy (sweatpants and yoga pants were banned, for the admissions department wanted the school to look “perfect” when they took perspective families around on tours). We rarely talked to one another, because I didn’t like communicating with people verbally had Preston, while she had others in the class far more “interesting” than me to converse with. Her addressing me now was a little more than strange, in my mind.
“Hi,” I waveringly greeted.
“How are you?” Her tone was animated, but her eyes looked sympathetic. “I heard about the,” she lowered her voice to a whisper, “in-house suspension.”
“I’m fine,” I said neither returning the question nor wondering how she had learned of my whereabouts over the past week. We went to THE Academy. Though it was slightly larger than normal private school, it still wasn’t that big of a school, so gossip was inevitable.
“Oh, that’s nice,” she commented, sending me a reserved smile. “Did you finish the paper?”
“Yeah,” I shrugged easily, already sensing condemnation from her forced expression. She was one of the people in the class who didn’t think that I belonged. Her class load consisted of most likely only APs, whereas English was the only class they entrusted me to take at a higher level. She knew that I could write, and was probably not the happiest about the close relationship that the teacher and I shared.
“How many pages?” she questioned in a defensive manner. She was also competitive about everything. In her head, she always had to be the best, so her asking about the length of my paper was a ploy to make sure that she still held her coveted spot on top.
“Twelve,” I replied, grimacing as I began to tear the needed pages out of my notebook. I always felt guilty doing the action—as if I was slashing a limp off the inanimate book of papers.
“But it was only supposed to be three!” she blurted out, her eyes surveying my calmed activities.
“I had a lot to say.”
“Did you handwrite it again?” she demanded, not able to stifle the resentment from seeping through to her vocal chords. Obviously, she didn’t like me, which wasn’t an issue, considering that I wasn’t really her biggest fan.
“Yes.”
“You can’t do that, though!” she fumed, losing all traces of her collected exterior. “We were supposed to type it!”
“Okay,” I said, not denying the fact.
When it came to English, the girl before me was completely correct. Assignments were primarily expected to be typed up neatly in size twelve, Garamond font, double-spaced, with our name at the top right corner, in addition to the date and title of the piece. I didn’t tend to abide by the guidelines, however. Not being able to type sufficiently was practically a disability in a time of such influential technologies, so I certainly had the aptness to type (and type fast and aggressively), I just chose not to.
I much preferred the gratification that derived from physically molding each individual letter than pressing a button and having the same effect. Instead of blindly typing something, I liked being able to create it my way by drawing out a language. Thankfully, I had explained my idiosyncratic philosophy to my teacher at the beginning of the year, and he had agreed to tolerate it, as long as I did the work.
My response seemed to anger the girl ever more, as she glared me and shook her head. “Well, welcome back!” she snapped in the politest way she could conjure.
“Thanks,” I said as I noticed her turn to stare at a zombie-looking Preston for a protracted moment before stomping away to the center seat of the third row—her seat.
More teens filed into the room, the bulk of them rather staid. It was an AP, after all. Conversely to the mainstream of others in the room, Preston pretty much took the class as a joke, and I looked it as though it was on a pedestal. Preston wasn’t an English person, and never had been. He didn’t quite excel in languages as much as he did other things that involved his memory. History and science were his favored classes, mainly due to the people in them, but also because he genuinely liked the subjects. English was more of a passive class for him, despite the contradiction of where he sat—a place generally reserved for those passionate about the field.
“Hey, Liv,” Preston called as I lifted my head from the act of continuing to rip the required pages out of my notebook.
“Yeah?”
“What grade do you think I’ll get on my paper if I only wrote two pages?” he questioned, his fingers tapping on a stapled set of papers.
“Did you use spellcheck this time?” I probed, recalling a time when he hadn’t. Preston wasn’t a “meathead” athlete, but there times when his better judgment was slightly awry. He had a history of forgetting how to properly form words so that they were actually readable, and had submitted an assignment at the beginning of the year where he spelt “attribution” as “atrabushon.” Yes, he was a sixteen and a half year old boy who had only ever received a private school education and didn’t have any learning difficulties. That, ladies and gentleman, was Preston Kent, my best friend.
“Yeah,” he said slowly, thinking it over for himself.
“And did your dad look it over?”
“No,” he shook his head.
“I’m guessing around a C plus—maybe C,” I determined, based off of what he had told me.
“Works for me,” he nodded, beginning to unwrap a small silver object that wasn’t quite edible, but wouldn’t kill the body if one were to accidentally ingest it. Big mistake. He plopped the pink rectangle into his mouth and began to chew, emitting a fruity smell to my nostrils.
Just then, the door of the classroom burst open, a lanky man with wire framed glasses entering, expressionless, as usual. The educator in his late sixties was probably one of—if not the—only ones in the school that I retained any amount of respect for. He was tall, had thinning gray hair, always wore a navy jacket and button up, walked with a shake in his step, and was absolutely brilliant. Dr. G. was what we referred to him as, and when asked what the “G” stood for, he always replied the same thing: “My surname.” He was witty and knowledgeable to no end. As adults went, he was one of my favorites.
His eyes scanned around the room and then stopped at Preston who had just finished blowing a large and unnecessary bubble out of his gum. “Mr. Kent, is there a reason that you’re chewing gum in my class?”
“No,” Preston gulped, ceasing to chomp on the entity in his mouth.
“Then please spit it out,” the elderly man requested, “I have a ‘No Gum Chewing’ Policy in my classroom, as you know.”
“Yes, sir,” Preston grumbled, not happy about getting busted and having to speak in the class. Normally, he tried to keep as quiet as possible. He got up from his desk and quickly spit out the gum in trashcan by the door, returning in a matter of seconds.
“Thank you,” Dr. G. said to him, facing the rest of the class as he surveyed the view once more. His eyes linked with mine, and he merely nodded, acknowledging my arrival. It appeared as though he was about to say something more, but then the abrupt opening of the door caused him to halt, in addition to the entirety of the class to look and see who dared to interrupt Dr. G.’s teaching session.
“Hey, Dr. G.! Long time no see!” the intruded said casually, instigating several gasps and my mind to turn full-on panic mode. Considering he was a senior, I had absolutely no clue as to why he had shown up in my junior AP English class—leather jacket, Converse, and all.
“Mr. Daniels,” Dr. G. began, “it’s a pleasure to see you again, as well, but why have you graced us with your attendance?”
“Oh, I had free period and couldn’t find anyone to chill with, so figured I’d come sit in on one of my favorite teacher’s classes,” Luke explained smoothly, his eyes roaming around the room until they landed on me. He smirked, to which I didn’t do anything besides look utterly shocked, sifting my thoughts for reasons that he had shown up.
“Very well,” Dr. G. agreed formally, “find a seat and please don’t distract others.”
“Sorry, Doc, I can’t exactly promise that—distracting people is my specialty,” Luke said smugly, his gray eyes still igniting as he stared at me.
Dr. G. muttered something under his breath as Luke began to walk right in the front of the class, turning down the aisle between Preston and me, as he found himself an empty seat. There was an array of twenty-five desks and chairs—arranged five by five. Since we went to an elite as hell private school and were in an AP class, there only happened to be sixteen kids in the class, leaving quite a few unoccupied places that always stayed vacant. One of the unfilled spaces happened to be the one directly behind me. And where did Luke Daniels decide to sit? Directly behind me.
I could practically feel his deep gaze penetrate into my back as I looked forward, towards our teacher. Then, I felt the tap of finger on my shoulder, and forced myself to turn around, already knowing whom it was. Luke held a devious look in his eyes as he took in my still existent shock.
“Hiya, Liv,” he greeted, barely above a whisper.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I demanded, zoning out whatever Dr. G. was saying—something I hated doing. I knew that Dr. G. would choose to overlook the little…discussion I was about to have with Luke because he either A) didn’t care, B) couldn’t hear, C) liked me, or D) all of the above.
“Well, I went to library looking for you, and then Brenda said that your quality time together was over, so I went to the office and asked what class you had,” he enlightened me as to of what his morning had comprised.
“And they told you?” I said, probably too loudly.
“Yeah,” he stifled a laugh, “I think the new lady in the office has a thing for me—that, or she’s scared that I’ll stab her with a fork.”
“So, please, answer my freaking question: what the hell are you doing here?” I sighed, shaking my head.
“I do actually have a free period, and figured I’d spend it with you—in your favorite class,” he grinned mischievously at me. “Didn’t you miss me, Livy?”
“No,” I said bluntly. “Luke, I’m seriously beginning to think that you’re stalking me. It’s really creepy.”
“Oh, you haven’t even begun to see what creepy is,” he assured me. “Look, I think that all classes are boring, and since I was already a junior last year, I’ll disappear after this one. I swear. But c’mon, you totally missed me!”
“I didn’t,” I swore.
“You’re lying,” he falsely called me out.
“I’m not.”
“Whatever you say,” he rolled his eyes, not believing the truth that I was telling him.
I didn’t reply after that, and merely turned back to face Dr. G. and tried to focus on what he was saying. He had gone on to address how he would be grading our papers or something. Alas, there was only thing that I could register in my mind, everything else seeming irrelevant: Luke Daniels was in my English class.