Three years ago...
I hated New Jersey. I guess it was kinda near the city, but it wasn't like I could just hop on the subway and be in Manhattan. Philly was a good hour drive and New York City was almost a two hour train ride. I felt absolutely sick. I missed home. I missed riding the subway to school every morning, I missed going to the deli on the corner for lunch, I even missed the homeless people and their desperate antics to make money. There was absolutely nothing that made me jump for joy in bumblefuck New Jersey.
On my first day of school, I was absolutely drowning in dread.
My new high school was basically a hick fest, promoting only Future Farmers of America bullshit and tractor pulling. There was no place for me; no art club, no quiet little room in the library, hell they didn't even let me leave campus during lunch. Once I was there, I was trapped. Yet the school had to have three greenhouses and two goats.
It was a shit hole.
And my first day started with the worst class in human existence, Algebra. Now I would have been more excited to start if it wasn't already June. Seriously who starts school in June? It was already hard enough going to a place where you knew no one, but trying to make friends in under two weeks? That was near impossible. All I wanted was someone there to hold my hand. My mom told me to grow up. So, I decided as I walked down the muggy hallway lined with tacky blue lockers, I would not make any friends, not date a soul, not say a word.
Except not saying a word was particularly hard for me because I always spoke my mind, no matter how nervous or out of place it was. I hated having my thoughts bubble up inside me.
But I was determined to try.
When I got to the classroom, there was no teacher. It was like a zoo, some students were sitting on desks playing catch with, what I'm guessing, was a ball of aluminum foil from a lunch eaten early. In the corner, a group of eccentrically dressed students were singing (theater kids). I saw a few decently dressed girls in the middle quietly on their phones. A safe group to sit near, but probably boring as hell. Then, my eyes fell on him.
He was devastatingly handsome.
His dark mousy brown hair was tousled to near perfection, unintentional I think. He was wearing a black t-shirt with a band logo I had never heard of, black fitted jeans, and beat up Chuck Taylors. In a room full of girls in summertime pastels and guys in colorful polos, he stuck out like his thick eyebrows against his pale skin. But what really caught my attention were his eyes; they were brooding. His face was contorted into deep concentration, trying to ignore the havoc around him.
Something different, someone different.
I walked around a group of catty looking girls taking selfies and found myself walking towards the empty seat in front of him. On the outside, I attempted to look suave, you know, the mysterious new girl. But inside, I was on the verge of having a nervous breakdown. Was he saving that seat for someone? Was it for his girlfriend? Boyfriend? I took a deep breath and continued to walk towards the boy. He looked up from the book he was reading and our eyes locked. The Odyssey, he liked classics. I bet he listened to records, wrote on a typewriter, and owned a dozen vintage band t-shirts.
I whipped my curly hair over my shoulder and prayed, prayed to whatever god that was possibly existent or listening, that my red mane wouldn't scare him away. I noticed that morning when I checked into the main office that most of the girls wore tight ponytails or ironed their hair stick straight. I was an outlier.
He stared back at me, and my panic peaked. I took a deep breath, I always said what I thought no matter how many titanium butterflies fluttered in my stomach.
"Is this seat taken?" I asked firmly.
His eyes widened, and his leg started to bounce from underneath his desk.
I cocked my head.
"Uh." Was all he said.
Was he mute?
"Alyssa Barnett used to sit there, but then she got knocked up." He blurted, his face turning pink.
"So, I can't sit here?" I asked, furrowing my eyebrows.
And then, without invitation, some piece of white bread in.
"Don't listen to Joke." He cackled, "That seat's reserved for a special lady and it looks like you're here."
There was a reason I didn't notice him. He was just another high school boy in training to join a frat, booze his way through college, and come out in a nice suit and a douchey office job. I had seen a million and more in Manhattan alone. I looked back at the boy again, refusing to believe his name was Joke. The pink in his cheeks was nearly faded, replaced by his book, held up to the bridge of his nose. Though he tried to hide it, his eyes still lingered on me.
I turned to the future frat boy and nodded, "Thanks, I'm Mia."
I had to play nice, one thing I did not want to be was the snooty new girl from the city. I had to last four years here. Even though all I wanted to do was demand why the boy did not offer me a seat.
"Brandon." White bread laughed in a way that made me want to never speak to him again.
So I sat down and wished the seat was behind the boy so I could've looked at him without seeming creepy. Brandon kept talking to me; I pretended to listen. What I really listened for was the curl of paper as the boy turned to the next page of his book; I wondered what Odysseus was up to.
Later that day when I got home, I made a beeline straight upstairs and dug through a sea of cardboard boxes in my new room. My old room was four times smaller than this room, but it had a killer view of Central Park. New room was gigantic and made me feel smaller than I already was. As for the view, I got to look out the window to see the side of the beige house next to me. Sighing, I flopped down on my bed and groaned. It was too quiet. There was no city bustle, just the soft rustle of trees when a breeze just happened to roll by. I felt a sadness nap come on, so I let my eyes close for just a second.
---
I woke up when I heard my door squeak open. Yes, it was the kind of house that squeaked and creaked with every little movement: A rebellious teen's kryptonite.
"Mia." My mom peeped her head in, "You haven't started unpacking yet."
I rolled over and laid face down in my blue comforter, "Can't. Too depressed" I said, my voice sounding muffled.
I heard my mom's footsteps, then I felt the edge of the bed sink a little as she sat down.
"I know this move has been hard for you, but your dad has a better job opportunity here."
I could imagine her kind eyes crinkling at the corners a little bit.
I sat up cause I couldn't really breathe,"Why couldn't he have just commuted, it's like a two hour train ride max."
My mom's eyes crinkled in disapproval, "That wouldn't be fair to him."
"Is it fair to you?" I asked, adding a little sting to my words, "To give up your career to live here?"
My mom was Cosmopolitan's sex and relationships chief editor. She resigned when my dad accepted his job offer. She said she did it for the better of the family and that family was all about sacrifice, but I think she gave up the wrong thing.
She nodded and stood up. Sometimes when I looked at her, it felt as if I was looking at a funhouse mirror that made me look older. My mom was like me in so many ways, yet different. While I let my fiery red hair do its thing, hers was pulled into a tight bun. While her petite waist wore perfectly fitted slacks, mine wore baggy boyfriend jeans or sweats, depending on how I felt that day. But at that moment, our faces were identical, her's twisted into a small frown of resentment. Without saying a word, she grabbed a slightly larger box perched on my desk, placed it on my bed and left.
When her footsteps reached the bottom of the stairs, I peered inside the box. She was truly super mom, it was my arts supplies.
Hastily-and a little out of it from my nap- I pulled out my sketchbook and flipped to the first blank page I could find. I paused for a moment, trying to remember every detail of his face, his eyes, his mouth. I tried to capture the exact moment our eyes met, his maple ones melting mine. It was as if the whole room was on fire, and he could care less as long as he had his book. I sketched a few small sirens and a boat in the corner just for fun.
There was a faint knock on my door and I glanced at the clock, it was nearing ten. I had somehow depression napped all the way through dinner. My dad ducked below the door frame and said, "Princess, you should get some sleep."
"Not tired." I mumbled, stretching across my bed, knocking over colored pencils.
Before I could tuck my sketchpad away, he peeked at what I was drawing, "Who's that?"
"No one." I blushed, slamming it shut before I could finish.
More pencils clattered to the ground.
"No one's pretty cute." My dad teased, "What's his name?"
"Jake, I think." I said, smiling a little.
I remembered the cute way he quietly raised his hand in an undisturbed way when the teacher took attendance.
"Jake seems nice." My dad continued, "I bet he has some fire in his eye to make my little girl like him. Haven't seen you excited for a boy in awhile since... Eli was it?"
I slapped my dad's arm playfully, "Ew no, we don't talk about that. And he's different, he's more like me I think. Well, that's not true, he's certainly different, a good different. Kind of quiet in this poetic gentle way and he seems really smart..."
I realized I was rambling when my dad let out a chuckle.
"Well whoever this Jake is," My dad said, walking back to the door, "He sure is lucky to have met you."
That night was one of those nights when it felt like you never actually fell asleep, even though you never opened your eyes. So, I compiled a mental list: I hated just about everything: the house, the school, the people. But one thing was certain, I was excited about Jake. I had never felt genuinely excited about anyone before. I know it's a cheesier sentiment than I love you, but I felt it in every fiber of my body. This need to see him, to breathe the same air he breathed. I imagined every possible scenario I could think of that would give me an excuse to talk to him the next day.
I never did, but I hoped one day I would.