New Perspective (unfinished)

My eyes opened on the morning of September second, and I relished that feeling of ecstasy brought on by a clean mind. It only took a moment, however, for my daily injection of lead to enter my heart. I rolled over, buried my head in my pillow, and prayed that my memory was wrong, that today wasn’t the day the tension stomachache in my midriff was convinced it was. My implementation of that technique was cut short by a sharp rap on my door. My mother’s voice floated through the cracks and proclaimed her verdict.

“Out of bed in five minutes.”

My heart proceeded to drop past my stomach, past my toes, and come to rest in the kitchen a floor below. Reluctantly, I left my warm nest of pillows and sheets and followed my heart downstairs to begin the first day of ninth grade.

The first day of school is different for everyone. Some people don’t dread it. Some even look forward to it. But I would rather eat a dozen spiders than suffer through another brutal Day One. (Incidentally, I did eat a dozen spiders once, but only because Danny Sullivan bet me $20 I wouldn’t.)

As I sat at the table, chewing halfheartedly on stale and soggy cereal, I considered the pros and cons of actually making an appearance in school that day. I’d get to see my friends again, but it wasn’t a guarantee they’d be there at all. And I’d need to scope out my classes so everyone else wouldn’t have a head start. But the first day could be pure torture.

But no, I told myself staunchly. I had promised myself that this year would be different. Skipping the first day wouldn’t be a particularly good start.

Twenty minutes later, I found myself sitting in a thoroughly defaced school bus seat, staring blankly out the grimy window, willing my body to teleport itself somewhere else, anywhere else, and, for about the millionth time, cursing the fact that I wasn’t friends with any of the kids in my neighborhood. Though perhaps that wasn’t my fault – none of the other kids

The driver stopped the bus abruptly, jerking to a halt in front of a graying white flat. He beeped once, twice, before a kid finally came sprinting out of the garage. He dashed up the bus steps and planted himself a few seats away from me, his body turned to face me. I remained staring determinedly out the window until I felt his gaze recede from the back of my head.

It wasn’t long before the bus, which had gradually filled with kids, was parked in front of my personal prison, Riley High School. I ambled down the aisle and out the narrow doorway, blinking in the sunlight, extra bright with no plant life to offer shade. Behind the false front of my aviator sunglasses, my eyes were alert, frantically scanning the courtyard for someone to make me feel less alone. I skimmed over the majority of the student population, only a few kids sticking out from the sea of faces and backpacks.

There was Andy Knoll. We had been best friends up till sixth grade, when he joined student council, the newspaper, soccer, and band, and I…hadn’t. There was Lucas French – he was currently enjoying a pleasant stint as president of the ninth grade. There was Mark Knoll, Andy’s brother. He was a senior, and basically an all-around good guy – star of every team, good looking, As in every class, and everyone’s friend. That is, except people like me. And there was – Oh, God. She hadn’t changed at all. There was Victoria Sessons, the girl I’d been in love with since first grade when she’d caught me chewing a yellow crayon and said only, “Green tastes better.” The only person who had ever known my feelings for her was Andy, and I doubted he’d spared a thought on me for about a year and a half. Though I was confident that no one knew my secret, the thought was far from comforting. I knew I’d never have the guts to talk to her, and I knew if I ever did, she’d probably look at me the way a gardener looks at a slug – just something disgusting that’s messing up her world and should be removed, but she can’t bring herself to touch it.

Suddenly, I felt a hard slap on my back that knocked the wind out of me. Gasping for air, I turned around to face my attacker. There, laughing in my face, was Greg Nichols, my closest friend. I don’t like to say best friend, because that’s not what we were. I don’t know what he thinks, but I know we’re not. But he is the person I’m closest with, like it or not. Greg was a good four inches bigger than me in every direction – taller, wider, thicker – so it was no surprise I was still breathless from his assault as we climbed the stairs a few minutes later.

We were assigned to the same homeroom, but even if we hadn’t been, that wouldn’t have stopped him from dragging me to his homeroom to sit until discovered and exiled. We chose back corner desks, away from the window – the darkest spot in the room. There we spread out and got as comfortable as was possible on the stiff metal chairs. We threw our bags and sweatshirts on the floor and Greg planted his huge sneakers on the desktop, tipping his chair back to lean on the back wall. We didn’t speak as kids trickled into the room. Greg gave each kid a long, piercing stare, scoping them out, analyzing them. I watched him, knowing all too well that the superficial glances he was getting told absolutely nothing about the real people inside.

Somehow, Greg survived almost all of the first day easily, but by the end of seventh, I could see him getting fidgety. I never really know about him, but I figured there were a couple possible reasons for his restlessness. Of course, the optimistic view would be that he had to pee or something innocent like that. There was the possibility that he was just getting tired of sitting, but the most realistic option was that he needed a fix. Having only joined Greg’s group late in the last school year, this was one hobby I had yet to be forced into, but I could tell Greg was annoyed with me for not being as into drugs as him. Fortunately, he wasn’t into anything hard – yet. But he wasn’t one to pass up a beer or cig, or even a little pot if he was feeling reckless. With ten minutes left in seventh period, he gave me a significant look before casually asking to use the bathroom. The knot in my stomach tightened. A calculated two and a half minutes later, I issued the same request. I left the room and headed for the bathroom, although, with Greg's reputation for dishonesty, it was only about a fifty-fifty chance that he would, in fact, be there. He did turn out to be in the bathroom – and the correct one, thankfully – but that was where my good fortune ended. The first thing he said to me when I showed up was, “Got a light?” He had taken to asking me this question very often, perhaps thinking that I wouldn’t be able to deal with disappointing him, that eventually I’d crack, and begin carrying a lighter on my person, and, in time, carry things to be lit with said lighter. I was determined not to let this happen, and answered the increasingly familiar question with a nonchalant, “Nah.” He gave me a mildly disgusted look before reaching into his own pocket and pulling out a box of matches. I didn’t question him for asking me even though he had his own light.

Standing there, watching Greg take puff after puff from his Marlboro, something in me snapped. In my mind’s eye, I saw myself in ten years, leaning against a wall in some filthy alley next to Greg, wasting my life away, and the sight sickened me. This was my friend? This was my life? This was what I had wanted just a few months ago? The sick feeling in my gut intensified, and I did the first courageous thing in my history of association with Greg. I spit at the grimy floor beneath him, turned around, and walked out of the bathroom, leaving him in shock behind me.

By some miraculous act of luck, I had pulled this daring act just as the last bell rang, and the hall had already begun filling up with jostling bodies. I wasted no time pushing through the masses towards my locker where I promptly gathered my stuff and headed to the front of the school to catch my bus. I was eager to get as much distance between Greg and myself as possible. I stomped up the steps, trying to get a hold of myself. I was still shaking from my interaction with Greg. I couldn’t believe I’d done what I had. I had never been the gutsy one. I’d always favored more the meek side, doing what I was told. At least, that’s the person I’d been since I met Greg. Before then…God, I can barely even remember. But I know it was better than this. Better than having everyone thinking they’re better than you, and thinking they know you. Better than seeing the scorn in people’s eyes as they look down their condescending noses at you. I was sick of it all. I was sick of my own stupid fears and worries. All I wanted was to start over. I just wanted a chance to go back to how it was before. I wanted to live up to my full potential, and have the life I should have, the life I would have if I hadn’t been so stupid…

I slammed myself into a seat and dropped my bag next to me. It only took a moment for the true weight of what I’d just done to come crashing down on me. I had blown of Greg Nichols. I had spit on him. What the hell was I thinking? What was I going to do tomorrow? How was I going to survive tomorrow? I wouldn’t be riding home on the bus tomorrow – I’d be in an ambulance! Oh, God…My stomach clenched tighter and tighter until I felt like it might just squeeze up and disappear. For the second time that day, I wished I could just up and disappear, but this time I didn’t want to reappear somewhere else. I just wanted to vanish off the face of the earth, end up somewhere where no one, not even Greg and his army of thugs, could find me. I needed somewhere to hide, where no one would know it was I. No, what I really needed was a suit of full-body armor. That seemed about the only thing that would help me.

By the time I started to run out of violent things Greg could, and quite possibly would do to me, the bus had reached my neighborhood. The road grew increasingly bumpy, and I was glad for the distraction. As I held onto the seat in front of me, there wasn’t much room in my head for anything but the concentration necessary to stay upright. The kids in the back of the bus were laughing, enjoying the ride. I didn’t feel like I could enjoy anything again. I was just contemplating how embarrassing it would be to topple out of my seat when the driver sped over an unnaturally large pothole. The moment before, I had loosened my grip on the seatback, and my slight lack of control was enough to send me tumbling from my place. The last thing I saw was the filthy, gritty aisle approaching my face at an alarming speed before my forehead slammed against it and I lost consciousness, and the first thing I saw when I regained it was someone else’s mother, leaning in to kiss me.