I felt engulfed in the sea of students. They stared at me, my emerald-green eyes trying to avoid theirs as I tried to hide behind my light brown hair. This didn’t work, of course. Nothing could save me from their stares. Nothing but time, that is.
A week ago, I’d been living with my mom, in the country. She’d gotten a call of acceptance from her current boss two and a half weeks ago; we had to move to she could work under the better-paying boss. Now we live in the big city – sky-scrapers and all.
Mom and I have been living with each other since my dad left when I was five. He had only left us with two cows, a dog, and our house in the countryside. The animals have love since passed away, leaving my mother and me with no income. Mom’s parents had been loaning her money so we could have a comfortable, yet low income lifestyle. Now it was Mom’s turn to pay them back.
So I was new in the big city, still awed by the sight o the buildings that obscured my view of the sky, confused by the way the streets wound and turned without any warning, and a bit sad that I didn’t wake up to the sound of birds singing their morning songs outside my bedroom window. Realizing all of this made me homesick. Suddenly, I wanted to go back more than anything, to get away from the sea of people and to relax in the wide-open fields of our country home.
As I mused this over sadly, I wove through the annoying, in-the-way students to try to make my way through to my third period class. Finally pullig myself free from the human-packed sea, I walked into the classroom and found an out-of-the-way desk I could sit in near the back. At least I could try to escape some of the staring eyes.
As more students spilled from the “sea” into the classroom, I pulled out my book and began to read from where I had left off earlier that morning, making sure I only listened for my name to be called.
Sure enough, after I had read no more than six pages, I heard my name. “Alexandra Williams,” Mr. Knicks called, scanning the students. I looked up at him. “I go by Alex,” I said, making sure he could hear me, but trying no to call attention to myself. My second goal failed; nearly all of the students turned to look at me. I felt my cheeks redden as I tried to ignore them, looking down at the pages of the book while he made a note and went on with the attendance. I heard some murmuring immediately afterwards, seeing the students either looking at me, nodding towards me as they talked to the person opposite of them, or pointing at me as they “tried” to be inconspicuous about it (and failed miserably).
I sighed inwardly, wishing they’d stop.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw someone looking at me. Not that he was the only one, but he was different from the others. He had the same expression, but for some reason, I was attracted to him. Debating whether to quench my curiosity or let the guy stare at me, I sighed and looked up.
The guy looked thoughtful and curious. He didn’t look away right away like the others did. From the distance he sat from me, I thought his eyes looked brown and narrow, almost almond-shaped. He had somewhat spiky, light brown hair – about three shades lighter than my own. He had wide shoulders and well-toned arms.
He finally looked away after a couple of seconds, looking back towards the front of the class as Mr. Knicks started his lecture.
I pulled out my notebook so I could take notes. He wrote some key points on the board, so I copied them down and made side notes on the examples he used. This went on for about twenty-five minutes, and then the class was released for lunch.
I put my things away and, after everyone else had left, asked the instructor if I could stay in the classroom for lunch. After I assured (and re-assured) him that I was not going to eat in his classroom, he allowed it and left so he could go eat his own lunch in the teachers’ lounge.
I went back to my seat, relaxing in the finally silent classroom, practically jumping for joy that I wasn’t the center of attention anymore. I pulled out my sketchbook and started on a new, clean page.
The silence was comforting, relaxing. It reminded me of when I would ride my Papa’s horse through the field. The field was big, open, and one of the most beautiful things I would ever see. Sometimes, my mom or Grandma would ride with me, but most of the time, I would ride by myself. Papa’s horse, a white stallion, named Bugs, had always been my favorite horse since they got him a couple years ago.
The field was more like a large meadow – tall grass that was completely surrounded by trees; a trail that lead back to my grandparents’ house was hidden in the foliage.
The peaceful field was nothing compared to a full classroom in the city. It was the exact oppose; I felt so enclosed here, in the classroom; whereas, in the filed, I felt free and able to do whatever I wanted.
Turning myself back to the present, I turned my notebook ninety degrees, turning the paper to a landscape rather than a portrait. My first line was a curved one that extended across the width of a page, horizontally. Along the curve edges, I made circles to match the size of each curve. I shaded the circles and made a large half-circle on the bottom half of the paper, almost like the reflection of a sunset you’d see on a lake.
I worked slowly, making sure my lines were smooth and not shaky. Before I knew it, the other students walked in, all talking loudly. Great, I thought sarcastically. They’re back.
I kept working, ignoring the other students as my abstract drawing grew across the page. The bell rang (making me jump, thought my drawing wasn’t affected), and the staring eyes all retreated to their own desks, only quieting a fraction.
When the teacher walked in, most of the students stopped talking abruptly. I sighed, taking out my notebook again as he (almost immediately) continued his lecture.. I jotted down the notes, glancing up whenever I knew what he was talking about or whenever he got off topic.
When Mr. Knicks’ back was turned so he could write more points on the board, I noticed the same guy from earlier looking at me again. Trying to stay focused, I ignored him and wrote what was on the board.
But part of my brain was asking why he was looking at me so curiously. The other half of my brain, the more irritable and sarcastic half, was telling the other half to shut up and concentrate.
As I glanced back up to make sure I was writing down the write points, I found he was still staring at me.
What are you looking at, the sarcastic half of my brain shrieked. Do you have a staring problem?
Surprisingly enough, he smiled, his shoulders moving up and down as he did so – a chuckle? He turned to face forward in his seat and answered a question I didn’t hear from the guy sitting next to him.
What’s up with that, my sarcastic half asked. I sighed and shook my head at myself.
As the teacher started bringing his lecture to a close, he informed the class that we would be dismissed at the bell. I heard students talking, papers rustling, and binders closing as I put my notebook and sketchbook away in my book bag. Oddly enough, I also heard footsteps and a pair of shoes stopped beside my desk. Zipping up my book bag, I lifted it and put it on my desk, looking up at who the shoes belonged to
Surely enough, it was the guy who kept staring at m. “Hi,” he said pleasantly. “I’m Jared.”
I smiled politely and nodded. “It’s nice to meet you. My name’s Alex,” I told him, figuring he’d probably know that from earlier.
He nodded back and leaned on my desk. “So, where did you move here from,” he asked.
I was no unaware of the other students wanting to listen into the conversation he wanted to start, but I kept my eyes on him, ignoring their stares. “I lived with my mom by my grandparents’ house,” I told him. I didn’t want to out and say “the country”. Who knows what kinds of questions these kids would think of? I wanted to remain inconspicuous – or at least as a country girl could get in a big city.
He chuckled, seeming amused by my answer. “Sounds cool,” he said. “You need help finding your next class?”
I blinked, shocked by his question. “Uh, yeah,” I composed myself. “That’d be nice.”
He smiled, looking pleased with my answer. “What’s your next class,” he asked, glancing down at the schedule in my hand. I looked down at the half-sheet of paper. “It says… Honors Choir, room 20.”
[Jan 28, 2009] / [June 26, 2009]
“Wow, Honors Choir,” he sounded impressed and surprised. “You like singing?”
“Yeah,” I admitted. “I’ve always liked to sing. Ever since I could talk,” I shrugged.
He looked at me like it was truly interesting. “What kind of music do you like to sing?”
I shrugged. “Country, some 80’s rock, alternative, some classical stuff,” I said casually.
“That’s cool,” he said. “I like alternative and classical music, myself,” he smiled. “It seems I’m not the only one who likes two different sides of the spectrum.”
I laughed and got up as the bell rang. He waited for me as I let everyone else leave the room before me. “So, where do your grandparents lie,” he finally asked as we entered the “sea”; now that no one could possibly be listening to our lower voices in the sea of sound, somewhat obnoxious students.
“The country,” I sighed, knowing there was no way to deflect the question. Admitting this made me even more homesick, if that was possible.
He looked back at me with a smile. “You think that’s a bad thing,” he accused.
