SLAM I'm up against another wall. Today it's the lockers in the south hallway on the second floor. Not my favorite but better than some places. "Get outta my way, fag!" *sigh* Third time today. I hate the freaking name. They think I'm a loser and gay and nerdy. They don't know anything about me. Not that I want them to. I'm just tired of being misunderstood. If they knew about me they probably wouldn't change their ways. They'd still put me down. It's all they know. Well, enough about them. Let's get to me. I'm Jack. I'm tall, skinny (lanky to be more precise), I walk around with my headphones (headphones. Not earbuds.) blaring, I carry a pad and a pen around to write down my stories, rhymes, and poems. Now the pad is filled by this story of the misunderstandings that I have to deal with everyday.
I shake the shove off and continue walking to lunch in the English room. I like eating in there because it's quiet, there's no jerks, and I can write a bit. I like writing, it's my way of letting out all the emotions that are burned into the fabric of my being and imprinted into my brain. I can just let it out and feel a little better. Or at least that's the goal. I write a poem about some stupid crap and then throw it into the filthy trash can. This isn't working. I take a bite of my sandwich and look to the clock. 12:15. Five minutes until I have math with my idiot of a teacher. She's Romanian and I can't understand anything this bridge troll says. And don't worry the feeling of "that person is clinically insane" is shared. She hates me. Why would she be the exception? And with that the applause of the bell rang out and I headed out to math.
Here we go I get to class and sit next to James. James is one of the few "popular" guys that doesn't hate me. Mostly because he relies on my help to pass class but he's alright. Whenever the teacher talks about her jeeohmetree class we glance at each other and smile. Today I showJames some square root stuff that I thought I understand. After class James walks behind me into the hall and I hear Mary invite him to a party. You know the "I dont want to go anyway" excuse? That is my excuse for everything like this. I hear all about the parties and after school trips to the mall or park or whatever. I look down at the floor and keep walking down the hallway.
I get home and start my iPod up. I can finally just relax and enjoy myself. I close my eyes as I lay down on my bed and just think. I think about what things would be like if I weren't such a freakin loser. Maybe if I were cool I would have more fun. Maybe I'd have real friends and not have to take my emotions out on my writing. Maybe I could actually enjoy my time that's supposed to be the best time of my life. If its supposed to be that then I must be in the wrong time zone because this sucks. I get my phone and text my friend Carrie. She's cooler than I am but nice enough to actually care about people like me. She knows what it's like because she wasn't always cool and so I guess we relate a bit. I think she likes me because I'm not like the guys she usually hangs out with while being cool. She says that I'm sweet and kind and not an asshole like most of the other guys. She writes poetry too. It's amazing what she can write. Every line is it's own work of art that speaks to the very nature of all the literary fibers in my being. They're sweet like soda and just as bubbly. That's the best analogy I have been able to come up with so far. I get a text from Carrie: "Can you come over? I need your help." I tell her I can and start to drive out to her house. I keep wondering what being cool would be like?