Scritch scritch scritch. The shadows on her nose. The lashes flicking out above her eyes. The tell tell curve of her lips when she smiles. And then she was gone. They took her. Her drawing at least. They always took her. Always. It could be Momma or Meulin or Pounce but they always took it. I think I left a mark when they ripped my sketch book away from me. I was going to have to fix that. Momma didn't have a mark. Momma was perfect.
I didn't look at them. Things were worse when I looked at them. I could hear them tossing the book around. I could see the shadow as it sailed over my head. Why did they do this? They were so loud. I could feel the headache coming on already from everyone else talking and laughing and responding. I hate headaches. I could feel myself rocking in my seat as well. They laughed when I did nothing. Leaning in close and calling me a retard. But they didn't touch me. No. I attacked the last person who touched me. I don't like people touching me. I hate when they call me retard too. I'm not retarded. My grades are better than theirs so no. I'm not retarded. But I'm not right either. I couldn't talk right. I guess thats why they're mean to me. It's so stupid. Just because I'm a little different. I want to punch all their stupid mean faces in. I rock a little faster and ball up my hands in my pants.
And then they do it. I can hear it. The ripping. They were ripping up Momma. Rip rip rip.No. They can't rip up Momma. Momma isn't ripped. She's perfect. I pressed my balled up hands over my ears. No no no. Momma isn't ripped. So she can't be ripped when I draw her. They lean in close again, laughing. They're so mean. Why are they so mean? They act as though I've done something amazing, all because I moved for once. They say it's a miracle and other mean stuff. At least I think they do. My brain doesn't put the sounds together right all the time so sometimes it doesn't make sense to me. But I know they're being mean. They way they sound, they sound mean. I want to yell at them. I want to call them meanies and stupid heads and everything else I think in my head. I want to let them know that I hate when they do that. When they rip up my drawings. I worked so hard on them and they rip them up as though it's something they made and have decided stinks so they rip it up so no one will ever see it ever again. I'm a better drawer than them. They shouldn't rip up my drawings. They shouldn't rip up Momma. I want to let them know that they should all just go jump in a hole and die for being such mean horrible people. But I can't. I can't because my brain won't let me talk all the time. Not the way I want to. So I do what I can do. I scream.
I scream long and loud with my balled up hands pressed to my ears and rocking back and forth quickly. They laugh at me some, saying the retard has gone bezerk. So I scream louder. I take their words and turn it into bad feelings and put it into the scream. The headache is here so I take that pain and put it into the scream. I take everything bad and throw it at them through the scream because that's all I can do. That's the only way I can show them. And I scream and scream and scream. But they don't leave. They back away some with my book and laugh at me like the mean people they are. Why don't they understand what I'm trying to tell them? Are they stupid? Or are they just that cruel? They pull out another page of Pounce de Leon with his wide happy cat grin and rip him in half. They can't rip up Pounce either. Pounce is my friend and they can't rip him up because he isn't ripped up. Even with that black mark on his chin that almost makes him look like he has two mouths, he isn't ripped up. He's fluffy and sweet and perfect in a different way than Momma is and they can't just rip him up. Why don't they see that? Pounce doesn't deserve it.
And one of them falls over. There's a new one now. Short and skinny but not at the same time. He's nubby. Yes. Nubby. I haven't seen this one before. He sounds so angry and mean but I think he's being nice. I stop screaming and sit there, rocking back and forth with my balled up hands over my ears. Every now and again, I glance his way to see what's going on. He hit one of them and he runs away. The new boy is standing there, pointing to me and pointing to my sketch book and pointing to them. The new boy brings new words, words I've never hear or seen before. Words like 'fuck' and 'shit'. Those words are new but what do they mean? They stare at the new boy with wide eyes as though they're amazed and start to back away, throwing my sketch book at him. It's like watching a little dog chase of the big dog and I watch him for longer than I normally look at people. He has hair so light I'd call it white and eyes the color of red Valentine's Day cards. It's like he was rolled in a black carpet with only his skinny legs sticking out, his chin is covered with black fabric from his turtle neck. Those skinny legs covered in grey skinny jeans. He must buy very small jeans. And even though his hair is shaggy and his eyes are sharp and angry, everything about him screams nubby.
He walks over and puts my sketch book back on my school desk. But I don't say anything because I can't and I don't look at him because I don't know him. He is strange and new and nubby. The nubby boy says something that my brain doesn't catch but he sounds so angry and loud and mean. I close my eyes tight and ball up my fists a little more. Is he angry? Is he angry at me? Is he angry because I screamed? I don't want him to be angry with me. He was so nice and he has such white hair and red eyes. He leans down like they did and I can feel him there, about to touch me. I will scream again if he touches me. I don't like people touching me. I want to tell him this but I don't because I don't know if my brain will let me and I don't want to take the chance. But he doesn't touch me and he asks:
"Are you ok?" He still sounds angry but less angry and more frustrated and really worried. But I don't really care because no one ever asks me that except Momma and Meulin and my teacher Ms. Peixes. I look at him but only for a second and see those bright red eyes. He stays for a second when I don't respond before saying something about autistics. He tells me his name once or twice to try and see if I'm listening. I am but I don't look at him or let him know. His name is Karkat. He asks me what my name is but I don't answer or look at him. He is a stranger. I don't know him. I don't know Karkat. I don't want to talk to him because I don't want to know what he'll do when I try. So he reads my name tag on the top of my school desk. He says it a few times to make sure he's saying it right. I'm not rocking so fast anymore and I'm staring at my book and the scraggly white pages that stick out from the edge. But the pages aren't white anymore because I've drawn on them. I like hearing his voice even though it's less angry and more frustrated. He has a nice voice even though I sometimes don't know what he's saying. So when he says my name right I tuck my chin in just a little. I don't think he noticed because he sighed and gave up. When he asks if he can look at my drawings I jerk my head twice without moving my eyes from a little triangle of not white paper sticking away from the corner of the cover. He doesn't know what to do after than so he fidgets for a moment or two and goes away. But before he goes away he says:
"Goodbye Nepeta."
If I were different, I could see myself looking him in the while he walks away and waving to him with smooth little waves and I say:
'Goodbye Karkat. I'll see you later.'