The serious, dark green chalk boards seemed to summarize the feeling of P.S.118's student body. The town had dilapidated before their eyes. The school system was shot for funds, and each year the educational promise of public school's like P.S.118 seemed to slump further than the last. The city was ranked among the lowest in the state in terms of academic progress. Naturally, more students began to dabble in debauchery from the lack of mental stimulation. It soon became more a prison than an educational institution. And everyone began looking out for number one in light of hard times, and cliques became even more exclusive and tightly wound as if some evolutionary reaction to survive had been struck at the dawn of the foreclosure scandal that left the country on its knees.

Arnold walked up the school's entrance of concrete steps that were decorated with bird crap, trash and the occasional cigarette butt stamped into the surface. The sky was overcast, the clouds brooding darkly and marauding overhead. Periodically, it would sprinkle, but it only seemed to come in brief intervals to chill exposed body parts and kiss cheeks of students wadding along to class.

He looked down at his watch worriedly. He was 13 minutes late, walking with hurried, long steps. Opening the classroom door his eyes met his teacher's deep green irises that matched the oppressive, green chalk boards that reminded everyone of just how archaic the classrooms had actually become. It was like some sort of indication that he was a part of the whole, ruined system. Some teachers had become like police officers that held back fiery protesters against a malevolent, corrupt government. It all felt very wrong, but at the end of the day, he was a kid, and what could he do?

Their teacher wore a white-collared shirt that he tucked snugly into his army green trousers. To pull the look together he wore a black tie and chocolate brown penny loafers. He stood at a solid six feet tall, with receding, brunette hair and intellectual, thin framed glasses. His dead, tired eyes were matched by a bored, though constantly irritated monotone. He was the kind of person that seemed to always be having a bad day. Hearing his peevish voice was like nails on a dark green chalk board to Arnold, "Ah, so glad you could join us."

Arnold didn't like the man, but he respected authority for his own purposes. He didn't like to get his hands dirty with defiance when he'd much prefer blending in with the ranks, and just being left alone, "Sorry, I just missed the-"

The teacher cut him off, uninterested, "Please, save your excuses. Just take your seat, and we'll continue where we left off."

Arnold trudged to his seat, pturbed by the man's petulance and lack of concern. He didn't even consider the fact that Arnold was not only one of his top students, but also fairly punctual. It didn't matter. The man just wanted an excuse to bitch and moan and flex his authority over whichever student had the misfortune of accidentally interrupting his uncompromisingly dry, tedious lecture.

Arnold sat down quietly, and crossed his arms on his desk. His cornflower-colored hair fell forward a bit from the extra weight of the drizzling rain. As he reached over to his left side to retrieve his notebook he caught his friend Gerald's eye, who wore an inquisitive look. He whispered, "Hey, what happened, man?"

Arnold eyes fell half-lidded, a bit irritated by the memory behind his explanation. He whispered back, "I missed the bus, and grandpa's packard's in the shop."

Gerald sighed, "You had me worried. I thought you were still sick."

Arnold smiled lightly, "Nah, I'm all better."

Gerald jested insincerely, "I was just worried I'd have to sit through another day of Ben Stein lectures without anyone to complain to."

Arnold laughed beneath his breathe and drew his eyes back to his notebook, readying his black, mechanical pencil. He tried to focus in on the lecture despite the restlessness of some his peers.

The back of the class was always littered with conversation- some covert and others less tactful. The back was where most of the delinquents and charlatans sat. The kept their faces in the shadows where they could plan their mischief and crack crass and obscene jokes for the rest of the class to faintly hear and appreciate (or not appreciate). Many were new faces, but plenty remained from the original P.S.118 bunch.

Nadine and Rhonda were still around, and surprisingly still best friends, though their friendship was marred with constant bickering and tension, and frequent passive aggressive personal attacks. Rhonda still wore the best clothes in school, but Nadine had evolved into something of a reggae fanatic. She wore beanies and let her corn rolls down that she now dyed a dark brown, and was turning into something of an edgy, intellectual beauty that oddly complimented Rhonda's conventional style and looks. Their polar opposite nature was what made the pair such a dynamic and interesting duo to be around.

Sid was still around. His black hair now dragged to the back of his neck like one of the Beatles. He still sported the tacky onyx, leather jacket, but preferred brown boots to his old white, heeled pair. His green baseball cap was still spun proudly backward. His family had been swindled in the foreclosure mess, and they were currently living with his aunt's in cramped quarters. He hated being there, and made an intentional effort to be home as little as possible. He was one of the first kids anybody knew to try alcohol, though people often got the vibe he was exaggerating his endeavors.

Curly had finally stopped his mother form using cereal bowls to cut his hair. He had stopped the practice when Rhonda had teased him about the crude style and made him something of a momentary spectacle to his fifth grade class. Utter embarrassment was his best friend in this particular situation, though. Growing out his hair and paying for more professional haircuts had improved his popularity, if only slightly, and over time his reputation of being a total weirdo fell away. However, he was still a bizarre kid. He would often make inappropriate, morbid jokes that would turn his less liberal minded peers off. Naturally, he found acceptance in the back rows alongside the other rebels, freaks and outcasts. Though he was still considered to have a few screws loose he always seemed to have some insane plan, which would promise entertainment, alongside ridiculous and often hilarious outcomes. Under the psychological knife he might have been considered manic for his actions were often impulsive and half-baked. He was certainly never a bore.

Lastly of the P.S.118 originals in the back row was the ever-scowling Helga Pataki. She was thin and a bit lanky with small, budding preteen breasts. She often wore long-sleeved shirts that looked a size too large with tight, worn jeans. Her hair was in two pigtails that day, but she often switched from ponytail to pigtails throughout the week. Instead of her gawky, childish pink bow she chose to wear a thick, pink hairband instead. She had a dingy brown, bomber jacket over her white thermal as she had her head turned most entirely toward the last row where she chatted idly to Nadine. Her features were soft, but serious, and her complexion milky. She had plucked her unibrow out of vanity she tried to pretend she didn't possess, but she still had thick, distinctive eyebrows. She had been labeled by the school's staff as severely troubled in the fourth grade when her violent outbursts had got her sent to a psychiatrist. Her relations with her teachers held deep frictions since, but her peers had come to respect her- especially when she cut back on the bullying a bit. She frequently said what was on other student's minds, but what they didn't have the courage, or the energy to say. Her brutal honesty was part of what maintained her faithful recidivism to detention hall. She often got into fights, and ditched class on a regular basis. There was a rumor spreading that she had been caught smoking marijuana in the girls bathroom with Nadine, but no one could say for sure.

She had a water bottle on her desk that's label had been torn away and left an ugly remainder. She passed it to Nadine every once in a while, and the two would laugh. Helga had lost Phoebe to a private school for gifted students after fifth grade. They promised to keep in touch, but Phoebe's studies overwhelmed her, and Helga was terrible with procrastinating on such matters, but from time to time one or the other would send a letter, updating the other on their lives and wishing well.

Helga reached for her water bottle and turned around taking a gulp, and set it down. On her turn around she locked eyes with their pissy professor tapping his foot obstinately and waiting in silence for their conversation to close. He pointed with a wooden yard stick, "If you want to have a conversation you can take it outside."

Helga smiled wisely, inspired by the intoxicating contents of her water bottle, "Really? Well if I knew that was an option I'd have left a long time ago."

Helga stood up from her seat, bluffing her exit, "You sit down right now, young lady!"

She paused and then fell into her seat heavily, emphasizing her weight as she crashed dramatically into her seat to comically emphasize her lackluster at the response she had seen a mile coming. Their teacher's bushy brow fell heavily over his eyes and his face went pink with indignation, "Don't you give me attitude! If I hear one more word from you its Saturday school."

Even under the influence the words 'Saturday school' were enough a threat for her to close her trap and submit. It just wasn't worth it in that instance. She darted her pupils away from his as her only display of defiance for which he was secretly grateful.

Arnold watched the little spat play out. He had always been amused by the back row students and found them almost endearing in their own mixed-up way. Helga was particularly thick-skinned, but he often pitied her. She seemed unhappy underneath it all, like there was something fitful and pained just beneath the surface. Unlike the other back row students she would often read during classes, draw or write poetry. She had artistic impulses and an intellectual mind that always seemed to be picking the world apart. When she wasn't being self-effacing or myopically bitter, she carried some of the most meaningful and intelligent conversations Arnold could recall.

Arnold was startled and torn from his malaise as the school bell sang out its high pitched shriek of freedom. Lunch carried on without any exceptional highlights. He sat with his best friend Gerald, a handsome, scruffy boy with zits named Oslo, and his old friend Stinky who hadn't seemed to change much other than for the light side-burns he wore proudly.

Stinky gawked at Gerald's sandwich, nearly salivating, "You reckon I could get a bite of that?"

Gerald rolled his eyes and scoffed disbelievingly, "No way, man. This is my turkey, cheese sandwich. Doesn't your dad make you lunch?"

Stinky looked at his pathetic, brown sack with his named written quaintly in red sharpie, "Yeah, but pa doesn't know how to make nothin' right. He just puts peanut butter on bread and wraps it in cellophane. A man can't live on just bread and peanut butter."

Gerald joked languidly as he pulled out a pudding pack from his own paper bag lunch sack, "...and cellophane, don't forget cellophane."

Arnold had been picking at the school's cafeteria food. Today's entree was macaroni and cheese with thick, pasty orange sauce on partially dry noodles alongside what appeared to be another tasteless helping of the school's recycled creamed-corn. Lastly was the pudding with the layer of film on top, which no kid, other than Curly, was likely to consume in good faith. Arnold had hoped it was a jello day, but alas, the day didn't seem to be doing him any favors so far.

"What do you say Arnold? I'll trade you this here peanut-bread sandwich for your cafeteria food."

Arnold shook himself from his introverted state at Stinky's bargain. He weighed the proposal for a moment before making his decision, "Okay, but I get to keep my milk."

Stinky lit up like a Christmas tree, "You got yourself a deal."

As they switched their meager bargain chips across the table they were approached by Helga who trailed Rhonda, Sid and Nadine. She leaned on the table, making her presence known unabashedly with her palms flat on the tabletop, "Are you boys doing anything special this fine afternoon?"

Oslo broke in, his voice cracking through, "Nothing much, I guess."

Gerald took on an heir of apprehension, "Why? Are you?"

Arnold just observed, taking a bite of his plain sandwich and chewing thoroughly. He was always prone to quiet observation. Either that or endless daydreaming.

Helga bragged falsely, "Well, I don't know if you're into it, but Curly swiped some vodka from his dad's liquor cabinet. You gotta love the crazy twit."

Sid cut Helga off, almost unable to contain himself, "It's 80 proof, but we mix it with cranberry juice!"

Gerald spoke up first, with a dash of hesitance to his voice, "Uh, maybe some other time."

Helga looked to the others, "Well?"

Oslo chimed in, scratching the back of his neck in a fit of inner conflict, "I think my mom would kill me if I did. Sorry."

Stinky piped in passionately, "I don't wanna end up a crumb bum, no thank you."

Helga was at the comment like a shark to blood, "You think one drink is gonna promise you a future of destitution? Come on, you can't be serious."

Stinky retorted with simple, country logic, "All I know is what I know."

Helga scoffed at the infuriatingly dim argument, "Brilliant. Well, I guess we'll see you guys later then."

Oslo pushed his light brown hair from his face and choked on his speech, attempting to overcome his changing vocal chord's insistence on making puberty excruciatingly awkward, "What about, Arnold?"

Helga had started her onward saunter, but was pulled back by the comment. She laughed, "Arnold? Pssh, why would I even waste my time with mister goody two shoes? The farthest he's ever strayed from the straight and narrow was this morning when he showed up a measly ten-minutes late."

She sighed from the fit of laughter the notion had encouraged, wiping a non-existent tear from her eye, "Yeah, that'll be the day."

Bothered by the assumption, Arnold finally spoke up, "Hey, I'm not perfect all the time."

Helga smiled cheekily, amused by Arnold's defensiveness, "Oh, really? Is that how you see it? Let me tell you something bucko- I bet I can forecast your whole predictable life in a couple sentences. Let's see- you get good grades now. You'll get good grades in high school. You'll get good grades in college. You'll get married, have a few kids, and then you'll die. Sound about right? I bet you'd be happy if that were your life- I bet you WANT that to be your life."

Arnold countered with annoyance, "Well what's your 'great' life gonna be like then? You think it'll be much better?"

Helga's face went serious as she went into debate mode, popping some gum into her mouth to appear indifferent, whilst smacking the gum loudly, "My life is going to have some substance. I'm not just gonna fall into the cookie-cutter mold and cling to all that out-dated American dream crap. I'm gonna do something different- something worthwhile. I'm not gonna be like you sitting behind an office desk typing away for some corporate machine like a freakin' monkey that's all I know."

Arnold felt wounded by the accusation, and his eyes fell to his friends, "C'mon, I'm not gonna end up like that. I'm not like that- am I? C'mon, back me up, guys."

Their was silence for a moment, but Gerald filled it in, but not with the answer Arnold was hoping to hear, "You are kinda cookie-cutter sometimes."

Arnold protested, "Hey, I've done stuff. We played hooky that one day, remember?"

Helga poked fun at the desperate statement, "Yeah, emphasis on ONE day." She laughed at her own wit," See ya' in the funny papers, Arnold."

_

The rest of the day Arnold was stuck in his head in a conflict over Helga's accusations. He didn't view himself as cookie-cutter, and he strongly felt he was being misinterpreted. He was just more introverted and casual about life. He didn't have any desire to be some kind of anarchist punk like the kids in the back row. But at the same time he DID kind of want all the things Helga said he'd want out of life, well, other then the desk job. Perhaps he WAS living in some kind of fictitious, idealistic dreamworld. He wondered if he never took any risks would he miss out on a unique life entirely in the end like Helga had predicted?

As he walked home these thoughts pulverized his head like tiny rubber bouncing balls that ricocheted violently in every which direction. He walked up the steps of the boarding house noticing the stains on its outer walls that accumulated and stood as a reminder of time's passing.

He walked into the kitchen to see his grandfather sitting over a bowl of soup looking vacantly into the steaming bowl. Arnold greeted him despondently, "Hey, grandpa."

Phil looked up and beamed gladly at the sight of his grandson, "Hey, shortman. How was school?"

Grandma had passed away the year before, and left him with an awful, staying feeling of lonesomeness. Whenever Arnold returned from school it was like his whole world was made a little brighter just by his company. It pained Arnold to know this, but nonetheless they had each other, and they still had the boarders, which was like having one big, crazy extended-family.

Arnold walked into the kitchen, and poured himself some of the soup that invited him with a rich, tomato-y aroma, "It was okay."

He sat down across from grandpa, and made eye-contact before attending to his dinner, "Grandpa, do you think I'm a goody two shoes?"

Grandpa finished a sip from his metal spoon's cradle, "Now who went and told you that?"

Arnold responded vaguely, too lazy to go into details, "Just some kids."

Grandpa fiddled with his spoon, passing it from finger to finger as he thought allowed, "Well, I can't lie, boy, you're a good kid. But that's no reason to get upset- it's a good thing. Makes things a lot easier for me."

"Do you think my life's gonna turn out trite and dull?", Arnold asked anxiously.

Grandpa set his spoon down, realizing he wasn't going to get a good sip inbetween the conversation, "Well, I don't know about trite...mostly cause I don't know what that means, but certainly not dull. No, I can't imagine any kid of your parents' turning out dull- you're just practical."

Arnold felt a little more at ease by his grandfather's reassurance, "Thanks grandpa. That helps."

As he turned his attention to his soup grandpa broke in, "But you gotta take risks sometimes- sometimes you gotta make bad decisions to learn from 'em- to really figure out who you are, and more importantly who you're not."

Arnold took the wise words in mindfully and bent his head back down toward his soup, "Thanks grandpa."

Phil smiled, glad to be of use, "No problem, shortman, no problem."

After a few moments of silence Phil chimed in again, wanting to extend his sermon, but losing his audience, "- and if you ever get caught you plead ignorance. You hear me, Arnold, plead ignorance."

Arnold tried to end the conversation by simply repeating himself in a less sincere tone, "Thanks grandpa."

Grandpa responded obliviously, "You got it, shortman."