Monday
Good morning. Actually no, it's NOT a good morning. Then again, what do I expect. I got up to find that mum and dad had already gone. No big surprise there. It's not like they usually wait for me. But just once, it would be nice if they stuck around and said good morning to me, or even offered me a lift to school. I hunted around for my clothes at the bottom of the wash basket, and put them on, not bothering to wash them. As an afterthought, I threw on some air freshener to mask the stale smell of pizza. I must be really stupid, because my mother ALWAYS forgets to wash my clothes and yet I still live in hope. Anyways, I grabbed my bag and threw in my books, before throwing on my coat and leaving for school. I quite like the walk to school. Most people complain about it, but I like to watch the world. I sometimes set off an hour early, so that I can make my trip before school and not have to rush. Today is Monday, so I make my way towards Baker Street. I walk round to the back of number 54, climb on to an old dumpster, and peer in through the windows. I sat for thirty minutes, and in that time I watched the Carlson family get ready for their day. I know their name is Carlson because it says it on their mailbox, but I have given each of them names, just for fun. The little boy, who is nine or ten years old with sandy hair and dimples in his cheeks looks like a Joey, and so that's what I called him. This morning, he is having a fight with his little sister Natalie. It doesn't last long, as Sandra their mother tells them off and they make up with each other, Natalie offering Joey the crayon that had started the fight. They then sit, smiling and happy, munching on their cheerie pops until its time for school, when Sandra packs them into duffel coats and takes them out the door. It sounds kinda dangerous to spy on people, but I've been doing it for years and I've never been caught. Sometimes I take my notebook and draw sketches; one of Joey leaning over Natalie, protectively, one of Sandra giving both of them a hug, the childrens' faces lighting up with joy and laughter. I like Sandra. She looks after her children. She spends ages making sure they're okay. If I had kids, that's how I'd want to be. Sometimes, I can picture myself in that family, happy, loved. I bet she'd ask me how my day had gone. I bet she'd make sure there was food in the freezer for me if she went out. All too soon I had to leave, and I trudged to school. I hate my school. I cope okay in classes, as I have a sort of agreement with the school. I don't bother them, and they don't bother me. Teachers don't mind me, because at least I don't cause disruptions, although they do get worried sometimes when my homework gets a bit carried away and they stare at scenes of death and destruction staring out from maths work. So, today was maths class. I always struggle with my work, but the teachers don't pay me much attention, as they are usually trying to separate some of the rowdier kids form their fighting, or trying to get John Bender to at least sit down, and release his choke-hold from the neck of another student. Today was fractions. I sat and doodled over my book. I got quite engrossed in getting the faces of the choir singers jut right, singing to the creepy old castle, that I almost didn't hear the bell go. I didn't like lunch, not that I ever do. It's always the time when I feel most alone, so I try to make it end as soon as possible. I usually just grab my dinner, eat it without chewing, and then go to the art room. When I got there, I relaxed. I like the art teacher, Mr Newman. He's the nearest I've got to a friend in this place. I mean, he's a bit old, but he doesn't mind me coming up to the art room at lunchtimes, and he sometimes comments on my work. Today, I was drawing in chalk on a black piece of paper. I was doing a drawing of a beach, with nobody on it, clouds hanging ominously over the sky and the surf crashing soundlessly on the shore. Mr Newman came over, nodded his head, and walked off. It wasn't much, but this unspoken praise filled me up, and I had to leave then so as not to cry. I wish I had friends. I finished the rest of the day as silently as usual, but by the end of it I was desperate to be off. I guess most people think I'm rushing to get home, but they'd be wrong. No, my first port of call is the local nursery school. I don't have to pick anyone up. I just go and stand there, and watch until every child has been picked up. I can't explain what it's like to stand there, only that little children don't see me and judge. Some of them even offer me a chocolate button from one of their grubby hands. After they are all gone, I go and sit in the park. I watch all the families playing Frisbee, and the teenagers going out on first dates. I feel really old, as I'm so separate from all of it. When the light starts to fail, I head down to the local café, and sit and test out how long one milkshake can last. When it's finished, and I finally have to go home, it's late. I let myself in to a dark house, as none of the lights are on. Mum and dad must have gone out partying again. I don't look for a note, as I know there wont be one. I get myself ready for bed listening to one of my cd's at full blast. I wonder what it would be like if I lived with the Carlson family?
Good morning. Actually no, it's NOT a good morning. Then again, what do I expect. I got up to find that mum and dad had already gone. No big surprise there. It's not like they usually wait for me. But just once, it would be nice if they stuck around and said good morning to me, or even offered me a lift to school. I hunted around for my clothes at the bottom of the wash basket, and put them on, not bothering to wash them. As an afterthought, I threw on some air freshener to mask the stale smell of pizza. I must be really stupid, because my mother ALWAYS forgets to wash my clothes and yet I still live in hope. Anyways, I grabbed my bag and threw in my books, before throwing on my coat and leaving for school. I quite like the walk to school. Most people complain about it, but I like to watch the world. I sometimes set off an hour early, so that I can make my trip before school and not have to rush. Today is Monday, so I make my way towards Baker Street. I walk round to the back of number 54, climb on to an old dumpster, and peer in through the windows. I sat for thirty minutes, and in that time I watched the Carlson family get ready for their day. I know their name is Carlson because it says it on their mailbox, but I have given each of them names, just for fun. The little boy, who is nine or ten years old with sandy hair and dimples in his cheeks looks like a Joey, and so that's what I called him. This morning, he is having a fight with his little sister Natalie. It doesn't last long, as Sandra their mother tells them off and they make up with each other, Natalie offering Joey the crayon that had started the fight. They then sit, smiling and happy, munching on their cheerie pops until its time for school, when Sandra packs them into duffel coats and takes them out the door. It sounds kinda dangerous to spy on people, but I've been doing it for years and I've never been caught. Sometimes I take my notebook and draw sketches; one of Joey leaning over Natalie, protectively, one of Sandra giving both of them a hug, the childrens' faces lighting up with joy and laughter. I like Sandra. She looks after her children. She spends ages making sure they're okay. If I had kids, that's how I'd want to be. Sometimes, I can picture myself in that family, happy, loved. I bet she'd ask me how my day had gone. I bet she'd make sure there was food in the freezer for me if she went out. All too soon I had to leave, and I trudged to school. I hate my school. I cope okay in classes, as I have a sort of agreement with the school. I don't bother them, and they don't bother me. Teachers don't mind me, because at least I don't cause disruptions, although they do get worried sometimes when my homework gets a bit carried away and they stare at scenes of death and destruction staring out from maths work. So, today was maths class. I always struggle with my work, but the teachers don't pay me much attention, as they are usually trying to separate some of the rowdier kids form their fighting, or trying to get John Bender to at least sit down, and release his choke-hold from the neck of another student. Today was fractions. I sat and doodled over my book. I got quite engrossed in getting the faces of the choir singers jut right, singing to the creepy old castle, that I almost didn't hear the bell go. I didn't like lunch, not that I ever do. It's always the time when I feel most alone, so I try to make it end as soon as possible. I usually just grab my dinner, eat it without chewing, and then go to the art room. When I got there, I relaxed. I like the art teacher, Mr Newman. He's the nearest I've got to a friend in this place. I mean, he's a bit old, but he doesn't mind me coming up to the art room at lunchtimes, and he sometimes comments on my work. Today, I was drawing in chalk on a black piece of paper. I was doing a drawing of a beach, with nobody on it, clouds hanging ominously over the sky and the surf crashing soundlessly on the shore. Mr Newman came over, nodded his head, and walked off. It wasn't much, but this unspoken praise filled me up, and I had to leave then so as not to cry. I wish I had friends. I finished the rest of the day as silently as usual, but by the end of it I was desperate to be off. I guess most people think I'm rushing to get home, but they'd be wrong. No, my first port of call is the local nursery school. I don't have to pick anyone up. I just go and stand there, and watch until every child has been picked up. I can't explain what it's like to stand there, only that little children don't see me and judge. Some of them even offer me a chocolate button from one of their grubby hands. After they are all gone, I go and sit in the park. I watch all the families playing Frisbee, and the teenagers going out on first dates. I feel really old, as I'm so separate from all of it. When the light starts to fail, I head down to the local café, and sit and test out how long one milkshake can last. When it's finished, and I finally have to go home, it's late. I let myself in to a dark house, as none of the lights are on. Mum and dad must have gone out partying again. I don't look for a note, as I know there wont be one. I get myself ready for bed listening to one of my cd's at full blast. I wonder what it would be like if I lived with the Carlson family?