A one shot thing. Sorry my one shots are always long-ish. Do I really have to do the disclaimer?
I always sit in the same seat. It doesn't matter what class it is. It's always the 4th row, third seat in from the end. Optimal viewing, I always tell people. Teachers seem to avoid you when you sit in the 4th row, third seat in from the end. It's like you're exempt.
Once, I traded a guy my never been sipped Jamba Juice for that seat. You don't want to jinx yourself. I've acquired enough jinxes already. Probably all that moving around. I've been in about 6 different schools.
I really didn't plan on showing up late to school today. My shirt had spaghetti sauce blobs on it, and all the others that were relatively non-embarrassing were in the wash. The teacher looks up as I edge in. "Take a seat, Mr. Conlon," he says curtly.
I don't believe it. Someone's sitting in my seat. My seat. I'm still standing there.
"We haven't got all day." I can hear everyone murmuring.
I make my way to my row, slowly. I stand hovering over the second seat, praying for some miracle that this person will get up for no reason, so that I can sit in my chair. But they're bent over a battered notebook, writing furiously.
"Mr. Conlon, either sit down, or get out."
I give the burst of unruly hair a withering glare before giving up and sliding in the seat next to it. 42 is such an unlucky number.
This is all wrong.
I rap my knuckles against the cheap pressed wooden desk, irritated. At the sound, the chair stealer looks at me.
It's a girl.
She raises an eyebrow at me.
I ignore her and start taking notes. As soon as class is over, I mutter under my breath, "Spot stealer," and get out quickly.
The next time, I make sure to get up early. There isn't anything in the house to eat, which is what french fries are for. Since there's no one in the room yet, I can eat in peace, happily sprinkling my potatoes with salt.
"Is this spot taken?"
The salt flies over my shoulder. I turn to glare at whoever it is interrupting my meal. It's that girl again. She repeats the question, but doesn't wait for an answer, and floats into the chair next to me, smelling like freesias.
I concentrate on my fries. Eating is a very delicate process.
I can see her shrug and start writing in that notebook again. Just as I think she's fully engrossed in what she's doing and won't be a bother to me, she starts talking. "You're very particular of where you sit." She says it like a scientist, observing a crucial part of an experiment. Her pen is still scratching away at the unfortunate paper, as if it's a completely separate entity. Amazing.
I don't acknowledge her statement. I continue to stuff my mouth.
"You don't seem to talk much, either."
Still the scratching.
"Have you ever considered a girlfriend?"
Yes sir, have you considered the options? Zero point one percent financing, satisfaction guaranteed, or your money back! Act now!
"I don't suppose too many girls would mind having a boyfriend who doesn't talk."
She makes it seem like I have a disease. At the rate she talks, her boyfriend would have to be mute. Maybe a tree. I laugh, imagining her dragging a birch everywhere with her, trailing dirt, talking all the while. No, a willow.
"Well, at least that's a noise. I was beginning to think you were mute. Or a tree."
Exclamation marks. The nerve, she's so rude.
"I think I'd rather like having a boyfriend who doesn't talk."
I'm betting she would. There's a short silence, then:
"Say, how about you and me?"
She's joking. I look up and stare at her. She's staring back at me, eyes wide. Dear God, she can't be serious.
"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"
I fall off my seat. I look at her with a sort of awe. I'm in awe of her psycho-ness. She's still laughing.
"Oh man you should've seen your face, hahahaha.. You know, I could steal your spot right now."
I stand up so fast I see black, and very dizzily, sit down. I glare in her general direction.
"You glare a lot. What's with the angst? It doesn't suit you."
I shake my head, and turn to my food. I don't look at her for the rest of the period, and she doesn't say anything to me. As I leave, she calls out gaily, "See you later, Spot!" I pause for a slight moment without turning around, and continue walking.
The next time, I'm late to school again. It isn't my fault, really. I had to synchronize all the clocks and watches. To be running on different times has bad consequences. But then, so is running late. I walk into class as quietly as I can. The teacher stares at me, an intimidating expression on his face, but doesn't say anything. I can't believe it. That's my seat. She saved my seat.
I walk slowly to my row and look at her. She looks up at me and smiles. "Sit down," she says, pulling her backpack off the 43rd chair. I do so, sliding my backpack off, as if in slow motion, looking at her out of the corner of my eye. Maybe she isn't as bad as I thought.
For the next few times and the many times after, I sit in the same seat as always, fourth row in, third seat from the end. She always sits next to me. She chatters a lot, but I don't mind. She calls me her "Spot" and doesn't let anyone else sit in the forty-third seat. I think I like that name. My friends like to tease her, and sit in my chair. "We took his spot!" They taunt her.
She smiles and says, no, and pushes them out. "You can never take my Spot."
She asks me a question, as we lie under a tree, making triangles out of our fingers and looking at the leaves. "Why forty three?"
I pretend I don't hear her. But she persists, and asks the question again.
I knew a lot of people, I tell her. Girls. They were nice. I think I loved them. Forty three is a lot. I don't have much love left.
She looks at me, a little sadly, a little happily. She leans over and shows me she loves me, and for a while, the world is perfect. I don't really remember the rest.
We show up for a class, a little late. There are many people. Our seats are taken. She isn't perturbed, and marches up to the fourth row, third seat in. "Excuse me," She says. "Do you mind moving? It's very important that we sit here." The person sneers at her, and his counterpart rolls his eyes.
I can tell she's getting upset. "Please, could you move?" She doesn't have to do this. I tug at her sleeve, a signal that she should stop. The person ignores her.
The teacher walks in. Class is starting. She turns to me, her face red. "There aren't any other seats." She sounds so helpless. I point out two empty seats. "They aren't together!" She looks like she's going to cry. It'll be okay, one time won't hurt. Right?
We sit in the two empty seats. Two rows and seven seats apart. It feels like miles. This chair is all wrong; this is all wrong. Later, it's different. She's different. I walk to where she's sitting, where she's talking emphatically to the person next to her. People are bustling around, jostling me. I clear my throat. She doesn't look up. "Just a minute, Sean."
I stand there, stunned. She called me by my real name. She never does that. She lets out an odd giggle that's too loud, too fake, too not her. I back away. I don't know this person. I turn around and walk to the door. At the last minute, I look back, then melt into the crowd.
I always sit in the same seat. It doesn't matter what class it is. It's always the 4th row, fourth seat in from the end.