2. Like Denominators
He walked into my math class like nobody's business, and it took me completely by surprise. Usually I keep up-to-date on the new arrivals so that I may scope them out, but his I had no notice of, and therefore was startled to see a brand-new sixteen-year-old stride into my classroom as if he owned the place.
Several things to be noted: he wore a beat-up, brown leather jacket; his jeans were ripped at the knees (whether as a fashion statement or from wear-and-tear remained to be seen); he stood slightly bow-legged, but somehow it seemed less of a flaw and more of a quirk. Yet, after this brief analysis, it was his face that drew in my curiosity. His sandy hair was ruffled, as though having just rolled out of bed, and his cheeks and jaw seemed to be carved to perfection by a master sculptor. I was immediately intrigued.
After a quick word with the teacher, Mrs. Grimm, he strolled over to the empty seat in the back left corner and slid gracefully into it, but with a lazy carelessness that contradicted the movement in itself. "Class," Mrs. Grimm spoke up in her nasally tone. "We have a new student joining us; Dean Winchester… Dean, why don't you introduce yourself? Describe yourself in a few words."
I nearly groaned. It was Mrs. Grimm's favorite thing to say: "Describe this chapter in a few words. Describe the answer in a few words. Describe your weekend in a few words."
Obliging, the young man opened his mouth, but Mrs. Grimm cut him off. "Up, up! Here, take the podium." She stepped away from the podium at the front of the classroom, and with a shrug, the young man stood from his seat and sauntered up to it. He gazed out at the class for a long moment, as though thinking up some long-winded response in his head, preparing to talk for a good five minutes just to spite Mrs. Grimm's "a few words" remark.
As he did, his eyes wandered across the room, flitting over me as they went. In that moment, I was startled by the intensity in their hazel depths, drawn by the mysteries hidden within. Then he drew a long breath, and I waited to hear whatever marvelous reply he had thought up.
But when he opened his mouth, this was all that came out: "Well… I'm Dean."
It was said confidently, unlike the usual timid newcomers. It was stated like a fact, as though he were implying that this was all we needed to know of him. And in some ways it was. Merely his countenance and easy buoyancy conveyed more than a few words might have. With a shrug, he stepped away from the podium and returned to his seat.
"Okay…" Mrs. Grimm began, seeming flustered at his lack of words. "Why don't we dive right in to some polar equations?"
Check: Dean was the only one in the class not taking notes during Mrs. Grimm's lecture on polar equations. He busied himself with twirling his pencil around in his fingers and proceeding to doodle on the desk.
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Despite my inkling that there was something different about Dean during math class, it wasn't until lunch that I realized this would take more effort than my usual scam for companionship.
I was seated at my table, as per usual, facing the door of the cafeteria so as to watch any person entering the vast and chaotic room. As I bit into my turkey-on-rye sandwich, I surveyed the incoming student body—the stragglers, if you will, who often arrived late for reasons unknown. And there, among the stragglers, was Dean.
Carrying a brown paper bag at his side, his backpack slung haphazardly over one shoulder, he entered the cafeteria and did a brief scan of his surroundings—not unlike I, myself, do when entering new territory. As he gazed, his eyes danced over my table, and I knew that now was my chance.
So, I set into motion my ritual. Smiling affably, I directed a friendly wave at him from my seat. It was perfectly timed; there was no way he could refrain from giving me a courteous nod and wandering in my direction, asking me if I was in his math class before taking a seat opposite mine.
Except he did refrain. Instead, a supremely puzzled look passed across his face for a fraction of a second, and he looked deeply confused by my actions, as though it were entirely ridiculous for anyone to point a friendly gesture in his direction. Surely fellow students had been kind to him before? Surely this wasn't something completely new?
In any case, the puzzled look passed quickly and was replaced by his easygoing expression of self-assurance. Nobody paid him any mind as he strode across the cafeteria and exited the back doors. Turning, I watched through the large windows as he settled himself at the courtyard to eat his lunch.
It was a peculiar sight indeed, for the courtyard was only used at the end of the year during finals when everyone laid about in the spring sun; it was currently October, and certainly not prime time for eating outside. Clouds hung low in the sky, and the air was crisp and cool.
So each of us ate alone that day, and I was left to wonder how on earth I might gain the attention of the mysterious young man so that he might sit with me at lunch.
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My first reasoning for Dean's actions was that he saw me and decided that we were fundamentally different creatures. Fractions can only be added with like denominators, and he saw ours as being essentially unlike. Therefore, my new mission had to be to observe his habits and, more or less, pretend that they were quite similar to my own.
I had employed this sort of acting for much of my high school experience, so I knew it would not be difficult to fake an interest. The only difficult part would be discovering his interests, for he remained steadfastly closed off to the world: an utter mystery.
It was during math class several days after his arrival that I got my first break. Not bothered enough to listen to Mrs. Grimm drone on about something or other math-related, I focused my attention on the person a mere three seats away from me. Peering slyly over to his desktop, I found a book lying prostrate on its spine; it appeared to be a textbook of some sort, but it was certainly not the math book. It was filled with writing rather than equations.
I could not make out the writing, so I adjusted my glasses on the bridge of my nose and squinted, trying to read the small text from my distance. At first I thought I was going dyslexic for not being able to understand the letters arranged upon the page. But, after several moments of deep contemplation, I realized that this was not so—the book was simply not in English!
It was not Spanish either; that much I could surmise, as I had taken the class for the past three years. No, it was something else that he read discreetly, in the back of the room where nobody would bother to look…
He turned the page, and I saw the one-word answer: Latin?
Why on earth would he be reading a textbook on Latin? I didn't even think Latin was taught at George Washington High. No, in fact, I was sure it wasn't taught there. But perhaps he was merely a Language buff. After all, Latin was the basis of all the Romance languages. Was this it? Had I found an interest at long last?
There was only one way to find out.
The bell rang shortly thereafter, signaling all of us Pavlovian dogs to dash off to our next class. As I gathered my things, I turned to the person next to me—while keeping one eye fixed on Dean, as he stuffed his book into his bag—and spoke loudly: "What a bore, this class. I'd much rather be in Spanish; it's far more interesting. I just adore learning different languages. How about you?"
Casting me an uncomfortable sidelong glance that clearly said 'Why are you talking to me?', the girl gathered up her things quickly and hurried from the room. Positive that the mystery man had heard the short snippet of conversation, I chanced a look in his direction, and felt my face fall in defeat. Dean had slung his backpack over his shoulder and was following the rest of the students out of the room, appearing as though he had neither heard nor cared about my comment. Well!
As I left the classroom, I realized that this had become more than my simple new kid experiment that gained me a few days of companionship. This had become a mission… a mission to acquaint myself with Dean Winchester. A mission to gain companionship from him at all costs. Why I so badly needed to succeed, I still wasn't sure. But I would succeed. I simply needed to find another possible similarity.
Check: Dean had an unusual interest in Latin, but not other foreign languages, as demonstrated by the first failed attempt at personal connection.
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The next day after school, my second chance presented itself in the form of a seventh grader with long, shaggy brown hair and a devilish smile.
Despite his mere twelve years of age, he was already quite tall; nearly as tall as myself, in fact, for I am rather short for my age (and a bit too plump for my own liking, but that's another story for another day). He had these feminine dimples when he smiled, which I thought were quite adorable, and his hazel eyes were as wide and shiny as a puppy's.
Who was this curious young fellow? Why, he was none other than the little brother of my mystery man, Dean Winchester.
It was after school, and I had ventured out to the courtyard where Dean was standing, despite it being on the opposite side of the school as the parking lot, where my mother was surely waiting. I stood inconspicuously near a tree and watched as he waited near the spot where he'd eaten lunch every day since his arrival. Suddenly, the young boy showed up and greeted him. While they didn't have palpable physical similarities, it was obvious that he was the younger brother by the way Dean loosened his shoulders and grinned and joked with the boy.
I had saved up my money and gotten a cell phone this past summer, as I had always been interested in technology, and it amazed me at how small the devices were becoming from their counterparts in years past. Then again, it was the nineties now, not the eighties, and therefore technological advancements were inevitable. In any case, despite my lack of friends that might call me on the phone, I carried it with me everywhere and used it to speak with my parents when we were not together.
And thus I retrieved this phone from my backpack and held it up to my ear, beginning to speak in a carrying voice such that Dean might hear my words.
"But Mom, I truly don't want to baby-sit tonight! Younger siblings can be such a pain. Sometimes I wish I weren't the oldest… Well, all right, if you insist. But I don't—"
Much to my horror, the phone—into which I spoke with dead air—began to ring. My face suffused with heat, and I was sure a blush was rising quickly upon my cheek. What humility!
Whether fortunate or unfortunate, it seemed that Dean had not heard me anyway; he was busy shoving his brother out of his way and walking through the milling students as they left the school, heading to the sidewalk and going from there. My phony conversation had been in vain.
My phone continued to ring shrilly, and so I answered it. Sure enough, it was my mother inquiring as to my whereabouts in the school and as to why it was taking me so long to get to the parking lot. As I hung up, I felt a crumpled up piece of paper collide with the side of my head and heard the distinct shout of "Fag!" by one of my fellow students. Many others proceeded to cheer and laugh as I rubbed my temple where the paper-ball had hit me and hurried off to the parking lot with a burning sensation filling my gut.
Check: Dean, despite his carefree countenance, seemed unusually invested in the well-being of his younger counterpart, if his subtle change in demeanor was anything to judge by.
How was I to get the attention of Dean? He seemed not to care a bit about what others said or did, myself included. Similarities be damned, apparently. I had to try and find a Plan B.
But before I could do so, a startling event took hold of the school the very next day, disrupting all preconceived notions of 'new kid' social hierarchy and further separating me from my goal.
And it all started when Dean showed up to school the very next day.
