Disclaimer: RENT belongs to Jonathan Larson. I'm just playing with the characters.
This is what death feels like:
it crunches.
The words spill out of my pen and onto the grainy blue lines of my notebook, marring the top of a fresh page. Around me, the students are passing notes. It's not that this actually bothers me, I mean, I'd do it, too, but it's a little different since none of them has even cracked To Kill a Mockingbird, and it's due in a week, and I've already finished it.
Of course the actuality is, I hate them for passing notes because I can't. I've got no one to pass notes to.
I turn to my right and am greeted with the sight of the back of a slick head, hair thick with gel and product so it shines like an otter but looks about as stiff as the crotch of your panties five hours after you've seen a nice pair. What, at school there's no choice! You've got to just wear 'em until you're home. And all I see is that hair forming a stiff, shining helmet around a head, bobbing dangerously.
and the jagged edges shine
off the ears of a young girl:
I turn away and look to the left. He isn't just asleep: he's drooling. His hair needs a cut and a wash, his nose needs a wipe, and he's probably on drugs. My nose wrinkles. Even if I was on twice a high, I wouldn't associate with the likes.
She says,
I missed you,
with three anchors in her hip pocket
The bell rings.
As the stoners and shallow misses of the halls rise and gather their belongs, I sit at my desk sucking the end of a ballpoint pen, sucking and waiting for the next line, then I pen it down so that this page of my notebook reads:
This is what death feels like:
it crunches.
and the jagged edges shine
off the ears of a young girl:
She says,
I missed you,
with three anchors in her hip pocket
She crosses her fingers:
she'll go down with the ship.
Satisfied, I close the notebook and slide it into my bag, already rushing out the door. I have less than three minutes now to get to the Chemistry classroom, though who cares if I'm late?
Actually… I care. Today we have a lab, and chemistry is one of my few challenging classes. I stretch my legs and my kneesocks slide down towards my ankles. I manage to slide into my seat just as the bell is ringing.
Truth is, I meant to drop Chemistry. I don't like sciences, I'm not good at sciences. I could easily have taken Biology and Marine Biology and been through here, but for something that happened two weeks ago.
"All right." It hadn't been three weeks, but already the comedy had worn away from Mr. Garbanzo's name. He stood and explained to us what we'll be doing, and covered safety procedures, as always. "…and people, wear your goggles. If you have glasses, they'll fit over your glasses. All right. Begin."
One thing he did not cover was that hydrochloric acid should not be washed off. With a spill on flesh, what one should do, we later learned, is dab off the acid.
About fifteen minutes into class, an older boy—a junior, I later learned—stood up from his work station and walked to the sink in the back of the classroom. He said nothing, just walked back, holding his arm carefully in front of him, and when he reached the sink he turned on the flow and placed his arm very, very carefully under it.
The reason the acid should be dabbed off is that exposing it to water releases heat and causes chemical burns.
"Davis, what are you doing?" Mr. Garbanzo asked after nearly half a minute, when the boy remained at the sink.
I had chosen the station just next to the sink, myself, so I glanced over my shoulder and got a good look at him. The boy's face had gone pale and started to sweat, but his arm where the tap spewed up water was purplish.
"Go back to your lab station and—oh my God!" Garbanzo recoiled at the sight. He turned off the faucet and pressed paper towels to the boy's arm. The student himself made a small noise and his eyes rolled back, but he gripped the sink and managed not to fall.
That was on Friday. He was gone the remainder of the day; I know because I missed seeing him during passing period between fifth and sixth. I was still thinking about him as I wandered home from the bus stop.
It was the weekend officially, so after I had put out a tin of food for the cat I grabbed a bottle of Coke for myself. Mom's rule was 'no caffeine during the week', but it was the weekend now. I leaned against the counter and thought about the look on the boy's face, the hard way his eyes shut down against the pain.
In my room, I stretched out on the bed and watched the curtains, white with pink polka dots, flutter in the breeze. There was such a strength in that expression, the way he stared at the discolored skin and did not cry out nor ask for help. Like he could endure anything, and he knew it.
"April?"
I glanced at the clock. 4:35, I had been home for only half an hour, and Mom wasn't due in for another hour yet, but she was home, yodeling out for me.
"April!"
I pushed up off my bed and wandered down the hall. "Yeah?"
"Oh. There you are."
"What are you doing home?" I asked. She wasn't due for an hour!
"You didn't call," she said. "I was worried."
That night, at dinner, Dad pointed his fork at me and said, "We need to be able to rely on you, April. It's not asking too much for you to call Mom when you come home from school."
"I forgot!" I protested.
"Well thanks to your forgetting, your mom missed an hour of work. And that money's coming out of your allowance, miss!"
I kept my mouth shut, thinking of the hard look in that boy's eyes.
Today, it's easy to spot him as I flit into class. I lean down and pull up my kneesocks. I'm two seats and one row behind him in lecture, and I pop open a pen and flip to a fresh page of notes, knowing I won't write down a thing. I rarely do.
Maybe that's why I'm barely swinging a C.
Maybe if I sat in front of him, or farther back, somewhere that allowed me to focus on the class itself instead of Roger Davis's curls and those slight, curved shoulders…
The bell rings before I know class has begun, students are rising and gathering packs… I do, too, slinging my bag onto my shoulder. Then I bow my head and watch my feet carry me to the grassy area listed on all the school maps as "senior court", where I drop the bag again and settle against the wall.
Roger Davis sits on the grass with a book propped open and a little plastic baggie of Cheerios.
I wonder what it's like to be him. What's it like to be so confident? Not to care what anyone thinks? Not to feel pain?
What's it like to masturbate with a penis?
"Hey."
While I'm wondering what Roger Davis's bedroom looks like, and betting that his parents never look at him like they wish he wasn't born, a group of junior boys have come up beside me.
"Uh… my friend here was wondering, how do you like… know you don't like it?"
I shake my head. "Like what?"
"Dick."
I sigh, grab my bag and stand. Before I can leave, one of the guys grabs my arm. "Hey," he says, "we're just askin', be polite."
"Leave me alone." I try to pull away, but he won't let me.
"It's just a question."
"Let go—"
"Hey." That's a new voice, not one of the boys, but it goes unnoticed.
"Can't you just tell me—"
"Hey!" This comes louder, with a shove. "Fuck off." And Roger Davis pushes the boy so hard he falls, taking me with him.
My arm hits the wall, and wouldn't I just love someone to ask if I'm all right, but he's a bit busy scaring off the remaining goons. Once they've given up and gone, he turns back to me and squats down. "Hey," he says, gently. "You okay?"
And I say, "Yeah… I'm fine."
"Let me see your arm." He dips paper napkins into his water bottle and drags them across my arm. "Easy," he says. "Hold still. This'll just take a second." When he's stopped talking, my arm is clean. The skin is unbroken.
Roger Davis rocks back on his heels and gives me a grin. "You're all right," he declares. He offers his hand. "I'm Roger."
I shake. "April."
Roger laughs. "I know," he says.
To be continued!
Please review?