I DO NOT OWN THE BREAKFAST CLUB. SHOUTOUT TO POPPY471.

Chicago Institute of Art. Chicago, Illinois. Monday, September 3, 1984.

(Allison)

Monday was a beautiful day and I was tempted to eat outside, rather than in the cafeteria. My mind reflected the sunny day. I was feeling light and, well, happy. Happy despite Bender's departure. Or maybe because of his departure? He had been a constant drag, negative emotions continually breaking out in commands and criticism. But there was that date with Luke, too. Maybe that was making me happy?

I grabbed a ham and cheese sandwich from the caf and made my way across the street to the park. When I compared Luke and Bender, it was polar opposites. Looking for an unoccupied bench, I thought this over. Luke was helpful. He was a positive person. He appreciated the things I did for him. He was a very talented artist. I could talk to him about art as I had never been able to do with anyone else. He was funny, too. He was kind. He was all kinds of things Bender never could be.

The idea that Luke would want to go out on a date with me seemed so far-fetched. But it had happened. He'd liked me enough to want to spend the evening talking to me. That had been a really nice night. I felt I could feast on those good memories for ages. I had not had all that many good memories, so these would carry me for a long time. But wait, could there be more? More than one date? Would he ask me out again? A new thought, maybe he wanted to be my boyfriend? More nights spent talking and laughing? Did I really deserve something so nice?

My heart was still torn up about Bender though. It hurt to know what I had thought was love was just Bender using me. It hurt a lot.

I found a bench and sat. I grabbed my sketchbook and started outlining a human heart torn asunder. I meant it to be like those prayer cards of Jesus showing his heart, radiating holy love. But, I thought, maybe a watercolor would be better. I got the basics outlined and then put it away. I could work on it later.

I had my art history book open on my knee as I munched my ham and cheese sandwich. This really was fascinating, the beginnings of the Renaissance, evolving from the Middle Ages.

Someone stopped near my bench and I looked up. It was Keith, who sat next to me in art history. He was my age, had very messy black hair and wore a lot of faded denim. He bought his clothes from the most trendy stores in town and was riding the crest of the wave of the new look.

"May I join you?" he asked.

I shrugged. I wasn't used to attention from guys. I was an outcast in high school, but fit right in here, with all the other visual artists.

"Allison, right?" I nodded.

"I'm Keith." He sat. "How are you doing with all this old medieval stuff? Boring as hell."

"Really? I love it. They put so much reverence and mystical beauty into their religious pictures."

"I can't wait until next year. We'll start the modern artists in sophomore year."

"Oh, that will be interesting, too! You know they've got several Warhols in the museum?"

"My friend Trip, his family has some of his sketches."

"Wow!" I was blown away. They must be so valuable. How could they afford to own such treasures?

"Yeah, but Trip is always on their yacht. He doesn't care about art at all. We went to high school together." Keith named an exclusive private school. "I mean, sailing is fun, but that's not all there is to the world."

This Trip guy must be rich, for his family to afford a yacht, and Warhol sketches. I started feeling uncomfortable.

"Where did you go to school?" He fixed his deep blue eyes on me.

I stammered, "Shermer High."

"A public school? Man, that must have been so fun. I hated all the social climbing at our school."

"It wasn't fun." I blurted this out, thinking of the years of ridicule I'd endured. "It was a bunch of stupid cliques."

"I saw that guy who picked you up last week. Is he from Shermer High?"

He must have seen Bender. "Yes."

"See, that's what I mean,. Guys like him, I've never met anyone like him."

"Guys like him?" What did Keith mean?

"You know, working class. Is he your boyfriend?" He seemed to have not noticed how offensive he was being.

"Yes," I lied. I hoped that would shut him up.

"I bet you guys go to great parties. Is he into heavy metal?"

"A little." I was now working on the theory that being as brief as possible would discourage this guy. I didn't like him much.

"And parties? Heavy metal parties?"

"No. He works."

"Really? Let me guess, he's a plumber!"

"No." My theory of brief answers wasn't working.

"What does he do?"

"Mechanic."

"That's even better!"

I'd had enough. "He's not a museum piece to be admired. He actually knows how to do things that achieve a practical end, like making sure cars run right. Most of the world does this. Cops, and nurses, and plumbers, and engineers, and grocery store managers. Most of the world does not sail yachts and own Warhol sketches. You are the oddity, not my boyfriend."

Keith was taken aback. I stowed my book in my bag and stood up.

"See you in class." I turned and left. I was relieved he stayed on the bench and didn't try to follow me. I'd be sure to sit in a different seat next art history class.

REVIEWS NEEDED AND APPRECIATED.