I’ve been successfully hiding in hallways and bathrooms during lunch all week. The disheveled artist boy, whose name I have since learned—by surreptitiously glancing at the cover on his sketchbook—is Clay, was kind enough to give me an unsolicited short list of my best bets for solitude when he caught me trying the doors to the English wing again on the second day. I’ve checked out most them. Give me a few more days and I’ll probably be able to draw a map and star the best places for disappearing. Then I can sell it to other losers like me.
I find, from my daily walks, that the layout here stays pretty much the same. You would think there was a designated seating chart for the courtyard. No one strays from the place they planted themselves the day before. I recognize more of the faces at this point, but even the ones I know don’t acknowledge me. I am left blissfully alone. I’ve scared, offended or made everyone uncomfortable enough to stay away. Mission accomplished. It’s even worth all of the discomfort of the shoes. If I don’t do anything wrong, it should stay this way.
I’m considering which direction to head today, when I pass the boy in the force field. I wonder how he does that. Maybe I can find out his secret, because I would love to get one of those for myself. Sometimes I think he’s invisible and I’m the only one who sees him, but I guess that’s not the case, because if it was, I’m sure someone would have grabbed that bench by now. Maybe he’s a ghost and no one goes near the bench because he haunts it.
He always sits in the same position and he’s completely motionless. Ever since he caught me on Monday, I’ve been trying not to stare more than a couple of seconds each day. He hasn’t looked up at me again. I still get the feeling he’s watching, but maybe I just kind of want him to be. I shake that off quickly. The last thing I need is anyone’s attention.
Still, he is extremely nice to look at. Nice arms. Not douchebag workout arms, just work arms. I saw him on the first day in my shop class, but only for a second, and then he left and never came back. Now the only time I ever see him is at lunch. That handful of seconds I spend crossing the courtyard becomes the most intriguing part of my day. If I’m being honest with myself, those precious seconds are the only reason I still walk across this damn thing every day. I walked it on the first day to make a point. I walked it on the second day to see if he was still there and still alone. I walked it on the third and the fourth to see if he’d look up at me again. He didn’t. Today, I just wanted to look. So that’s what I’m doing when the pointed end of the heel of my shoe ends up lodged in the crack between two brick pavers. Beautiful. Fortunately, since I was walking pathetically slow to make the most of my stalking experience, I don’t end up face first on the ground. Not so fortunately, I am now stuck directly between his bench and that of Princess Sarah and her ladies in waiting. I try to nonchalantly wiggle my heel out from where it’s ensnared, but it won’t budge. I’ll have to maneuver my way down to kneeling and try to pull it out with my hands, which will be a feat of balance, but bending over in this dress is so not an option.
I kneel down slowly and slip my foot out of the shoe. Then I grab the heel with my right hand and yank it. It comes out easier than I expect and I stand up and slip my foot back into it. I glance to my left and see that statue boy still hasn’t moved. He seems utterly oblivious to my shoe debacle. It’s a small miracle, but small miracles are the only kind I can hope for right now, so I’ll take it. Too bad I haven’t gone completely unnoticed, because the next thing I hear—
“I think those are made for street corners, not school.” Sarah. This is followed by giggles and then another female voice—
“Yeah, does your dad know you left Hell dressed like that?”
“I thought her dad was in Transylvania.” More giggles. Seriously.
The insults here are really subpar. At least they could throw something mildly entertaining at me if they’re going to make me turn around. I look to my right to find the fountain of wit that spewed that gem at me. Several girls surround Sarah and are looking at me and, yes, still giggling. I guess I congratulated myself a minute or two too soon. I mentally run through my options A) Hurl said shoe at them B) Hurl insults at them C) Ignore them and walk away D) Smile my most demonic and unhinged smile at them. I’ve chosen D, the only real option of the bunch. I won’t ignore this, at least not in the slink away with my tail between my legs way. Besides, since I’m apparently the spawn of Satan, or possibly Dracula, depending on who you ask, it can never hurt to throw a little crazy out there just to drive the message home before the weekend. I stare them down for a few more seconds, debating whether to unleash the smile all at once or just let it subtly drift across my face, when I’m interrupted by a voice behind me.
“Enough, Sarah.”
Sarah’s mouth, which was open in what I suspect was the formation of another display of her scathing wit, clamps shut so fast I think I hear her teeth clash. I turn around, even though I kind of know that the only person in that general vicinity is the last one I would expect to be all knight-in-shining-armor. Not that the situation even called for it. It was hardly an attack. It was more like a sort of lame insult version of karaoke. A performance by amateurs. Something you mock rather than fear. I can tell these girls wouldn’t have stopped there, and if I was the type to care it might have hurt my feelings, but I don’t care and my feelings haven’t been hurt in a very long time.
At this point, I’m completely turned around and mine aren’t the only eyes on the boy in the bubble. In fact, there are quite a few sets of eyes watching him now, waiting to see if anything else comes out of his mouth. I feel like I’ve found myself in the middle of a Twilight Zone episode, where everything around me has frozen and I’m the only one who can move. But I don’t.
The boy’s eyes are trained on Sarah, giving her a look that matches the don’t-fuck-with-me tone in his voice. His glance flicks to me for a second and then he’s back to staring at his hands like nothing at all happened. I’m contemplating moving now but I can’t seem to find my legs just yet. I turn away from the boy and catch Sarah staring at me now. The look on her face isn’t carved out of jealousy or even bitterness, which is what I kind of expect; it’s forged out of one-hundred-percent-pure, rock solid, WTF. As much as I’m trying to keep my face blank, I have a feeling that my expression quite possibly looks a lot like hers, but probably for very different reasons.