Fitting In

Fitting into a new school isn't as difficult as most people make it out to be.  That's a fact, unless you end up missing a step on the largest stairwell known to mankind and take down a cheerleader along the way.  In front of her boyfriend who's two times your size, naturally.

Suffice to say there's a reason the bruise across my entire left side is jock-sized and fist-shaped, as opposed to looking like something less threatening such as, for example, the stairwell's railing.  

Thanks, Seifer Kincaid.  Remind me to name a character in my next creative writing assignment after you.  Remind me to have him die an equally creative and ultimately painful death too because I'm pathetic and that's probably the only justice I'm ever going to get when it comes to letter jacket jocks.  I'm not exactly a hulk here.    

The worst part about the entire thing is that I've been assigned an upperclassman's dorm room.  With other upperclassmen.  Because people who transfer in a week after school starts don't get to be choosy about their accommodations.  We should just be thankful there's space left at all, according to the new matriculate admin.

Shoot me for having my parents both die at a time that's inconvenient for the school.

The weird thing about it all?  I don't feel sad.  Or all that lonely or grief-stricken, which probably makes me sound like a horrible little monster.  Maybe I am one.  The only thing that's really reassuring me I'm not is that I think I'm still a bit in shock.  Because I don't even remember the funeral or why I've been sent to New Haven School in the first place.  I'd say I want to go home but I don't even remember where home is.

And that's when I force myself to stop thinking about it, about them, because no matter how shell-shocked I am, it's not normal not to be able to remember what your home looked like less than a week removed from having lived in it.

My last period of the day is creative writing, my one and only elective.  I picked it because I figured it'd be easy to pull something repeatedly out of my ass over the course of a semester.  I've been doing it my whole life apparently, so why not get credit for it for once?  

That teacher, Ms. Pearson, has apparently heard my story.  I can tell just by the look on her face.  And because I'm already a week behind, it makes sense to let me skip off to my dormitory early and get even further behind, at least to her.  With a gentle pat on the back and a conspiratorial wink, she sends me off, with all the course materials I'll apparently need to be ready to get up to speed before tomorrow.  Let's hope.

My assigned dorm is empty when I arrive.  Everyone's either still in class or outside doing something athletic in the name of school spirit.  A trunk of my belongings sits beneath the bed that's also presumably mine, one of four in this junior-designated living space.  To the school's credit, the bed looks comfortable.

Lowering myself onto the comforter with an undignified 'plop', I give my school uniform a once-over: neatly pressed khakis, white Oxford with the school's crest on the right pocket, and a sleek navy tie.  When it begins to get colder, I'll put on the matching navy coat.

I much prefer black...and for him to be taking it off.

A flash of red engulfs my vision.  My body tenses, alights, as I sense more than see a hint of a smile.

And then it's gone, whatever 'it' was in the first place, and I'm here alone again, feeling like I'm losing it.  I don't know what this latter 'it' is either since it doesn't feel like I have much more to lose, but I know it's something enough to make my eyes tear up.  Rapid blinking takes care of that potential emotional giveaway, at least.  I stand and make my way to the nearest dresser mirror.  No point in getting called out as a sissy.  Or a fag.  Or whatever words students at this school use as insults against almost crying boys.

My reflection reveals a chunk of blond hair near the back of my head, out of place and sticking up at an odd angle.  Just great.  It probably got ruffled up during my tumble down the stairs earlier.  Good luck getting that back in place, given how thick my hair happens to be.  

At least my eyes don't seem to be as much of a lost cause.  The shade of blue I see is a little brighter, a littler clearer than their normal color, but nothing that'd hint at tears.  

My eyes return to the misplaced tuft of hair.  Biting my lip a little has always been an unconscious thing I end up doing when I'm frustrated or deeply concentrating.  I do it now as I attempt in vain to flatten that bastard piece of hair.  No luck, as expected.

I stick my tongue out at the image staring back at me.  My face is a perfect example of annoyance, personified.

I probably don't have to describe the next emotion that courses through me when I catch a glimpse of reflected movement from behind.  It's fairly obvious what someone in my position would feel, meeting the gaze of another student who's gawking at me from the bedroom doorway.

What was that about fitting in I'd mentioned earlier?  Piece of (moldy, likely poisoned) cake.