"Excuse me," asked a voice, "do you know where the art room is?" I don't recognize him. Wild hair, Prussian eyes. Pretty face, but I haven't seen him before. That was odd, coming from a graduating class of one hundred. He must have been new, because it always felt like I knew everyone. It wasn't a good kind of knowing, but a claustrophobic mass of people not quite able to be as anonymous as they wanted. I wondered if all suburbs were like that, or just mine. I wondered if this new boy knew. I could ask him, I knew. Find out where he's from. I heard he's from London, but he doesn't have an accent. I also heard he's gay, but rumors usually lie. I could ask him. No, I don't want the look I'll get with the answer. The entire world, with the exception of me, was taught how to give the same nasty look to people asking someone of the same sex out for a date. Not that I'd be asking him for a date. I don't know him yet, haven't had time to check him out. He's got very nice legs though. I wish more good looking guys wore shorts that tight. I wonder if he wears them a lot. I could ask him. That would be a weird question though. He'd think everyone at this school was as weird as me, or, worse, he'd just figure me out and hate me for it. Really don't get that last part. Hating me. I know that I'm not a favorite around here, the boy that sits in the back row and makes loud comments. The boy that doesn't do his homework but still passes his classes. The boy that doesn't tell people when they're bothering him, but punches them instead. The boy that kisses other boys to piss them off. I know people don't like me, for that and other reasons. But I don't see why they hate me. I mean, the only person I hate is the Catholic lunatic down the street that keeps telling me I'm going to hell and trying to save my soul. And I don't really hate her. I just want her to move to the Netherlands. I did a report on the Netherlands once. I couldn't find out anything interesting about the whole damn country. She could liven it up. I wonder if the new boy's ever been to the Netherlands. Or if he's Christian. I could ask him. Only then he'd ask me what I am. A lot of people aren't too thrilled to hear that I don't have a set religion even though I wear a cross, and that I believe in god but that I can't stand churches anymore. That organized worship gets on my nerves. I used to not mind what people thought about me, but anymore I just keep the strange thoughts to myself. Nobody wants to hear them anyway. I wonder if he's strange too, all the weirdness hidden away on the inside.
"Excuse me," he asks again. "Do you know where the art room is? Can you even hear me?"
"Sure I do. It's my next period. Just follow me. So, where are you from?" I ask him.
Please send constructive criticism to Cobalt Doll.
Copyright 2005