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Speechless(29)

By:Hannah Harrington


                He rubs a hand over his rumpled, wavy dark hair and scans the                     room from behind his black framed glasses, searching for a seat. I do the same,                     realizing with growing dread that the only space available is at my workstation.                     When he catches up to my realization, his gaze flicks to mine for a second, and                     I look away, silently willing him to sit somewhere else, anywhere else. It doesn’t work. My avoidance of eye contact doesn’t                     deter him from walking over and setting his backpack on the seat next to                     mine.

                Why? Why is this happening to me?

                Oh, right, because God hates me and wants me to suffer.                     Obviously.

                I’m careful to keep my eyes on my sketchpad as Ms. Kinsey                     explains our first assignment. We’re supposed to imitate another artist’s style.                     Awesome. Who am I supposed to attempt, Monet? Van Gogh? That’d be nothing short                     of a train wreck. Maybe the flower lady—what’s her name? Oh, right, Georgia                     O’Keefe. Yes, that’s exactly what I should do. Paint big flowers that look like                     vaginas. It’s not like I haven’t already alienated myself from the student body                     enough. Why not go for broke?

                It’s less nauseating to think about flowery vaginas than it is                     to focus on what I am so acutely aware of—Sam’s very, very near proximity. But                     as Ms. Kinsey drones on (and on, and on, and on), I can’t help but wonder if                     he’s going to try anything. At any moment he could make a nasty comment, tell me                     to fuck off and die, or do something worse, like mess with my stuff. Or with me.                     The art room has plenty of arsenal: scissors, permanent markers, superglue,                     X-Acto knives. Oh, God, I didn’t even think about                     X-Acto knives. I’m going to have to channel Jason Bourne now if I want to                     survive high school. Assess the situation! Know your exits! Everything is a                     weapon!

                If I’m lucky, Sam’ll just give me the cold shoulder like                     everyone else. Even though I don’t know him very well—or at all, really, aside                     from sharing a few choice classes over the years—he’s never come across as a                     particularly potent brand of douche bag. But then, neither did Derek, so what do                     I know about anything?