Helping Hand

My friends wouldn't really approve. I knew that. I knew that the moment I felt a rush within me, compelling me. I was trapped in a river in a current so strong, my limbs were helpless. I needed to relax, to let this impulse consume me, and, well, go with the flow. And the mouth of my imaginary river opened to the ocean of Karen King.

"Hi," I said, pulling out one of the school's library chairs. The chairs were repulsive. They looked like they were made out of the shit of an orange carpet monster. "I could be studying, but I won't. I want to have a conversation with you."

Instead of asking why or walking away or telling me to fuck off, Karen surprised me. She always surprised people.

"Okay, Whit Bailey," she replied. "I accept your challenge."

"Challenge?" I asked.

"Well, I would imagine it's pretty hard for you to talk coherently with all that dust in your meaty head," she said, deadpan. I searched her eyes for sarcasm, half a smile creeping on my face. She didn't like me. Of course, I already knew that. No one like her ever liked me.

"Oh, c'mon," I sighed. "I'm feeling this irresistible urge to talk to someone I've never known, and you're here in all your earthly presence, totally rejecting me! Think of the possibilities you're missing out on. Because of this conversation, we could become acquaintances. Maybe friends. You know, I'd even go so far as to say lovers. There are a million ways to go, and, moreover, a million ways to begin!"

"However, this is its end," she said, and at the very last, punctuating word, the bell rang, and she flew away.

Had I neglected time, or had it flown by me? I couldn't be sure. But for quite some time, I sat there, pretty dumbfounded. Karen was quirky. Karen was interesting. Karen should have talked to me.

I guess she didn't flat-out ignore me. She did talk. And it wasn't sarcastic. But did she want to talk to me, or was she in a crunch for time? Would she have talked to me? Where had the time gone? These questions were infectious, popping into my head like thousands of dandelions coming into bloom. I couldn't explain my slight infatuation, but I was, irrevocably, infatuated. There was no doubt about that.

And I have to say, that's pretty fucking weird.

Girls like Karen and guys like me aren't supposed to do this sort of thing. Talk, that is. The social divisions in my high school are blurred, but they're present. Someone at the top of the food chain shouldn't go around talking to their food. But I was different, if only for the time being. I was reaching out to someone, something I hadn't really done before. Sure, there were countless volunteering hours devoted to homeless shelters and Habitat for Humanity, but it was only for NHS. With sudden inspiration, I wanted to get to know someone. Really know someone. And when I looked up, there was Karen, sitting and sketching in the library, a mere twelve feet from me and my AP psychology book.

It probably wasn't fate or anything, that much I knew.

At least, I hoped it wasn't.

Karen didn't like me and I respected that. I wasn't going to be a dick about it or anything. I just couldn't understand her reasoning. I just wanted to march up to her and yell, "Look, Karen, I might be different from you, but I'm still a person. I play sports and get good grades and have perfect teeth, but I'm a nice person and no matter how highly you think of yourself, you should give me the time of day."

It was silly, on my part and on hers. I know it's egotistical to say that a lot of people wouldn't mind talking to me, but it's also the truth. So why wouldn't she talk to me? It seemed like our roles were reversed; she was a lioness and I was prey. I was too lowly for her.

What the fuck was up with that?