A Dustland Fairytale

"Hello, I love you, won't you tell me your name?" - The Doors

I am not the safest person you will ever meet. Actually, I really like flying around on a motorcycle, inches away from an accident. It makes me feel alive. So I drive like a reckless moron – nobody’s perfect. Monday morning, I was not looking forward to going to school. I was late, I was the new kid, and it was the first day of school. I shrugged it off, weaving between cars in an attempt to get to school on time.

Through their opened windows, I could hear people angrily yelling at me, but I didn’t care. I would actually make it to school on time… maybe. I noticed the sprawling building on my right, saw a sign that said “Marseille High School: Home of the Titans,” and realized that I had to get over a lane to turn into the parking lot. Glancing quickly over my shoulder, I swerved through the cars, right in front of a bright red BMW.

The parking lot was an absolute nightmare. I was used to driving my bike through New York traffic, and I would rather have faced that than too many kids texting while driving and trying to find a parking spot. I circled the lot a few times before noticing an empty spot where I could park. It wasn’t exactly a parking spot, but by that point, I didn’t care.

I pulled around a corner and saw the same red BMW that I’d cut off before. First day of school - better make an impression, I thought, zipping around the car again to park on a striped-off section of asphalt right in front of the door. Killing the engine, I hopped off and took off my helmet, turning to see the irritated driver of the flashy red car.

She was beautiful.

I’d expected some jocky guy with a letterman jacket. I didn’t expect a thin girl with long blond hair, dressed as though she’d just walked away from the set of Mad Men. Her blue eyes weren’t cool and icy like those of many people I’d met in California. They glittered with anger.

“Who do you think you are?” she asked, pulling her purse up onto her shoulder. “You’re going to get yourself killed driving like that.”

I couldn’t help it; a grin spread across my face. Instead of a frosty glare, she outright confronted me. I liked this girl. “Who do I think I am? What, am I not allowed to park here?”

She looked pointedly at the ground beneath my feet, covered in bright yellow stripes. “That’s not even a parking spot.”

“So rich princesses like you are the only people allowed to park in the good spots,” I said, a note of sarcasm in my voice. It was too much fun, making her angry. Sometimes, a guy just can’t help himself. “Don’t worry, I’ll be sure not to scratch your Beemer too badly when I leave.”

I turned and walked away, grinning broadly. I could feel her staring at me as I headed towards the school. I hadn’t expected the warm weather so early in the morning; I took off my leather jacket and slung it over my shoulder. Maybe I’d tell people my name was Sodapop Curtis. They’d probably believe me.

I headed towards the office. There were several forms I still needed to turn in and a schedule I had to pick up. As I walked the halls, heads turned and whispers followed me. I couldn’t really expect it not to happen; I was the new kid. Of course people would talk. A bell rang and students began to clear the halls. I had no idea how long I had to get to class.

The schedule the woman in the office handed me told me I had first-period physics, followed by a second lab period on Mondays and Wednesdays. Great – get the torture out of the way first thing. Science really wasn’t my strong suit; I was completely prepared to sit in the back of the class and copy other people’s homework for the rest of the year. By the time I reached the classroom, about half the seats were full. I sat at an empty table towards the side of the room and hoped I wouldn’t get stuck with the awful lab partner who was really dumb and spilled corrosive mixtures all over your notes and your jeans.

The room gradually began to fill up, people streaming in quicker as time until the bell ran out. Almost all the desks were full when someone sat down next to me. I glanced to my right, and I couldn’t believe my luck. My new best friend, the Red BMW Girl, was sitting next to me.

“Good morning,” said the teacher, whose name I couldn’t remember. “I’m sure you’ve all had fantastically fascinating summers, but this is not the place to discuss them. Take a look at the person sitting next to you, because he or she is going to be your lab partner for the remainder of the year. I hope you’ve chosen wisely.”

I snickered, causing the girl to turn and look at me. Her eyes grew wide and she muttered, “You have got to be kidding me.” Clearly, she wasn’t pleased with the seating arrangements.

“I never kid,” I said, smiling. “Dean Montague. Pleasure to meet you.”

“Juliet Hanson,” she replied, turning away from me. “Wish I could say the same.” She crossed her arms and stared at the chalkboard. She was obviously determined to give me the silent treatment. I wouldn’t let her get away so easily.

“Ouch,” I said. I was going to counter rudeness with rudeness. “Should I feel honored to have you as my lab partner? Because I don’t.”

“Should I feel touched that you parked next to me? Because I don’t,” she snapped, still not looking at me.

I smirked and stopped trying to make conversation. The teacher started talking about something I knew I wouldn’t understand, so I turned my attention to writing notes and passing them to my new lab partner. I wrote acrostics, drew stick figures, and even devoted my time and energy to writing a sonnet, though it probably would have disappointed any Renaissance writer. Every note I wrote was shoved under her notebook, unread.

There were ten minutes before the end of class. I decided that, since she wasn’t going to read any of the notes, I would write ridiculous, obnoxious things to pass the rest of the time. With a few minutes to go, I ripped another page out of my notebook and wrote one of those stupid poems little kids write that start off, “roses are red, violets are blue…” I stared at the page for a second before scribbling something suggestive about a janitor’s closet. Hastily, I folded the note and slid it across the desk.

Of all the notes I’d written, she had to read that one. She stared at the note, the corner of her mouth turning with disgust. “You sicken me,” she whispered.

I stuck my tongue out at her.

The instant the bell rang, she jumped from her seat, the note I’d written still clutched in her hand. I swept all the other notes she’d left on the desk into my backpack. On that first day, Juliet Hanson hated me. I had a feeling that wouldn’t last long.