Vans

I’m his personal geek, the weird girl that sits next to him. I correct the teacher, the teacher who makes comments at the worst times possible about why I am sat next to him and why he needs me.

He’s not stupid; he’s lazy and he knows it. But he doesn’t care, no one else cares. In four months he’s made more friends than I have in four years. I’m not sure if I idolize him or I’m just obsessed with him. The latter seems more probable but I’ll turn it around and say I hate him, just because it’s my mind and I can do that.

I’m definitely no genius though. I forget to put my rubber bands in for the fifteenth morning in a row and that means that he gets to watch me put them in again. Awkward isn’t a word that covers it. He seems oddly fascinated by the action and that makes it so much worse.

He tells another story about his girlfriend. While he tells me it, I pretend to listen while imagining his girlfriend going through many horrible accidents. I’m not usually this sadistic. I imagine her as a hateful, terrifying monster, but she’s probably perfect.

The bell rings and he peels out, before I can – in my geeky, awkward way – grab my many things to carry and huddle to my locker like the male penguin that get’s left behind.

Penguins probably talk to each other.

He talks a lot, except to me. I can catch up to him because of this. His Vans’ heels barely touch the ground; he bounces on his toes with each step, much like the next joke or perverted slur that’s ready to jump out of his throat.

The heels of my Vans are nonexistent. I have rubbed them down to nubs. My heels drag behind him; he holds open the door for me. “Thanks.” And “Sure.” is exchanged.

There is one good thing about sitting alone. You can put your book-bag on the desk next to you.