Aquarium Life

I trailed my fingers along the glass. Fish surrounding me, following the light streaks my hands left on the untouched surface. My eyes darted around, blissfully frantic. The smell of salt water hung in the air like a fog. I made my way through the heavy atmosphere, dipping my finger tips into each tide pool as I passed.
I heaved open the door, careful not to smudge the freshly painted aquatic creatures or step on my father’s face for that matter. The man was laying on the pavement anxiously touching up a branch or coral at the bottom of the entrance. My opening of the door made him drop the paint brush in an attempt to not smudge his art.
“Off to school, Leah?”
“Afraid so, Pops,” I leaped over the hurdle that was my father and unchained my bike from the blue racks.
“Have a bearable day,” he smiled at me and filled his brush with another dollop of peach paint. “And just think: you only have two and a half more years left.”
“What a very uplifting thought. I wish I could share you optimism,” I returned his grin and pedaled out of the parking lot.

East Johnson High School can be defined as my least favorite place on Earth (except for maybe the McDonalds at the top of my street). It’s just your average high school, which is why I think so little of it. All of the typical stereotypes thrive at EJHS. They act like parasites that latch themselves onto my skin and slowly drain the life from me with each unconfident stride and weak glance in the halls.
But, that’s just me being melodramatic and moody because I have yet to create my own alliance of high schoolers who are as drained and washed-up as I am. Together we would claim a lunch table as our own and --

I was cut off from my thoughts as dodged an incoming car on my way to the bike racks.
“You wanna watch where you’re walking?” the drive spat, sarcastically.
“Pedestrians have the right away!” I shook off his comment and worked the bike lock through the front wheel. “Ass hole,” I muttered under my breath.
“Excuse me?” A tall, thin boy appeared at my side and pushed his bike between the bars.
“Oh no I – I was talking, not about you, but that guy,” I stuck my thumb out dumbly and pointed it over my shoulder as I stuttered. I then added, “Sorry.” The boy grinned at this and his red hair fell into his eyes.
“Don’t sweat it.”
I smiled weakly and began to walk toward the school, leaving the boy to tend to his bicycle.