Dimples

“For a long time I went to bed early,” Pee Wee told me as we make our customary trek through the halls after lunch to our Language Arts class. “But, then my brother told me I was being a weenie and then to make sure I stayed up, he made me watch Saw. He told me it was a documentary on lumberjacks. Needless to say, now every time I close my eyes, I see bloody body parts.” He shuts his eyes briefly and then his voice goes up an octave as he whispers. “They’re everywhere…”

I cough to cover up a laugh. “So… your point was…?”

“My point was, my dear boy, that I have an excess amount of time in the wee hours of the night—or morning rather— to go ahead in my Calculus book and then kick some Orc ass if I have time.”

“You’re a sad, strange little man,” I tell him.

“Yes, yes. And you pity me.”

“…So, you’re at the top of our class because every time you close your eyes you see dead people…?”

“Well, if you want to go all Bruce Willis on me,” Sherm says, annoyed.

I raise my eyebrows at him.

“A photographic memory doesn’t hurt either.”

“And the truth comes out,” I grumble and then grin at him with a good-natured shove in the shoulder.

He stumbles slightly and gives me a dirty look.

Sherman has bad balance for reasons unknown to anyone. He hasn’t grown since the sixth grade, so that can’t be it. Bad genes?...Bad jeans?...Bad pun.

I have to remember to get him some of those balance bracelets for Christmas.

We reach the LA classroom and part ways to sit in our assigned seats. Mrs. Hinge is a hard-ass and says that you’re late if you’re not in your seat by the time the bell rings.

Mrs. Hinge gets unhinged if you happen to be late. Pun intended.

Anyway, she’s cool aside from her punctuality issues.

Sometimes she’ll hand out candy if everyone earns a passing grade on a paper and that’s always cool. Candy=Respect. Or if you happen to be in a Foreign Language class, Cuss Words in French/Spanish/German/Japanese=R.E.S.P.E.C.T. She also throws stuff at you if you happen to be dozing off and that’s hella funny, unless of course it’s you.

I lay my chin down on my desk and start fiddling with my eraser when the bell rings and Mrs. Hinge strolls in, carrying lesson plans and whatnot and is followed by her student assistant who is hefting around a bin of books.

I drop my eyes to my eraser once more—pink pearl—it smells gross. Why do erasers always smell gross? Like burnt rubber. Blech.

“Nice of you to join us,” Mrs. Hinge says, the classic ‘you’re late’ bit.

“Sorry. I’m new,” I girl mumbles softly.

“Don’t do it again. There’s an empty seat next to Mr. Goodman.”

At this point in time I actually look up to see if this girl is, y’know, worth talking to or—

Holy shit!

Holy shit.

Shit.

Shiiiiiitake mushrooms.

Shit.

Luisa.

Luuuuuisa.

Luisaaaaaaaaaa.

My mind lingers on the ‘ah’ in Luisa for the longest time as I stare with this stupid expression straight in front of me.

I can feel her sitting in the seat behind me. Like, there’s this tremendous heat beating on my back and it’s tingling and I don’t think I like this very much.

I gulp and drop my eyes back to my desk.

“Okay, guys. We’re starting up a new unit: Poetry! Woo hoo!”

She’s right behind me.

“No groaning. This is fun. We’re gonna start by reading a few poems from the books in this bins. So, if you could all come up and grab one…”

Right there.

Behind me.

And now she’s walking and I can see the soft, dark curves of her hair against the back of her head and how her back dips between her shoulder blades. And I can see the graceful arch of her spine down to the slanted pockets on the butt of her jeans and her legs moving, one in front of the other, long and lean and way better than Kelly Masterson’s any day of the week.

A book drops in front of my face, ‘WHAP!’ I jump and then for a split second hope that it was Luisa who had gotten me the book, but of course, she’s still waiting in line in front of the bin and an annoyed, yet amused and knowing Pee Wee in standing before me. “Lazy.”

“I prefer cardio-challenged. If I don’t have to exert energy when I have a monkey like you to do my bidding, why should even consider lifting a finger?”

“You’re an ass,” he tells me.

“Yep.”

He begins to walk back toward his desk, flipping me off since Mrs. Hinge is not paying close
attention though she oftentimes overlooks profanities anyway because she finds them amusing.

“Thank you!” I shout after him.

He releases his other four fingers and just waves dismissively.

Luisa is walking towards her desk, all curly hair and big, dark eyes.

I fascinate myself with my desk once more like the little boy I am inside, feeling a certain warmness creep its way up my neck.

Gah.

I clap my hand to the back of my neck.

Guys don’t blush.

What am I doing?

Gaaaaaah!

Luisa sits down, very slightly disturbing the air around her, making me even more aware of her presence by the smell of her—vanilla candles and something else, a little fruity. Bananas?

What am I doing?

I slink my hand back down to the literary text book to search for page 236.



When Pee Wee and I finally emerge from the torture of Robert Frost and the smell of bananas, we have been assigned some work that we need to present the next day—a poem. But not just any poem, a poem that has significant meaning to you, something you relate to. You can either share why you relate to it, or write why and just have Mrs. Hinge read it. She said we’re going to be doing this throughout the whole unit.

“What are you gonna do?” Pee Wee asks casually as we walk towards the science hall. We happen to have our science classes at the same time, only, I’m taking general Biology and Sherm is in AP Chem. I don’t even know how he managed that one.

“Uh…” I sort of trail off and throw a look over my shoulder.

Looking for Luisa.

I can’t help it.

Pee Wee looks too, gives me a funny look, and then rolls his eyes. “I’m thinking Seuss.”

“Doctor Seuss?”

“Who else?”

“Sherm, this is high school.”

“Your point?”

“Well… It’s high school.”

“Tell me if that’s ever stopped you from making a papier-mâché volcano for your final.”

I look down at my feet, kicking a carton of apple juice with my shoe.

“My point exactly,” Pee Wee says, clearly satisfied.

“But still,” I say, looking up. “How are you gonna find one that you ‘relate’ to?”

“Green Eggs and Ham.”

“What?”

Pee Wee veers off to the right and disappears into his classroom.

“Bye?”

I realize I’ve stopped in the middle of the hallway when a scary-looking girl wearing a softball sweatshirt bumps into me and says, “Oh, darn.”

“Hey, Cara,” I say.

“Hey, Lijuh,” she says and puts one of her beefy arms around my shoulders.

Cara’s an old friend. My mother and her mom were friends way back when. They introduced us, and now we’re still friends though our mothers broke their ties a long time ago. Cara’s about as tall as me now, and weighs a ton more. She’s a beast. Muscular and… Well, huge. She strikes fear into the hearts of jock-ettes all around the tri-state area. She’s one of those fantastic physical specimens that coaches love to death because she takes them to championships and promises to rip the heads off of any opponent that gets in her way. However, this also works against her in some ways. Cara is a ‘hopeless romantic’, crushes on tons of guys that are usually a lot smaller than her (this isn’t hard to do). Because of her sheer size and frightening under bite, no one really wants to be her friend much, they’d rather call her a hunchback. She’s found solace in the jocks though and the people who embrace the outcast-iness. That’s me.

We sit right by each other in Bio and pass notes when class gets horribly boring, so there’s something of a rumor going around that we’re more than just partners in Biology.

Whatever.

Anyway, halfway through class, Cara flicks me a note across the table.

What’s new, pussycat? You seem tired.

I write back.

Not much. And I guess. Stuff’s going on at home.

Oh, yeah. I heard about that. Your dad’s doing hardcore drugs and you sister’s selling her body on the street, right?

Ha. No. It’s different.

Talk to me, sweetlips. We’ve got all period.

I write down all that has happened with my mom and dad and Marnie, while keeping an absent eye on the penguin-like figure of Mr. Hamilton.

When I hand the note back, Cara takes a long time reading it and then passes it back.

That sucks.

She gives me a smile and shrugs.

She doesn’t know what else to say.

I pass the note back.

There’s also a girl.

Cara’s eyes light up and she scribbles furiously away.

TELL ME!!!!!!!

I stifle a laugh and start writing with deliberate slowness, enjoying watching Cara squirm in her chair, trying to read over my shoulder.

She’s kind of amazing. Really… beautiful. Especially when she dances. It’s like she’s… making a world of her own. And she doesn’t know I exist. Oh, and she reads Cat Fancy.

Cara practically rips the note out of my hands and lets out a little squeal and wiggles around like she has to pee.

“Something you want to share?” Mr. Hamilton asks, suddenly standing right in front of our table.

What is up with the hackneyed [10 vocab points] remarks teachers are making lately? Have they always been saying this kind of stuff?

Cara and I stare at him with our mouths hanging open as he snatches the note up and runs his eyes over the words saying in a casually mocking tone, “Kind of amazing, really beautiful… A world of her own… Cat Fancy?”

I hit my forehead on the table, snickering filling the room.

“Ever the Romeo, eh, Elijah?”