Wall Flower

The next morning I woke to a knock at the door and the smell of tea and eggs wafting through the air, though I did not stir. I lie there with my eyes closed, body limp and covered by two comforters from toe to head, and alarm still going off. It was a good thing I hated the sound of my alarm. The hate motivated me to get myself up to turn it off, and yet, at that moment, I didn’t move a voluntary muscle.

“Where’s Loraine?” a voice asked. It sounded farther away, though the door was less than ten feet away from my bed. My senses were still waking up, much like myself.

“See this lump on her bed?” Cassandra asked the boy. Her voice was closer. She must have shut off my alarm because the horrible beeping stopped. “This lump is her. She likes to bury herself under two comforters like my Chihuahua back at home.”

She compares me to a yippy, whiney, tiny thing like a Chihuahua? I asked, and it sounded groggy.

I heard . . . nothing, really. My two friends had suddenly fallen silent, and though I wondered why they had gone silent, my brain could not keep up with what I was hearing. Some part of me thought they had been raptured and I was sadly left behind and I wondered where I had gone wrong until I felt movement on my bed, breaking me from my silly and unreasonable thought process. (Dear God, I am confident that I will be with you when the day comes, for when I reach the place where I will spend the rest of my eternity, I know I will choose it because I want you for eternity. Just thought I’d let you know. May I go back to sleep now?)

“Lorain Jane Fontaine,” said a voice, and it was strange: raspy and throaty. The voice also had a thick southern accent; if it were deeper it would have reminded me of my father’s way of waking me up in the morning. “Little darlin’ you hafta get up now, ya herr? The dragons have ter be fed cows ‘nd the snakes have ter be fed mice! Ya can’t expect ter live on a farm and -”

“What sort of harvesting land doth thou speakest of dear sir?” I reply. My voice was thick with sleep. “For it has been many a fort night since I have heard of something as taboo as this farm you speakest of.”

It was silent for a short moment before I heard Cassandra say, “She speaks
Shakespearean in the morning.”

“You win again,” Joe said, and his voice was closer. I felt the motion of the bed as he shifted and I felt warmth and a body next to me. My heart pounded within my chest, whether out of embarrassment or fear, for I have never had a boy in my bed before in my eighteen years of life.

“Come on little dragon,” he continued, utterly unaware of my nervousness and innocence. “Time to eat and begin learning stuff.”

I uncovered my eyes and found him beside me; he was in such close proximity that I could see the dark stubble forming on his chin, his upper lips, and running up his cheeks. “What kind of stuff, may I ask?”

He stared for a moment before giving me a reasonable answer: “Jesus and angels.”

“That’s the answer to everything!” Cassandra said with a full mouth; her voice came from behind, probably at our desk.

Joe and I smiled at one another before he hopped out of my bed and, like an evil child, swiped my blankets off from my bed and left me cold, shell-shocked, and curled up in the fetal position. I heard him laugh maniacally along with Cassandra as I thought very non-approved-by-Jesus thoughts about them.

“Love you,” they both said.

Poor naïve children, thinking a simple “love you” could make me want to exude love upon them. It still worked, no matter how much I did not want it to.
I shivered, sat with them at the desk, and greedily reached for my tea and took a swig.

“When auditioning,” Mr. Lopez-Lobo said, “remember that you should stand out from the rest, especially if you’re not the first to go. After a while, the scene can seem dull, repeated, cliché. If you want to be noticed and have a bigger chance at getting the part you want or a bigger role, then you must go out of the box and act on your impulse. For example, when I . . .”

“Remember to stand out,” I wrote in my notebook. “Act on impulse.”

Do I even have an impulse? I asked myself, wondering when and if I have ever acted without thinking about what I was doing thoroughly down to the bone. As I translated what my professor, Mr. Lopez-Lobo, was saying into Spanish, I saw out of the corner of my eye Joe reach over and put a paper on my desk.

As usual, the note never had actual words. Drawings decorated half of the college-ruled paper. He drew – with my sharpies that he silently and not subtly took from my bag – a picture of a couple trees surrounding two stick figures sitting on a red-white-red-white line with a brown box with a handle. One stick figure had bright orange hair and its face was covered what I assumed were freckles, but looked like pimples. It was also frowning. I surmise that the orange-haired stick figure in a purple dress was me. The next stick figure had an alfalfa hair style, but it must have been a fohawk, because this stick figure had a giant smile on its face that I knew had to be Joe’s.

Under the picture was one question: Sunday?

I used my black pen to reply so it would look different and not part of the picture. I answered his question while also honing in on my professor’s voice as he lectured. (“If you’re auditioning to be in the orchestra or to play in a musical concert, pick a piece that is not constantly playing on the radio or is necessarily popular, because the director or conductor will most likely have heard it a million times played by other people.”)

I made an arrow pointing at the stick person version of me and wrote, “Why do I have pimples? Is my ProActive not working?” at the end. I pointed another arrow at the thing we were sitting on and wrote, “Are we sitting upon a candy cane?” I drew an arrow pointing at the box with its one handle, “Why did you bring a briefcase along with you to sit upon the candy cane?” I drew another arrow pointing at his hair and joined it with the comment, except I added, “And is that you or Alfafa?”

I handed him back the note and, while he replied, answered a question that a fellow classmate failed to answer: “Miss, ah . . . Fontaine?” – (I nodded) - “Can you answer, please?” Mr. Lopez-Lobo asked me.

“When rehearsing, you should take it a little bit at a time before doing it all at once,” I said. “When the song is learned, the choreography can come into play. You ought to practice as if you’re performing, for the way you practice in rehearsals is the way you’re going to perform, whether you realize it or not.”

“Good, good,” Mr. Lopez-Lobo congratulated, and he gave me a smile of approval. “Now, class, before my time with you ends I’ll show you a videotaped audition by Rachel McAdams when she auditioned for the Notebook. It was the most easily accessible, guys, so don’t freak over the chick-flick.”

People chuckled as he set up the projector and dimmed the lights. Joe put the note in front of me just as the video started, and Rachel McAdam’s pretty face appeared on screen.

His replies were in a dark blue. To my first question: “Those are freckles!” To my second: “It’s a checkered picnic blanket, not a candy cane. It’s September not Christmas! And that’s a picnic basket, L.D.” – (L.D. stands for Little Dragon) – “that’s what you bring on picnics.” And to my last: “Does my hair look bad?”

My reply: “It looks like hair.” I also drew a comparison picture: Alfafa’s face and hair next to Joe’s face with his hair, both drawn with mediocrity and with crooked smiles. I gave it back to him while Rachel McAdam’s began to cry and yell.

Joe unexpectedly leaned closer to me, his shoulder brushing mine, hot breath at my ear. He whispered, “I was trying to ask you if you wanted to go on a picnic with me on Sunday.”

“I got that,” whispered I in reply. “I’m assuming this is after church?”

“Yeah.”

“What do you want me to bring? A briefcase to match yours?”

He gave me a “Wet Willy”.

A freaking “Wet Willy”!

I yelped in surprise (a distinct “Ah!” in my yelp), and Mr. Lopez-Lobo paused the video and gave Joe and me a skeptical look while the rest of the class’ eyes fell upon us with curiosity, annoyance, and some even looked unsurprised. Joe and I, on the other hand, were wide-eyed deer caught in some bright headlights. The smile was wiped clean from his face the moment I yelped, and his eyes went wide when Mr. Lopez-Lobo stopped the video.

“Mister, ah . . . Jonas, it is, and Miss Fontaine,” he said, crossing his arms across his broad chest. “Is there anything you would like to share with the class?”

I shook my head negatively without a sound while Joe just answered, “No, sir. Please continue the video.”

“Just as long as you’re done,” the professorr said, and he continued playing the last moments of the video.

I gave Joe an angry look for one reason: I have never been scolded by my teacher ever in my eighteen years of life, even as a child. I was always quiet, calm, and collected; I was a well behaved student, and the moment Joseph Adam Jonas came into my life, I was suddenly passing notes almost every lecture I had with him, and now I was scolded and caught making just one noise during class.

“What?” he whispered defensively.

I just looked back at the screen silently fuming, hoping he could feel the burning shame radiating off of my red-hot cheeks. He huffed, crossed his arms, and leaned back into his seat, not saying another word like a good snake child.

The bell rang a few minutes later and I silently gathered my things without looking at Joe, though I was not angry anymore, just disappointed in myself for disrupting someone I respect. . . . And yes, a little angry with Joe for making me disrespect our professor.

I went up to Mr. Lopez-Lobo as he was putting the DVD in its case and said, “I am truly sorry for disrupting the class. I normally don’t do that and -”

“I know you don’t, which is why I am not mad at you whatsoever,” he replied before I could finish. “You’re a good student, I see you taking notes, and I know you pay attention. Just make sure you don’t do it again, because I like you, and I don’t want to get angry at you.” He smiled and put a hand on my shoulder.

My heart leapt, and I had to calm it down. It was almost a reflex now, having a man touch my shoulder. I was still easily spooked. “Th-thank you Mr.Lopez-Lobo. I respect you and like you a lot as well.” I gave him a smile, though I knew it was a BS one. I had too many flashbacks and memories running through my head that resulted in crappy concentration.

“Have a good lunch,” he said, and I walked out of class. “You too, Mr. Jonas. I like you, so just be smart.”

“Will do,” Joe said from behind me as I walked out the door. He bumped my shoulder. “I’m really sorry. I know you’re mad -”

“Not really,” I said. “Maybe a tad. Not as much as before. I’ve just never been scolded by my teacher for disrupting class before in my whole school career. I’m just mortified.” Mortified by the flashbacks and my first scolding.

“I know, and it was my fault. I’m really sorry.”

“You’re forgiven,” I said. “But if you ever get me in trouble again I am not sitting next to you anymore.” I glared at him. “And if you dare give me another wet fricken willy I will -”

“Unleash your fire-breathing on me?” he grinned. “Sheesh, no need to finish that. You saying ‘fricken’ was enough to convince me. So feisty.” He chuckled and added, “Time to give you a Christian-side-hug.”

He wrapped his arm around my shoulders and pulled me close before letting go and pushing me lightly. He gave me a smile and I grinned back. I forgave him too easily, but if one could see that genuine smile and apology from him, they too could not resist.

That child was growing on me.

“So, Sunday, is that a go?” he asked. “Would you like to go on a picnic with me?”

“Why would I decline?” I replied.

“Awesome, we’ll drive there after church and have fun.”

We walked to the closest places to eat on campus: The Grub-Hub, a café with different choices of food and a coffee shop. Joe, Nick, Cassandra and I have been meeting there for lunch almost since school started. So far we’ve all gotten the same thing to eat: For Joe a water, chipotle chicken sandwich and apple; Nick gets a turkey-ham sandwich on honey-wheat with diet coke and apple; Cassidy the same, except with Vitamin Water and baked chips; and for myself, an Asian chicken salad with raspberry dressing, water, and a fruit cup.

“One day we should be daring and order something new from here for a change,” Nick suggested as the rest of us either ate or drank. “Soon this is going to get boring.”

“Your face is boring,” I muttered under my breath.

“You think you’re so quiet,” he laughed, “but you’re not. I can hear you!”

“You’re meant to,” I reply.

“Shut up!” Joe shouted randomly. I grimaced at him and he, in response to my grimace, said, “Not you, Loraine, my stupid phone. I can hear it vibrating.”

“Wouldn’t you feel it first?” Cass and I said in unison. We gave each other shocked faces and laughed. “But seriously,” she added to Joe.

“Not really, but I can hear it rattling the change in my pocket and its annoying,” he answered. He pulled out his phone, furrowed his eyebrows, and sighed when he put it back in his pocket. None of us questioned him.

Nick began asking me why I yelped in our last class and I explained what Joe did, then I asked him why I didn’t see him after. He explained that he went to go meet up with Cass and missed Joe’s apology. He saw my “peeved expression” and was sad he missed me beating Joe verbally. He was sad when he found out I forgave him so easily. Joe did not have any input, just kept on checking his vibrating phone and ignoring it.

“Fine, I’ll answer!” Joe shouted at his cellular device, and I jumped. Cass was just in the middle of telling me about her dance recital that was to be performed in a couple months.

“Joe,” Nick said warily.

“Hey, what -” he began, but he was cut off by loud shouting; it was so loud I could hear it from where I sat across from him. The voice on the other end sounded furious. Joe had to hold it away from his ear for a second because the voice was so booming. I could feel the rage in my core and I was curious to find out who on earth could be this upset with Joe.

“You don’t have to yell,” Joe said calmly, a blank expression staining his usually cheerful face. I could tell that this person was the same person from yesterday. The pain on Joe’s face gave it away.

Pain staining your pretty face
Like coffee on trousers
Red wine on white carpet
Blood on lace

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, and it was directed at me and only me for some reason. I could see the sorrow in his eyes, and I forgave it.

“Don’t be,” I replied, and I watched him stand up and walk toward the doors saying, “I know it’s been a while, that doesn’t mean -”

“Do you know who keeps calling him?” I asked, and I cast my eyes downward, ashamed that I had asked such a nosy question. “Sorry,” I whispered.

Nick ignored my apology. “Someone who Joe just has unfinished business with,” he replied, and I could tell from the sound of his voice that he did not like this person, but also that he was guarded and would not say anything more to give any hints as to this business he spoke of.

We were silent for a long time, and during that long time Joe did not come back. Eventually Cass and Nick began planning their dinner for tonight, and I helped them plan. I know they wanted to go alone; I told them it was fine yesterday, that I was not offended. I did have homework, that was my excuse, but honestly it wasn’t enough to keep me from going with them. I would finish it within a half hour and be a lonely hermit crab, which I was mostly okay with. I have books. . . .

My next general ed class, was going to start soon, and though Joe did not take this lecture with me, I was still going to warn him that he was going to be late to his next lecture, one that was ending today. As I walked towards him I thought I would not have to warn him, for he walked through the doors with the phone in hand, about to hang up, and then suddenly put the phone back to his ear and began talking again. This time he didn’t go outside; he stood by the doors and continued talking. Nick and Cassandra went on ahead to class when I told them I would get Joe. They were cute together.

Sorrow marring your usual joy
Like a smudge on a painting
A hole in a photo
A scar on your wrist

I walked towards Joe and threw my trash on the way. He looked drained, tired, and his shoulders hunched as he leaned against the wall and looked off to the side, at an unknown thing. He didn’t look towards me once, too absorbed in the argument he was having to do so.

“I have to go,” he said, and he looked at me when I was a few feet away, just barely noticing me. “I have to go to class.”

The voice on the other end was not shouting; I could not hear it, but he was silent, so I knew he was listening to her.

“Soon, when I’m not working and when I’m not busy.” There was silence, and then a sudden shout. “I am not getting into this argument again. We’ve discussed this. Please, I’ll call you again when I am able to. Promise.” He waited for a reply. “Okay. Okay. . . . Yes, I know. Diddo. Bye.”

He hung up and the two of us stared at one another for a good few moments. Silent apologies went from his eyes to mine, hoping that I would understand - which I did.

“You better hurry,” I said.

“I should be telling you,” he said. “Thanks for the warning. Now get to class before I make you late too.”

I half-smiled and we exited together. “Have fun in one of your many acting classes, little snake child.”

He chuckled. “You too in . . . trigonometry, is it?” I nodded. “Dang, hope your brain doesn’t rot!”

“Estoy de acuerdo contigo.”

“You would,” he laughed, and we went our separate routes to class.

“Have fun on your date, friends,” I said to Nick and Cass as they went out the door, knowing I would elicit a reaction out of the two of them.

“It’s not a date!” the two said at the same time before they looked at one another. Cass laughed nervously and quickly walked off while Nick tried to grab the doorknob; his hand slipped and he wiped his hands off on his jeans, pursed his lips at me, grabbed the door knob and waved goodbye as he shut the door.

And then I was alone.

I stayed put, staring at the door, wondering what I could do to pass the time. I had already done my daily devotions, so I was good in that department. I had finished my homework before the two had left, therefore I could not do anything. No laundry needed to be done, no areas needed cleaning, and laptop was charging. (My laptop didn’t work so well when plugged in, so I let it charge while it was off.) No movies suited me, though I sat near our DVD box that we kept . . . the DVDs . . . in (duh) for lack of space and looked through them.

I sat on my bed and listened to my iPod while writing poems. It was the only productive thing I had to do. . . .