The Boy Captured My Heart with a Single Photograph
Chapter Three— A Depressed Human Potato
“What do you mean it’s not here?!” I screech, certainly breaking the sound barrier.
Mr. Wheezer shrugs and seems unperturbed by my rage. I am so angry that I could curse the heavens and call forth the wrath of the underworld all while riding the Griffon of Death. But I don’t, because society generally frowns upon such acts of violence. Mr. Wheezer is completely oblivious on the hell that I just may have to release on his congested, elderly arse.
Deep breaths, Lela. Deep breaths. I take a shuddering breath that makes me more lightheaded instead of steadying me. Forcing a smile that feels like chewing broken glass, I say, “Thank you for your time, Mr. Wheezer. I’ll see you tomorrow in class.”
I turn and walk away, panic bubbling in my chest. I want to punch someone or flip a table or something, but most of all I just want my sketchpad. I almost completely forget about Milo as I breeze past the doorway he is leaning against. That’s right, I asked him to wait in the hallway because I didn’t want him to see how much my sketchpad meant to me. And now it’s missing. Laughing hollowly, I mumble a brief thanks to Milo for coming along for the trip and try to walk away. A hand grabs my wrist and I stop walking.
Milo. He saw how upset I was, and now he’s worried. I lost my most prized possession and now Granger is concerned about me. Can anything else possibly go wrong? Still facing away from him, I say quietly, “You can let go now, Milo.”
“I can’t let go, you’re upset.” His voice is thick with worry. His hand slides down and he gives my fingers this little squeeze. Downtrodden, I don’t have the zeal to karate chop him in the kidneys when my heart flops in my chest.
Turning around to face him, I take in his serious expression. With a fake smile and a breathless laugh, I inquire, “What makes you think I’m upset?”
Milo plays with my fingers anxiously. He smiles sadly and jokes, “You called me by my first name.”
Okay, he so isn’t buying my false bravado. I feel like such a butt for trying to fake a laugh for him. All I want to do is go home and sob under my bed covers. Why won’t he let go of my hand? With the hand he isn’t holding I tuck a curl of auburn hair behind my ear. I return his sad smile and say honestly, “Don’t worry about it. You didn’t do anything wrong. I had a lot of fun today; I’ll see you on the flip side?”
Milo looks like he wants to say something, but the bell rings and the rambunctious school body fills the halls. Gently pulling my hand from his, I disappear into the throng and make my way to English class.
***
English class passes by painfully slowly. The seat next to me is empty. Tasha’s seat. After texting Tasha, I confirm that she has skipped the rest of the day and is out having fantastic adventures in the city. Normally I would join her, but I am just too depressed to do anything besides sit and blink slowly at the passage I am supposed to be reading in my English textbook, page 745.
The title of the passage reads “The Pedestrian by Ray Bradbury”, but I am busy thinking that I am a sad excuse for a human because I lost my sketchpad. The loss of my sketchpad makes me think that I would be much better off buried six feet under, tangled in roots and covered with dirt. That train of thought evolves into my avid belief that, yes, I would be the best human root vegetable ever.
So while I imagine what the life of a Human Potato would entail, and Mrs. Kinley asks me, “Lela Willows, would you care to explain to the class what message Ray Bradbury was trying to portray to his readers?” and I reply darkly, “Depression,” Mrs. Kinley clears her throat and stops asking me questions for the rest of the class.
I am drowning in unorthodox teen angst. How cliché.
The rest of the class zooms by uneventfully, with the occasional whispers from classmates who misread my gloomy depression for alleged anger at Tasha. Gossip harpies, all of them. I could never be angry with Tasha! When the bell rings, I gather my things and sluggishly trail to art, just barely making it to art before the tardy bell rings.
I am too depressed to even enjoy my favorite class. I wet some clay and begin molding for the Ceramic Statues project, when someone joins me at my empty table and wordlessly begins to mold his own clay.
Not looking at him, I say, “Back off, Geo. I am not in the mood today.”
Geo smirks and flirts, “Not in the mood to talk, or not in the mood to deny me of your kisses any longer? You never got back to me on that movie date I suggested, LeeLee.”
I absolutely hate when Geo calls me ‘LeeLee’, but I do not have the energy to even cringe or smack him like I normally do. Instead I murmur blandly, “Not in the mood to talk.”
Geo is one of the sporty ignoramuses who perpetuates the Jock stereotype. He has deeply tanned skin, a blindingly white smile and an arrogant demeanor to top it all off. He has this goal to date every girl in the student body, but I refuse to succumb to his dastardly ways. He relentlessly flirts with every girl, and once he gets them he dumps them like trash. I never really saw what the other girls saw in him. He has good looks, but he was never really my type. Besides, he doesn’t get my sense of humor, and that is a big no-no. And every time I say a three-syllable word, he just blinks in confusion. Dumb is so not sexy.
“Come on, baby,” he murmurs while slinking his arm around my waist. Instead of shrugging him off, I just sigh and ignore him. With my expertly artistic hands, I form an arm to my ceramic statue. I notice that Geo’s mound of clay has been molded into a crudely-constructed pair of breasts. How classy. I elbow Geo sharply in the ribs and finish my sculpture that class period, ignoring Geo’s advances the entire time. After slathering glaze over my work and shoving it into the kiln, I wait for the bell to ring and head off to physical education.
The locker rooms are dank and moist, like always. Without Tasha to talk to, I change quickly and quietly. Unlocking my hideous chartreuse locker and changing into the loose grey shirt, the chartreuse basketball shorts that brandish the school emblem and my tennis shoes, I pull my hair into a high ponytail and saunter out with the rest of the girls into the gym. When we arrive the boys’ class is already there. In the guys class I spot Milo shooting me concerned glances and Geo making these lovely humping gestures towards me. I do not want to talk to either of them. I am seriously starting to miss Tasha, who is my only friend in this school, let alone P.E. class.
I join the scattering of the girls’ side of the gym. Ms. Peterson is not here today, so Mr. Jacobson is leading both the boys’ and the girls’ class today. We all do the stretches as he instructs us to. Zombie-like, I mimic the gym instructor’s movements half-heartedly. All of us students are decked out in the school P.E. uniform, which mainly consist of the school’s colors: chartreuse and dark blue. Hideous, I know. Our mascot is a puggle, which Tasha and I Googled one time when she slept over at my house. As it turns out, a puggle is a baby platypus. Which our school mascot costume does not resemble at all, because the school mascot costume is a lump of papier-mâché. We are the baby platypuses, the mighty, mighty baby platypuses!
The stretches have stopped, and Mr. Jacobson announces that we will be playing dodgeball. The girls complain and roll their eyes and the guys burst into cheers. Usually, I am the Queen of Dodgeball. But I just don’t know if I can find the drive within me today. Rena, this girl who has always been kind towards me, touches my arm and smiles encouragingly. We don’t talk very often, but in dodgeball we have a secret alliance that dominates the game. Rena has noticed my depression and is willing me to forget about it and try my best in dodgeball. I find myself smiling and nodding. Her smile widens and her pretty brown eyes twinkle mischievously. She brushes her long and straight dark brown hair from her tanned shoulder and bounces from one foot to the other excitedly.
Mr. Jacobson picks the team captains, which turn out to be both boys because not one girl raises her hand to volunteer for the position. The captains are Geo and Milo. Geo smirks at me with a predatory glint in his eyes, and Milo openly glares at Geo. Wow, protective much? They play Rock, Paper, Scissors (or Quartz, Parchment, Shears, which is what it was called in the olden days) to determine who will pick first. Milo wins. He picks the best dodgeball player from the guys’ class, who is this kid with flaming red hair. And then, to my surprise, he picks me. I smile and stand to his side. He returns my smile, and Geo scowls and picks two beefy male students. Milo picks Rena and the fastest student in the boy class. The teams are eventually decided and we head towards the opposite sides of the gym.
The dodgeballs are aligned in the middle of the gym. Geo is glaring at Milo, who is scowling back. I shoot Rena a wicked grin, who smiles and cracks her knuckles in response. Tasha would so love this. There is a lively gleam in Mr. Jacobson’s eyes as he blows the whistle and all hell breaks loose.
Mr. Wheezer shrugs and seems unperturbed by my rage. I am so angry that I could curse the heavens and call forth the wrath of the underworld all while riding the Griffon of Death. But I don’t, because society generally frowns upon such acts of violence. Mr. Wheezer is completely oblivious on the hell that I just may have to release on his congested, elderly arse.
Deep breaths, Lela. Deep breaths. I take a shuddering breath that makes me more lightheaded instead of steadying me. Forcing a smile that feels like chewing broken glass, I say, “Thank you for your time, Mr. Wheezer. I’ll see you tomorrow in class.”
I turn and walk away, panic bubbling in my chest. I want to punch someone or flip a table or something, but most of all I just want my sketchpad. I almost completely forget about Milo as I breeze past the doorway he is leaning against. That’s right, I asked him to wait in the hallway because I didn’t want him to see how much my sketchpad meant to me. And now it’s missing. Laughing hollowly, I mumble a brief thanks to Milo for coming along for the trip and try to walk away. A hand grabs my wrist and I stop walking.
Milo. He saw how upset I was, and now he’s worried. I lost my most prized possession and now Granger is concerned about me. Can anything else possibly go wrong? Still facing away from him, I say quietly, “You can let go now, Milo.”
“I can’t let go, you’re upset.” His voice is thick with worry. His hand slides down and he gives my fingers this little squeeze. Downtrodden, I don’t have the zeal to karate chop him in the kidneys when my heart flops in my chest.
Turning around to face him, I take in his serious expression. With a fake smile and a breathless laugh, I inquire, “What makes you think I’m upset?”
Milo plays with my fingers anxiously. He smiles sadly and jokes, “You called me by my first name.”
Okay, he so isn’t buying my false bravado. I feel like such a butt for trying to fake a laugh for him. All I want to do is go home and sob under my bed covers. Why won’t he let go of my hand? With the hand he isn’t holding I tuck a curl of auburn hair behind my ear. I return his sad smile and say honestly, “Don’t worry about it. You didn’t do anything wrong. I had a lot of fun today; I’ll see you on the flip side?”
Milo looks like he wants to say something, but the bell rings and the rambunctious school body fills the halls. Gently pulling my hand from his, I disappear into the throng and make my way to English class.
***
English class passes by painfully slowly. The seat next to me is empty. Tasha’s seat. After texting Tasha, I confirm that she has skipped the rest of the day and is out having fantastic adventures in the city. Normally I would join her, but I am just too depressed to do anything besides sit and blink slowly at the passage I am supposed to be reading in my English textbook, page 745.
The title of the passage reads “The Pedestrian by Ray Bradbury”, but I am busy thinking that I am a sad excuse for a human because I lost my sketchpad. The loss of my sketchpad makes me think that I would be much better off buried six feet under, tangled in roots and covered with dirt. That train of thought evolves into my avid belief that, yes, I would be the best human root vegetable ever.
So while I imagine what the life of a Human Potato would entail, and Mrs. Kinley asks me, “Lela Willows, would you care to explain to the class what message Ray Bradbury was trying to portray to his readers?” and I reply darkly, “Depression,” Mrs. Kinley clears her throat and stops asking me questions for the rest of the class.
I am drowning in unorthodox teen angst. How cliché.
The rest of the class zooms by uneventfully, with the occasional whispers from classmates who misread my gloomy depression for alleged anger at Tasha. Gossip harpies, all of them. I could never be angry with Tasha! When the bell rings, I gather my things and sluggishly trail to art, just barely making it to art before the tardy bell rings.
I am too depressed to even enjoy my favorite class. I wet some clay and begin molding for the Ceramic Statues project, when someone joins me at my empty table and wordlessly begins to mold his own clay.
Not looking at him, I say, “Back off, Geo. I am not in the mood today.”
Geo smirks and flirts, “Not in the mood to talk, or not in the mood to deny me of your kisses any longer? You never got back to me on that movie date I suggested, LeeLee.”
I absolutely hate when Geo calls me ‘LeeLee’, but I do not have the energy to even cringe or smack him like I normally do. Instead I murmur blandly, “Not in the mood to talk.”
Geo is one of the sporty ignoramuses who perpetuates the Jock stereotype. He has deeply tanned skin, a blindingly white smile and an arrogant demeanor to top it all off. He has this goal to date every girl in the student body, but I refuse to succumb to his dastardly ways. He relentlessly flirts with every girl, and once he gets them he dumps them like trash. I never really saw what the other girls saw in him. He has good looks, but he was never really my type. Besides, he doesn’t get my sense of humor, and that is a big no-no. And every time I say a three-syllable word, he just blinks in confusion. Dumb is so not sexy.
“Come on, baby,” he murmurs while slinking his arm around my waist. Instead of shrugging him off, I just sigh and ignore him. With my expertly artistic hands, I form an arm to my ceramic statue. I notice that Geo’s mound of clay has been molded into a crudely-constructed pair of breasts. How classy. I elbow Geo sharply in the ribs and finish my sculpture that class period, ignoring Geo’s advances the entire time. After slathering glaze over my work and shoving it into the kiln, I wait for the bell to ring and head off to physical education.
The locker rooms are dank and moist, like always. Without Tasha to talk to, I change quickly and quietly. Unlocking my hideous chartreuse locker and changing into the loose grey shirt, the chartreuse basketball shorts that brandish the school emblem and my tennis shoes, I pull my hair into a high ponytail and saunter out with the rest of the girls into the gym. When we arrive the boys’ class is already there. In the guys class I spot Milo shooting me concerned glances and Geo making these lovely humping gestures towards me. I do not want to talk to either of them. I am seriously starting to miss Tasha, who is my only friend in this school, let alone P.E. class.
I join the scattering of the girls’ side of the gym. Ms. Peterson is not here today, so Mr. Jacobson is leading both the boys’ and the girls’ class today. We all do the stretches as he instructs us to. Zombie-like, I mimic the gym instructor’s movements half-heartedly. All of us students are decked out in the school P.E. uniform, which mainly consist of the school’s colors: chartreuse and dark blue. Hideous, I know. Our mascot is a puggle, which Tasha and I Googled one time when she slept over at my house. As it turns out, a puggle is a baby platypus. Which our school mascot costume does not resemble at all, because the school mascot costume is a lump of papier-mâché. We are the baby platypuses, the mighty, mighty baby platypuses!
The stretches have stopped, and Mr. Jacobson announces that we will be playing dodgeball. The girls complain and roll their eyes and the guys burst into cheers. Usually, I am the Queen of Dodgeball. But I just don’t know if I can find the drive within me today. Rena, this girl who has always been kind towards me, touches my arm and smiles encouragingly. We don’t talk very often, but in dodgeball we have a secret alliance that dominates the game. Rena has noticed my depression and is willing me to forget about it and try my best in dodgeball. I find myself smiling and nodding. Her smile widens and her pretty brown eyes twinkle mischievously. She brushes her long and straight dark brown hair from her tanned shoulder and bounces from one foot to the other excitedly.
Mr. Jacobson picks the team captains, which turn out to be both boys because not one girl raises her hand to volunteer for the position. The captains are Geo and Milo. Geo smirks at me with a predatory glint in his eyes, and Milo openly glares at Geo. Wow, protective much? They play Rock, Paper, Scissors (or Quartz, Parchment, Shears, which is what it was called in the olden days) to determine who will pick first. Milo wins. He picks the best dodgeball player from the guys’ class, who is this kid with flaming red hair. And then, to my surprise, he picks me. I smile and stand to his side. He returns my smile, and Geo scowls and picks two beefy male students. Milo picks Rena and the fastest student in the boy class. The teams are eventually decided and we head towards the opposite sides of the gym.
The dodgeballs are aligned in the middle of the gym. Geo is glaring at Milo, who is scowling back. I shoot Rena a wicked grin, who smiles and cracks her knuckles in response. Tasha would so love this. There is a lively gleam in Mr. Jacobson’s eyes as he blows the whistle and all hell breaks loose.
♠ ♠ ♠
Chapter three is up. DO YOU LOVE MILO YET