Chex Mix

“I think I’m done for a while,” I tell Paulie after washing my mouth out in the sink for I think the last time. Now my hair’s pulled back and rid of digested bits, so I’m a little happier minus looking green and shaking all over. I lower myself down to the ground, leaning against the wall.

“Well, that’s good,” he says, fidgeting in his chair and then grimaces and grabs his ankle.

“Hey, you okay?”

Alright, Ananda. That’s cool. Of course he’s not okay. He’s in the nurse’s office with an ice pack and you’re asking if he’s okay.

“Yeah. I’m good. I got in a fight with a water fountain.” He grins this time.

“Mm. I take it the water fountain won?”

“You got it.”

We’re quiet for a little while and I stare at my shoe laces, then look up. The girl who came in unconscious earlier is awake and trying to talk to kid on floor who… I don’t really know. Maybe he’s in pain, maybe he’s angry, maybe he’s gonna cry. He looks like something waiting to happen, but hasn’t yet.

The scrawny kid who came in last and shaken girl are beginning to talk a little.

I look back at Paulie. “So… What really happened?”

“Ah…” He scratches the back of his neck. “Some guys in my gym class…”

“Oh.” And that’s all I say. I’ve never thought Paulie would really be on to be taunted. After all, he’s a pretty good looking guy and on top of that he has a cool Australian accent, which is always a plus. The only reason I can think of is that he had ballet training as a kid and does it some still, but mostly dances hip-hop.

“Uh. Yeah. So. Arby’s, huh?”

My stomach lurches and gurgles audibly. “Please don’t say that.”

“Oh. Okay.” He kinda laughs.

“Yeah…”

And then there’s an awkward lull in all of our conversations and it’s pretty much so quiet a pin could drop—if you excuse my use of cliché.

And then the boy with the really young face and scruff on his chin that doesn’t really look like it belongs there speaks up, reading off a neon orange sheet of paper. “What are your goals in life?”

I’m not really sure if anyone was supposed to answer that or if he was just entertaining himself with reading out loud, but Paulie answers. “I want to dance.”

Everyone looks at him, including me. But Paulie doesn’t mind. He’s looking at me expectantly.

What?

Excuse me?

Hello?

What?

What do I want?

Normally I would say a boyfriend I can bring home to my parents who has perfect teeth and a winning report card, a 5.0 GPA, to get into my college of choice. But that’s my parents talking. What I really want is something else. What if I don’t want to go out with some Einstein prodigy who doesn’t have the faintest idea what a vagina is? What if I want to go out with some guy with long hair and a leather jacket with ‘anarchy’ spray painted on the back? What if I want to get a C just to feel what it’s like? What if I want to skip college all together and train a flea circus? I want to do something that every book smart kid with overbearing parents and no backbone hasn’t done— done something exciting, something they want to do, something their parents would never allow. I want—

“—Adventure. I want adventure,” I say.