The Remains Of My Wasted Youth.

‘Some say each and every day that we live are nothing short of miracles All of these people, all of these places, all of these faces, blend into a kaleidoscope of color dancing over the world, turning streetlights and shadows into exotic dancers, turning lakes into mirrors, turning the past into but a memory and the future into a promise. Others say that the present is but a gateway, a means to get from place A to place B. If yesterday was unforgiving, think towards tomorrow. If tomorrow seems unrelenting, remember better yesterdays. I, personally, however, think that the present is what we should focus on. You see, I’ve learned the hard way. I’ve learned that not everyone can remember their yesterdays – and not everyone gets a tomorrow.’

Finally finished with the first and hardest essay of the year, I put my dog-eared pencil down and laid my head on the cool desk. Switching schools right at the beginning of senior year was a big mistake. The work was already looking like it was harder than it ever had at Chesterfield High. The teachers seemed rushed and miserable, which was a given because the school was about three times as big as my old school. And three, there wasn’t really anyone here who looked remotely interesting.

As I stared around the classroom, this only served to prove my point. All of the kids were still busy writing. No one was talking, whereas at Chesterfield the class would have been a bubble of excitement after a summer. The teacher was at the front reading, the essay question she’d assigned us still sitting up on the board in bold chicken scratch.

What is more important – trying to make up for the past, focusing on the present or believing in the future?

I leaned over my paper and started absent-mindedly doodling around the side of the paper. I let my mind wander as I sketched a guitar on the side of my essay. I’d rather be at home with my guitar than here, I thought sadly.

A random jab made me jump. The boy beside me motioned for me to lean closer and pointed at the drawing on the side of my paper.

“Nice! Do you play as well as you draw?” he asked quietly, trying not to draw the attention of the teacher as he spoke. But the excitement was still there in his voice.

I couldn’t help but smile at him. He was long and skinny with messy dark brown hair and a contagious smile. It didn’t hurt that he was the first friendly face I’d seen in quite a while.

“Yeah,” I whispered back. “I took lessons up until a year ago and then I broke off and started to write some of my own shit.”

I could tell the kid was impressed. His eyes lit up and the corners of his mouth crinkled his cheeks into dimples. He looked up to make sure the teacher was busy reading her book, and then asked me another question.

“What kind of music do you listen to?”

I bit my lip. This was a question that I really had never liked answering. I’d gotten picked on a lot at my old school for my musical taste, but then again, the school was small, preppy, and old-fashioned. In a school the size of Dulaney, there had to be some people who appreciated the same taste in music. Couldn’t this kid be one of them?

“I like Blink-182, Nirvana, Green Day, Biffy Clyro,” I said, naming some of the bands that were on my iPod.

“No way! Me too! Especially Blink. Hardcore Blink fan forever.” He turned his attention back to his desk for a second and pulled out a phone case, and then something from it. He turned back to me, mystery object hidden in his hand.

He reached out his hand and uncurled his fingers, showing me what he’d hidden there. It was a guitar pick, but not just any guitar pick. I had one sitting at home too, from an epic show two years ago. Could it be …

“Did you get this from their Greatest Hits World Tour?” I demanded. I think maybe I’d just made a new friend.

“Yes!” Obviously forgetting that we were in the middle of English, his voice raised an octave. “Their show here in Baltimore. I went with two guys I’d barely met, because I’d just moved here about a week prior and I’d been pissed because I wanted to go, and this one guy, Zack, gave me an extra ticket and we went, it was the best thing ever. We got to meet them all cause Rian, the other guy, had backstage passes that he’d won and we got hugs and everything, and I got this, right out of Mark’s hand. I swear I almost cried, it was amazing –“

The teacher walked up to us then, her face stern but her eyes twinkling. “Care to explain to the class what is so interesting, Mr.Barakat?” she asked in a no nonsense tone.

“Sure thing, Mrs.S. We’re talking about my first ever Blink 182 show.”

Laughter rippled through the class and Mrs.Spinelli shook her head with a small smile on her face.

“Well, at least talk about it a little more quietly, Mr.Barakat, Mr.Gaskarth,” she said. “Have you both finished your essays?”

The boy, whatever his first name was, nodded vigorously while I slid mine to the side of the desk. She collected both sheets of paper and walked back to the front of the desk.
“She loves me, don’t worry about it. I’d had her almost every year for English. I swear she plans her classes around my schedule,” the kid, whatever Barakat, joked. I smiled at him and looked back down at my desk.

“So, where are you from?” my dark eyed companion asked curiously when I didn’t say anything else. “You don’t really look like you’re from around here.”

I ran a hand through my hair self-consciously. I’d been well prepared by my mom as to how to answer these questions, but I was always nervous and worried that I would sound like an idiot. Besides, there were obviously holes in their explanations and I was worried someone would eventually call me out on it.

“I was born and raised in London,” I said. “We moved here from London last spring, but I finished junior year at home because it took forever to get the proper papers to come to school here.”

“You don’t sound British.” His voice sounded strangely disappointed.

“Nope,” I agreed. “My parents are from the States. Right here in Baltimore, actually, which is why we’re back. My dad was a partner in a company called Selection, and –“

I was cut off by the boy. “What are your parents’ names?” he asked, his voice switching from friendly to brusque and cold all of a sudden.

I felt the smile melt off of my face. Where had I gone wrong? I thought I’d been doing pretty well.

“Uh, my mom’s name is Isobel and my dad is –“

This time, it was the sound of the door opening. It drew everyone’s attention, including mine. A tall muscular boy stood there, his hair a light shade of brown and a tattoo on his forearm. He leaned against the door, waiting for the teacher’s attention. In the lighting, it was easy to see the dark scar that ran down his cheek and jawline.

“Oh, Zachary. How nice of you to make an appearance.” She made a big show of checking her watch for the time. “And there’s still 20 minutes left of class. That must be a record for you. Are you making special allowances because it’s the first day?” Honey oozed from her voice and it was hard to tell if she was really mad or not.

With everyone in the class watching, this new arrival walked over to the desk behind me and sat down. I could feel his eyes drilling into me and it unnerved me.

“Your assignments on the board, Zachary. I assume you can sweet-talk a piece of paper from someone – maybe Mr.Gaskarth has one to give you.”

Everyone’s eyes were on me. I fumbled with my binder and pulled out a piece of paper. I handed it to Zachary. He took it without a word and immediately started to write. I could have sworn I heard the class sigh in relief.

I turned back towards the boy beside me, but he’d moved his chair back into his desk and had plugged in earphones. I looked around the class. Most had gone back to work, and those who hadn’t dropped their gazes back to their papers as I looked at them.

With a sigh, I took out another piece of paper and re-drew the guitar from my essay. When the bell rang, I was the first one out of the classroom. I never noticed that I’d left my agenda on the table – or that Zachary was the one to pick it up.