Fancy Pants

-

I made sure to crank the volume down on my car radio so when I turned the truck back on at the end of the day, the radio wasn’t going to get blasted into my already damaged eardrums. Lord knows any more of those unprepared encounters and they’ll be done for.

Pulling the key out of ignition, I more-or-so kicked the door of my dad’s pick-up truck open, seeing the parking space next to me unoccupied. I pulled my book bag back onto my shoulders, grabbed my phone, and hopped out, slamming the door as I went.

I’m a guy, by the way. Just telling you so you’re not imagining a girl until proven I’m not one. Or you know what? Go ahead, and pretend all the girls I have ‘steamy-moments’ with are guys. Or if you’re gay, imagine whatever. I don’t care. I do those types of things when I read/watch stuff. It’s cool.

Anyway.

I made way to my locker, remembering I needed my World Studies/American History/who-the-fuck-gives book. I got it and as I pulled it back to me, a very Juno thing happened. It fell open, sending all the homework assignments, previous quizzes and tests, notes, etc., crashing to the floor.

Kill me?

I groaned and just as I was about to pick it all up, I got tapped on the shoulder by a Miss Gracie Hart. And I’m not really into the whole slut-shaming thing because I can be quite the slut, but she’s a, uhm, well, she’s loose as fuck.

She was only passing by, though.

“Your book fell apart,” she observed, not stopping to help.

Fell open, but - “Right?” I said just like Juno had.

She didn’t continue the script with ‘Must’ve looked at your face,’ but with “That sucks.”

Obviously not enough for you to help me clean it all up.

“Yeah…” I trailed.

She continued to walk off with her little posse of friends and that’s when I got a stack of papers shoved in my face by several people. Oh. Looks like not everyone in this hallway only thinks about themselves.

I thanked those nice people and put the papers back in my book. I thanked them again and hurried off to homeroom so I could set this crap down and sleep until the bell rang.

I tried to ignore the two stoners sitting at the first couple desks, but still ended up listening to their conversation anyway.

The blond one, Jeff, took a swig of whatever it was that was in his water bottle.

“Bro,” Jeffy burped. “He is such a dick. Like, fucking-a.” DARN. I got here a little too late. I don’t know who ‘he’ is. Major FML moment.

I dropped my stuff onto my desk, then myself into the chair, slinking my head into my arms. I always get here early, so I have about thirty minutes to sleep.

Right when I finally began slipping away, there was a tapping sound that woke me up. I brought my head up to see a girl standing in the doorway, her knuckles patting lightly on the doorframe.

Mr. Orsborne jerked his head up and spun around to see her.

“Oh, hello, Emma,” he greeted her with his usual friendly smile.

"Hello. I was not here yesterday. Did I miss anything important?" She kind of has a higher pitched voice than most girls, but I think it might be because she’s foreign and she has that Italian accent.

Mr. Orsborne twisted back to his original position, facing the computer screen, saying, “You’re welcome. Have a good day, Emma. I’ll see you in third period.”

She laid the papers he apparently gave her in her notebook. “You too. Bye.”

And my eyes went right for her butt as she walked out.

Oops.

Then I faintly heard - “Dodger. Dodger, dude,” Jeff said again, snapping his fingers in my face. I could smell the scent of weed and various other things radiating off his scummy, green hoodie he’s had for as long as I’ve known him. I doubt he’s even thought about washing it.

My nose scrunched in disgust, my hand knocked his as hard as I could, beginning to say, “What,” when the sound of a phone ringing became noticeable to me. Jeff’s eyes darting to my bag let me know it was mine.

“Oh. Thanks.” I pulled open my drawstring bag, hand fumbling around for my phone.

Who would want to call me? I don’t talk to anyone willingly.

Unless it’s my mom calling me.

Probably.

But when I turned the screen towards me, the caller ID read ‘NO.’

Ugh. Grace. She always wants to walk around in the morning, so she calls me, trying to find out what my homeroom is, and I never answer her. But she always calls.

I gripped my eyes shut, getting a migraine, just thinking about her stupid, stuck-up voice. She Boyfriend Zones me a lot and it’s annoying. Not like it’s not flattering but she’s just too…her.

After waiting for the call to drop, I held down the lock button until my phone blinked off, then threw it back into my bag, yanking it closed. I dropped my head back down and closing my eyes.

Ahhh yeah. Sleep.

Well, uh, see you in a bit.

-

“There has been a crap-ton of complaining going on about the seating chart,” my Psychology teacher acknowledged, going around to his desk. He pulled open a drawer, getting out a clipboard. He held it up. “So I asked a *ahem* certain student - not naming names *ahemVANESSAahem* -” Everyone actually laughed because he’s actually funny and looked back at Vanessa.

Mr. Davis smiled at her.

“Ah, yes, a certain student made out this, eh, month or so’s new seating chart. So if you have any complaints…take it up with her outside of school and passed school hours, because the school board can’t touch ya then.” He shot Vanessa another smile to let her know he was somewhat kidding as everyone laughed once more.

He knocked his knuckle against the clipboard like he was letting us know we’re getting this over with now, going over to the first desk you come in contact with when you enter the room. Emma’s desk. Going down the row, he named off names. Didn’t really care until he got to the second row, middle group.

“…Dodger Riz-i-lee - you moved up one row, ha - and a Ms. Emilia Russo…” Oh, whatta fuckin' coinky dink. I sit next to Emma. I shot a thumbs-up her way which she smiled nicely to.

When he finished telling everyone where they now sat, he told us to move to them.

A girl who just loves hearing herself speak, which always makes expected-to-be boringly awkward classes somewhat interesting, let out a laugh, saying, “Wow, nice going, Vanessa sitting polar-opposites right next to each other.” And she was talking about me and Emma.

Everyone laughed, agreeing. Wow, okay.

“Opposites attract,” someone mumbled from the front of the room.

Mr. Davis shrugged, nodding in what appeared to be agreement. Which was weird. “I ship it.”

I tried as hard as I could to avoid eye contact with Emma as she fidgeted with her hands.

Great. Now everything’s going to be weird.

Not exactly sure with where this conversation was heading, I whipped around to face
Loudmouth, fake fury brimming. “Hey, wait - polar-opposites? I know Emma’s insanely nice.
What does that make me?”

Someone interjected, “Oh, you think she’s nice?”

I ignored that.

“That’s not what I meant, Dodger,” she laughed, deciding to rephrase her words. “I meant Emma’s a really, like…what’s the word…a good girl? And - just innocent, I guess, and you’re not.”

I shrugged understandably, turning back to face the front of the room while everyone giggled their heads off. I popped a fist into the air.

“Representing all the hood rats.”

And since everything anyone says seems to be hilarious to them, laughter sounded yet again.

There was suddenly a little nudge on my shoulder. I would’ve thought it was just a muscle spasm if I didn’t hear her little Italian accented voice. “If it’s any consolation,” Emma’s tiny hand went retreating back into her lap, “I think you’re a very nice boy.”

From the back of the classroom came, “I really like her voice.”

I prayed that comment took us as far away from the previous topics as it could, and I think it did as the room erupted into a ginormous conversation about Emilia’s ‘pretty little accent’.

After that died down, Mr. Davis forced us all to take the last five minutes of class to get to know our new ‘seat buddy.’

Eh. I wasn’t exactly looking forward to this. I have never talked to her in actual conversation form, which was a total tragedy, because she seemed like a pretty decent girl. But then again... why would she ever want to talk to me? I’ve heard a bit about her parents from eavesdropping on her conversations. If what was said is true, her parents have taught her better than to even think about conversing with ‘someone like me.’

But…I don’t think I’m that bad.

I’m not.

I’m a nICE GUY.

Well…it’s debatable.

I’m pretty sure I just left her sitting there for thirty seconds, probably thinking I was refusing to make an effort with her. I glanced down at her, trying to man-up enough to say something, but just ended up staring at her.

She was sitting up straight, gazing down at her hands in her lap. She had a really nice dress on.

Lookin’ like a nice, proper girl.

I’m afraid that if I say something to her, it’ll be like I threw her into a mosh pit and brainwashed her in the ways of my people. I just feel like I’m going to wreck her somehow.

I stifled the clearing of my throat before forcing myself to form words.

“Uh, thanks for helping me…you know, earlier - with my stuff.”

Her head popped up for several seconds, “Oh, you’re welcome,” then back down in went.

Okay.

I was going to wait a few more seconds before going again for a second attempt when her head came back up.

"You have everything, right? I tried to take everything I could. Sorry if I did not."

A weird tingly feeling suddenly shot across my body and I swear my heart skipped a beat. I think it was just because of how adorable she sounds. She says things differently than how we say it in America. I don’t know. It’s just…refreshing.

I felt myself smile. She sounded so sincere. I shook my head reassuringly.

“Nah, I got it all - I think so at least.”

She returned the smile. It seemed very genuine and relieved. "Oh, well, that's good. I was worried. I felt bad, if you did not. But you did. That’s good."

I didn’t really know what to say back to her except “Yeah,” so we just sat there until the bell rang and I not-too-slowly but not-too-fast got up and left for my next class.

When I got home, I drug myself to my room and flung myself into my bed, praying I didn’t fuck up something that may not even ever be something.

I laid there staring at the TV until it was an acceptable time to force myself to sleep, completely neglecting my homework.

Oh well.