Status: In which a mixed WoC stops whitewashing.

Between Here and There

September 16, 2008

"Hey Sage, are you coming with us to Hoka?" I nodded, shaking the planner in my hand lightly. School had been in session for little under a month but I was already sinking beneath a wealth of responsibilities. Keeping up appearances is essential, however, so I couldn't skip out on something that was of utmost importance to the group.

The group isn't really a group, in the general sense. It's more like a bunch of rich kids who get together once a week to complain about bothersome events that had happened between the previous Saturday and current Friday. Discussions tend to center around something one of the coaches or AP teachers decided to require - a lengthy essay or an attendance check-in. Petty things that your average students wouldn't think twice about. Our outings are like top executives of an international company having a meeting; we don't see each other otherwise.

Flipping carefully to the page that held today's plans I drew little black x's near everything I had already done: 5/6 classes, all AP English homework for the following week, and my science notes. All that was left was Fashion A and our little sushi outing. It's funny to think of a group of 15 year-olds with full schedules who make moves based on what other people think, but things had always been this way for me. I guess that's just California.

Oceanside High is rather large but the passing period is long enough to give me enough time to walk slowly once I've collected the proper supplies from my locker. Today, though, would purely be sketching. My fingers grasped at the watercolor pencils and new, leather-bound sketchbook I'd be using, discarding them in my purse along with my phone. Paints and other supplies were available to us if we got that much done in an hour, but I didn't expect I would.

"Adair, Buchanan, Dorame, Gonzalez, Gutie..." Once Ms. Thompson's eyes found my hand and she continued, I took to creating the base outlines of my sketches. There were going to be five looks in my line, which would become my midterm presentation in four months. Luckily for me my mother had always found herself involved in fashion some way or another. The others in the class weren't as lucky - or competent - and so far I'd mostly stuck to myself.

Or maybe they were avoiding me. Given my so-called status, that would make more sense than the scenario constantly repeating in my mind. If only they knew the truth.
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