When I saw Brandi in the hallway, she gave me a once over and laughed, walking past me with her little group of friends. It was so anticlimactic. I actually felt disappointed. And then I got pissed off with myself for being disappointed. I sat through my first class that day, my head pounding with rage. The teacher was outlining what the year would bring for us, ancient civilizations–wise, but I barely heard a word. I was too consumed with trying to figure out why I was so irritated by Brandi’s nonchalant reaction to me. I hadn’t changed myself for her, had I? To make an impression on her? Her laughter was a given. Had I wanted her to attack me? What had I been expecting?
My second class was art, which is a subject I always did well in, but when I walked into the classroom I was faced with my usual dilemma of where exactly I was going to sit. See, when you’re a loner, it’s easy to find a seat in a normal class with individual desks. You just plunk yourself down as far away from the “cool kid desks” as possible. But in an art classroom, there aren’t any desks. It’s all tables where four kids can sit and you end up sharing your space with them. Last year hadn’t been bad; I had shared with three girls who were friends with each other, but who weren’t shitty people either. They had ignored me all year and talked amongst themselves, and I had half-heartedly eavesdropped on their conversations and worked on my stuff. The teacher liked me, and I did well in the class, even though it was boring to me. It was the same stuff I had done with my mother: paint an apple. Draw a leaf. I was doing that shit when I was five. This year, art was an elective, so I was hopeful there would be fewer assholes. I chose an empty table in the far corner at the back next to the window.
The class filled up, and no one sat at my table. Fewer kids this year, I happily noted, even though there was a table with a bunch of guys I could have done without. Some of the Brandi bunch, who greeted each other with stupid handshakes and high-fives, as though they were some exclusive society. Which I guess they sort of were. It’s always been a mystery to me how people who are so horrible end up finding each other and don’t seem to mind being cruel to everyone else.
The teacher, same as last year, Mr. Lee, saw me sitting by myself. I guess he felt bad for me, because he made a point of saying, “Rachel, I love the new look.”
I knew that he was trying to make me feel special, because he probably thought I felt upset at having to sit by myself, you know, make the poor girl feel good about herself, but I fucking hated that because all it did was draw attention to me, and I was trying to be unnoticed and left alone.
Of course, Mr. Lee’s comment drew a few guffaws from Brandi’s buddies. Fine by me. Nothing new. At least this year, I would have a whole table to myself and I could look out the window.
Just before class began, a light-haired girl came into the room, looking flustered. She scanned the room, presumably for a seat, and then hurried to my table, sitting in the chair kitty-corner from me. She didn’t look like one of the assholes, or like she knew anyone in the class. I hadn’t seen her last year, and she was just wearing a boring old smock dress. Sure, I’d share a table.