A day in the life.

The substitute in my first period class reads aloud a Bible verse in an attempt to make sense of recent news. She apologizes afterward. The bell that marks the passing of class periods has been turned off for the sake of AP testing and the weather dips into the fifties, which would leave the student population off-kilter on any normal day. This isn't any normal day. Talk crawls up the walls only to drop into our laps, sink its teeth into our delicate flesh and turn us in circles until we are dizzy with constantly regurgitating what we have been told to believe.

"I don't want to glorify death..." "I'm glad he's gone..." "I hear there was..." "Yeah..."

I walk to the next class with an almost-friend. "How are you?" She isn't fine. Family issues, worries. Senior year is more slip n' slide than anything, leaving bruises that will outlast any thrill involved. I wish for words.

In advisory there is a fire drill; I stand shivering at the fringes of John's group until they pity me and I join their penguin-like huddle against the wind.

"What, a gay guy singing you straight love songs? That's normal."

"Yeah," I say, "but you aren't there when I cry afterward because no straight guy would ever do that."

"I'll be straight for two minutes, I swear." He launches into recalling a movie he swears turned him straight for two hours.

Here are some tired words: I want to believe in people. I want to believe that the jokes pertaining to recent news don't exist. Because there are good things, too: as the fire drill ends and I double back to my locker for a sweater, John touches my arm and says "I love you."

"I love you, too."

In Physics we are assigned a research project. I couldn't tell you one thing I've learned in the class this year. With fourteen school days until we are out of this place (I know, I put together the library display), it is difficult for me to muster any enthusiasm for this brand of learning.

"Sir," asks one of my classmates, "when your kids go to college, will you cry?"

"Yes, tears of joy." His voice tells me the departure will be the happy part.

catlovingmathteacher's cat has cancer, which shakes me more than I would wish to admit in mixed company. I give him my condolences as class ends and he tells me more; the cat is fifteen years old and he bought her for seventy-five dollars, which works out to something like one cent per day for as long as he's had her.

"So, worth it?"

"Oh, I don't know." He grins and we part ways.

When I finish my lunch (peanut butter and jelly, an orange) in the covered area attached to the cafeteria I usually occupy, I move away from the unusual (though not shocking) chill to find a space in the uncrowded cafeteria. My sister comes with me in an unnecessary act of chivalry and we sit at an empty table in the back corner of the room, which in years past was the auditorium and lays claim to almost slanted linoleum as a happy result of the change.

My sister laughs as she sketches something. "I'm drawing something really funny, and I find it amusing," she offers as explanation.

"Okay."

The substitute in Sociology laments our education system before playing the documentary on the subject. I bite my lip because, I apologize, but this isn't really my fault. I try, I try, I try and it all seems for nothing. I say something. My palms sweat; he half-agrees with me, but it isn't much consolation.

"The solution to the education problem: guess on whose shoulders it will fall?" cheers the substitute.

"Us?"

"Ya'll!"

I do what is asked of me, and in tinytowntexas this is more than enough, but I am not engaged. There is such a pull for excellence in education, yet I'm clueless. To try my best is to hit a brick wall over and over again as my peers stand back to watch with bemused expressions. And I keep doing it because you're supposed to, but my enthusiasm wanes until -

My skin crawls as the documentary plays, because what can I do besides sit here and press these uncertainties against paper?

As the class ends and I slip out the door, the substitute tells me to have a good day. I fork over my "you too, sir" with as little tension as I can muster.

"Katherine's a sophomore, she's just really smart. We all cheat off of her."

I flash my senior-level ID at eye level for the English substitute to see. "They try."

"You know," says the substitute to the ruffians, "when you come back here, the only ones who will remember you are the ones you tormented."

Ye Old Initials returns from proctoring an AP test and tells us of days of old, of when the school's (then) three wings were separated, there was no air conditioning and racial tension ran rampant. He's been in this classroom for decades.

"Did you ever date one of your students?"

"No comment." Years and years ago he was married to one of them.

"Are we going to talk about Osama?" asks someone in my Government class as attendance is taken.

"Yeah, for a little bit."

"He can kiss my ass, 'cause I aint doing shit," mumbles the girl who sits behind me.

The inevitable interjection: "THEY KILLED OBAMA?"

I didn't sleep well last night; the day hangs on me. I'm tired of hearing what my generation is expected to accomplish. I pick at my hangnails. I have never set my head down in a class, yet now it is more tempting than ever.

"There's a difference between crazy and stupid, never forget that."

All I know is to keep going.

Blog Every Day April: 4/7

"raze, v.

It sounded like you were lifting me, but it all fell."

The Lover's Dictionary

David Levithan

I finish the physics assignment before anyone else and relocate farther away from the window in order to soak myself in music for the rest of the period.

A note on the board reads "my-toe-kon-dree-uh"; standardized testing looms close for the juniors in this class and today we fill in a worksheet on cell organelles. Tomorrow ends the last marking period that will influence class ranking for the mighty seniors, and I am caught in the frenzy that buzzes around me while reminding myself of the fact that at this point it really doesn't matter.

I don't plan to drop everything in a fit of (late) rebellion, but really: I have a 3.9 grade point average. I've done my time. The state university I've chosen to attend in the fall isn't going to snub be for making, say, two Bs in the entirety of my high school career.

I honestly don't know what my grades are right now. I turn things in and study where appropriate and that has always been that.

I'm tired of worrying.

In math my friend John offers me a neon orange ring and pronounces us ring buddies, but not before singing me a rousing chorus of TSwift's Romeo and Juliet ("marry me Juliet, you never have to be alone...") and chiding me for shunning prom and failing to mention him in my blog.

It isn't that I haven't considered mentioning him here before. It's more that he will very definitely read this. It's more that I am terrible at friendship and, to a large extent, people.

He sings me love songs. He also happens to be gay. My life is interesting on occasion.

I feel it's relevant to note that I'm watching Tangled again, as I am a classy individual. I also received my senior pictures today, a few of which I will present you here because... I can? Vanity, thy name is Katherine.

As the (lovely, excellent, I would recommend her) photographer aptly called it upon our first meeting: "Usually it's the boys who are dragged" to have their portraits done. I was that exception, but the experience was fine once I got over nerves and the fact that someone was taking pictures of me (which, of course, is not at all an easy feat).

BOOKS.

To end on another irrelevant note, catlovingmathteacher continues to prove that math can be fun. Today, for instance, we were graced with the following gem: "I always like to put punctuation in; it's one of my favorite vegetables."

It doesn't make much sense in context, either.

I love teachers.

A mix of emotions.

"Are you a cannibal?" I overhear from somewhere behind me.

The girls from my first period class (there are a shocking total of three of us) are talking about something--an ex-boyfriend? his financial status? yard gnomes?--as we walk toward our next classes. We pass two girls in identical magenta jackets walking together and I wonder whether this was intended (it probably was, not that it matters, but these are the kinds of things I occupy myself with). The first of the girls I walk with is deposited at the entrance to another hallway where her maybe-maybe-not boyfriend (or else ex-boyfriend) waits for her. There is a harrowing tale I could tell here, but my main concern of late has been the fact that they spend a lot of time canoodling in front of my locker.

My locker is, in my unqualified opinion, a haven for shameless public displays of affection far across the land.

In advisory a girl sits between two boys as they peruse a prom magazine and discuss prom dates. I am almost certain two of the three are single until The Boy Who Asked Me To Sit There places a hand on the girl's waist and leaves it there.

They still might be single.

Sometimes I forget that I'm quiet. My thoughts are loud and occupy me well enough, so it isn't so lonely.

I watch people, their stories playing out before me, as I sit.

I want to be one of them in the sense that I want to be a part of something, but I find peace in the fact that--it just isn't my time yet. My adventure is only on the cusp of beginning, and I think for now it is okay not to be. I don't want what they have. I don't want drunken nights and a baby at sixteen and a life stuck in this tiny town. The voice telling me that I want any semblance of these things is simply a liar.

A pair of black Nikes sit on the desk of the boy next to me. Earbuds blast music I can hear from four feet away; his phone is well loved, scratches abounding, and sits next to his shiny black iPod. As I write he folds his arms on the desk and rests his head on them, temporarily muffling the music. He wears a maroon hoodie and has artfully styled his hair into what might be a faux-hawk if his hair were longer. He has a long, placid face and a mouthful of braces. For a second he mumble-sings a lyric off-key. The phone buzzes. My Physics class is a helter-skelter of conversation, and the teacher sips a large drink from a nearby fastfood place.

"I love you, sir," one of my peers informs the teacher, "no homo."

Two boys return from a search of the bathrooms; a classmate has been missing for fifteen minutes, ostensibly gone to relieve himself across the hall. "He wasn't in that bathroom," one of the boys says. "I think maybe he went to Ms. Reynaldo's." A pause. "Frank wanted to lie and say there was blood on the floor."

If this isn't a metaphor for the state of my education, I'm not certain what is.

No fewer than two girls are doing their makeup as catlovingmathteacher explains the problems we have been reviewing. The Boy With The Underpants hijacks a small tub of foundation and mimes applying it.

I wonder what kind of world this would be if we didn't feel pressured to fix ourselves.

I want to be me--not my eyelashes, complexion or, god forbid, waist size. And I don't want to lie, either, because the fact that boys have never paid me much heed does occasionally cause me to wonder whether I am really that outwardly unappealing.

But I am learning that there is merit in letting feelings be what they are with the knowledge that they are apt to be deceiving. My surroundings are not who I am.

At lunch my sister and I render crude drawings of our enemies and attack them with the remains of our hard plastic fruit containers. I enjoy it immensely as Dobbin looms behind us in the otherwise empty array of tables. I still find his voice in hallways. He still bothers me.

I don't know why it is that the news that Dobbin has managed to romantically entangled himself once more doesn't surprise me. Part of me wants to gag. Part of me is merely numb.

I deserve much more than this boy. Still he flits, vaguely peripheral, around me like some demented test.

I find myself too caught in the idea of how I'm supposed to be feeling to let myself truly feel things.

This too, I suppose, shall pass. So many other things have. They will.

10/22

"I'm sitting in Pre-Cal class," raps The Boy With The Underpants, "over here it smells like ass. But it's gonna go by real fast. Gettin' out my iPhone, checkin' my apps..."

A preliminary glance counts six phones hidden behind bags on desks and in laps as catlovingmathteacher goes over last week's quiz.

The boy to my right asks "Who're you writing to?" and I slam my notebook shut, saying no one, they're just words. Just words.

"Thank you for the help, Winston," says catlovingmathteacher.

"You're welcome, sir."

"I was being facetious."

A cowboy sitting on the other side of the room, the one who threatened to kill himself when his girlfriend (an acquaintance of mine) tried to break up with him last year and admits to being racist and I shy away from, interjects: "Hey, no big words!"

I have been feeling wordless recently, and it scares me. Words do not bubble up inside me. I'm supposed to have my college application essays written. I'm supposed to be figuring things out. I'm supposed to attempt NaNoWriMo again and apply to colleges and take the SAT again and hope last month's scores don't prove my idiocy as a human being.

I'm supposed to prove things with my words.

But my words feel cold.

The Boy With The Underpants, a tale

We've spoken on the topic of my English teacher before now. While somewhere in the depths of middle age, he gives off the air of a crusty old man and is somewhat of a fixture at my school. He is addressed by his first and last initials, which I find endlessly entertaining, and he has a smirk.

Surely you know what I mean by this. When certain humans purposely make scenes for his amusement he smirks, sticks a hand in his pocket and makes some suitable statement that both tells them off and contributes to the general hilarity of the situation. Hawaiian shirts are his stock and trade, despite the fact that he is not really a Hawaii kind of person. Or maybe he is. I am just making grand and beautiful assumptions here.

All of these things manage to contribute to a slightly creepy feeling about him. Last week, for instance, we were taking notes on The Inferno and, as he read aloud, he stopped-- "...they descended upon the Mount of Joy. Doesn't that sound like a great name for a porno, 'The Mount of Joy'?"

He's either really cool or really creepy. I've been a student of his since last year and the only thing I'm pretty sure of is the fact that I (and, indeed, the world) will probably never know.

Last year I took "Team Sports" for a semester. The class fluctuated from three to ten people and, due to size and the beautiful soul of our instructor, our only requirement was to keep moving. I fully admit, with great spasms of pride, that I took this opportunity to navigate laps around the gym while reading a book. The instructor was a burly guy with a partial beard and I liked him because I generally like teachers and also because I was allowed to read books during gym class.

I tell you, I have had best high school gym experience ever. I took my first semester of gym freshmen year (which now feels like a billion years ago), when I briefly lived in the magical land of Florida. Here we had the opposite problem; the space was so crowded with people that they simply did not want to wrangle us all into submission. Instead they gave us the option of shooting hoops or sitting on the floor of the gym and using the period as a study hall. I spent many an hour masterfully dodging basketballs launched at my face. Worth it.

The gods of gym class have smiled upon me.

My burly bearded gym teacher went AWOL around December and we were given Ye Old Initials' son, at that point a long-term substitute, as our replacement. I'm pretty sure people have decided to call him by his initials, too, which I'm sure thrills him to bits. My sources cite him as a colorless, gangly creature who gives the impression that he might be toppled over by the slightest breeze. On the converse, however, I know of at least one girl who daily giggled over his existence ("he's so hot!!!"). In any event, he would ask after my books and I would give vague answers from my spot on the bleachers, hoping against hope that he would not make me perform physical activities.

Remember VoldeTread? I haven't visited with him since I completed the journey that is Supersize Me and fell into a slight state of panic that I might die of deathness. This was about a month ago. School is a valid excuse, OKAY?

I managed to skate by over midterm exams by throwing a frisbee to myself. I haven't really seen him since then.

In my AP English class, turf of Ye Old Initials himself, we have managed to partition ourselves into three groups. The boys find themselves on one side of the class and the girls on the other, with a few girls breaking ranks and scattering out towards the middle. The boys, of which there are approximately five, feel it necessary to pull glorious pranks on Ye Old Initials. Yesterday, for instance, one particular boy left a pair of his boxers in Ye Old Initials' desk chair before class. Ye Old Initials was unfazed upon discovering them. He picked them up and tossed them onto the corner of his desk-- "These belong to anybody?"

The boys cracked up and the owner got up to collect his underpants (sky blue with steam engines, for those wondering).

I could make jokes here, but I definitely may have had a discussion on breast reductions and a Venezuelan woman who chopped her abusive husband's genitalia off with my groupmates a few minutes later. This may have happened.

But I would like to take this opportunity to go further into my long and illustrious relationship with the boy with the underpants.

The Boy With The Underpants is a wide-eyed, excitable human with whom I occasionally exchange words. In addition to making himself present in my English class, he sits next to me in math class.

It occurs to me now, in the frantic editing stage of this post, that this sounds exactly like the beginnings of The Dobbin Situation. Not happening.

In math class, home of catlovingmathteacher, he sits next to me and alternates between words of confusion and the phrase "this is cake" accompanied by a chuffed sigh and rolling of shoulders.

I made the mistake of calling him out on a personal tirade/guilt trip last week by noting that some people (namely me) do not actually have friends. He immediately contradicted his assurances of friendlessness by informing me that I was his friend.

"You're not my friend," I said.

"Come on," he said, "we talked on the first day of school, we're friends."

"I think we have contradicting views of friendship."

He handed me his phone as catlovingmathteacher explained a graphing problem, grinning at his own brilliance. With the skill of an everlasting ninja, I hid the phone behind my binder and noted that he had brought up the dictionary's definition of "friend."

Apparently we're friends now. Like I have any choice in the matter. Now he attempts to get me to shake his hand every time we meet and dramatically shouts "friend!" in my direction at strategic intervals.

I'm going to go with the idea that my denial is a character building activity for his benefit.

The guy has over six hundred friends on Facebook. Yes, I am a stalker.

When he isn't declaring Precalculus to be cake (duh!), The Boy With The Underpants spends his time in math class calling the girl who sits in front of him "baby girl" and trying to braid her hair. I was asked to teach him the great art of hair braiding at one juncture. He's improving, I'll give him that much. His greatest accomplishment in life (or at least the summer) was reenacting a horror film at midnight with his friends for the benefit of a group of girls who, after finishing with their shock, joined forces with them and helped them repeat the ordeal for another batch of humans. Judgment. He appears completely earnest, yet acts in a way that suggests he is a slimeball. Or maybe he's a teenage boy. Who knows?

Last week he and his fellow male humans hijacked tennis shirts from Ye Old Initials' back room and decided to model them. Grand ideas were painted for us--they would join Ye Old Initials' tennis team and take over the world. Ye Old Initials wasn't convinced, noting he had two freshmen who could easily take them on. Soon they were planning a take-down.

"If I win state," said The Boy With The Underpants, miming a tennis racket in his hand and readying for victory, "you have to persuade Sarah Johnson, with your mad serenading skills, to marry me."

"I thought you were going with Brady's sister."

"Her too!" he said, eyes bright and words tripping up on the way. "I'm marrying Sarah and taking Leeann to prom."

This was all fine and well and amusing to me until a few days ago, in math class, when he beckoned to the boy who sits behind me (a slimeball, I feel, but here I am Judging The World). "Oh my God," he said, "Sarah Johnson likes my status! She touched my status. I tell you, we're getting married, dude."

The beginnings of a love story if I ever heard one.

"I feel ready to stay up for, like, two days straight, man," he says, in English class this time, rubbing his face. "Like, Jesus, man."

Now the class is discussing Halloween and attempting to coax one of my groupmates into saying vulgar things in Spanish for them.

Now he says: "Ye Old Initials you should, you know, shave the sides of your head."

"Earl is naturally white, dude, I mean." The boys lift up the sleeve of a Mexican boy's t-shirt to reveal a farmer's tan.

"It'll get better in the winter," he says.

One can only hope.

My Peers, And The Wisdom They Share With The World

I do not understand my peers.

Really. I am confused by them half of the time, and the other half is spent annoyed at them. And okay, there is another piece of this pie that involves the times I find them hilarious.

You can't make this stuff up. Well, maybe you could. You probably possess these skills, but all I seem to come up with has to do with ninjas and glitter.

Which probably explains the fact that when I added a girl from school on Facebook last night she commented on a status regarding my creepiness with words of agreement, to think of it. I am going to go ahead and believe she was going along with my hilarity rather than commenting on my character and move on with my life.

I know I've mentioned this before, but I am taken aback by the number of teenage mothers at my school. And the thing is, I fully had a conversation regarding a peer's son and lackluster father yesterday. It was par for the course, or something. I'm just confused.

The bit of the conversation revolving around me lasted about thirty seconds and went somewhat like this.

"Are you dating anyone?"

"No."

"You don't text, do you?"

"haha, no."

"Are you talking to anyone?"

"No."

Are you talking to anyone? What does this even mean, friends? I can only draw lewd conclusions from this. Following this, the two girls I was sharing a group with began bemoaning the fact that they had been single for such vast amounts of time. Girl B dithered for a moment, saying "I've been single for four months! Oh wait, no... two... no, a month! Was it three weeks? No, a month, four weeks!"

This being said, they both seemed nice enough. I don't want to come off as if I hate them, because somehow I don't. This is merely an attempt to demonstrate my confusion and slight hilarity at the situations I find myself in.

(How am I doing?)

In fact, while I did some moaning of my own at having to do group work, the fact that they asked me to join their group at all was pretty nice of them. And, unlike a billion percent of my other encounters with the Great God Of Group Work, they did contribute to the assignment. Shock, I know.

I am somewhat of an oddity at my school, and not even for the Obvious Reasons (I'm creepy, remember? Represent!). The fact of the matter is that I was a sophomore last year and now I am magically a senior and quite several a few people have expressed confusion of their own. "Wait, weren't you a sophomore last year?"

It amuses me that anyone would notice me at all, but I digress.

I just wanted to say "but I digress" because this is a cool thing to do when you're a writer. Fact.

I am mystery woman (girl, person, human, ninja and glitter appreciator--pick your poison wisely, friends). Unfortunately, this also means I am vastly alone the majority of the time. Not that I'm complaining.

I am, actually. I hope you don't mind.

My math teacher has been mentioned here before. He likes to talk about his elderly-cat-named-Stubby, which I find endlessly amazing. For instance, upon explaining to us the fact that he would be collecting papers day by day rather than all on Friday, he graced us with the following words: "It's not like I have any plans over the weekend," he said, gesturing to the world with his wet erase pen, "I mean, I might wrestle with my cat or something, get the laser pin after her. She hates that thing, I think it hurts her eyes."

I wrote it down in my journal. (I'm not creepy I'm not creepy I swear it was the nearest thing to me at the time don't judge me!!!!!)

You really can judge me, actually. I will cry, but I figure I'll probably survive your Hatred And Roguish Attractive Quotient.

I don't even know.

But I have more wisdom! Here, have at it. Upon being accused of cruelty, my Cat Loving Math Teacher defended himself thusly: "I like everybody, I like the whole world. The only thing I don't like, the only thing I can't stand, is broccoli."

Our week one test involved a problem finding the circumference of a tin of asparagus. The same sentiment was duly expressed, right there on the test. I like this guy. It almost makes math class enjoyable.

Only not really. Math and I have never been on the best of terms.

My English teacher, ye old school fixture addressed by his initials, instructed us to outline our beliefs for him this week. Last year, upon learning he was teaching the granddaughter of one of his students, he immediately pulled out his phone to call his wife for lols.

I don't know why I'm using "lols" so much. I find it amusing. Pardon me.

On that note, I am somewhat under the impression that all of my teachers are divorced. It's like a puzzle. First period, divorced. Second period, has kids but no wedding ring. Third, divorced with cat. Fourth, probably not divorced. Fifth, Ye Old Initials, divorced and remarried. Sixth, divorced and remarried. Seventh and eighth I spend in the library, which adds at least two more divorces to my list.

I told you I'm a creeper.

I digress. But really, this blog is one huge digression or something. I'm pretty sure. I just say things, and sometimes they sound cool. Other times I press "PUBLISH POST" and ask myself what have I done.

You win some, you lose some.

As we conversed on the topic of belief (which somehow relates to Catch-22), we came to an argument over whether the earth is 9,000 years old or not.

"But there are 60,000 year old fossils or something, aren't there?" a peer questioned.

"Well," said Ye Old Initials, "the idea there is that 9,000 years ago fossils were created to look millions of years old."

"Who," said the peer, his tone a verbal rolling of eyes, "was bored 9,000 years ago, creating all these fossils?"

Lols.

Several minutes following this beautiful conversation we, AP English students that we are, attempted to wheedle Ye Old Initials into more points on our Frankenstein tests. One question involved the author, Mary Shelley, and whether her maiden name was Godwin or Wollstonecraft. Ye Old Initials would have none of the idea that Godwin was her maiden name. Her maiden name was Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin in the book's introduction, and we were all fighting tooth and nail for the right to have answered Godwin rather than Wollstonecraft.

"The girl takes the guy's last name, Ye Old Initials!" insisted the same peer, leaping up and gesturing to his book. "It's simple math!"

He gave us the points. I give you this verbose mess of a post. Mutualistic relationship, this.