“How was the film class? Do you just sit around and watch movies?” Janina is in the career program at our school, so she goes to regular high school in the morning and buses to a different campus for cosmetology classes in the afternoons. If not for Janina, I would still have the crooked bob I cut myself in junior high. I thought it looked edgy. Janina thought it made me look “like Vanessa Hudgens playing a runaway teen.”
“Too early to tell. I spent most of the class not talking to a guy next to me who very possibly wanted to learn my name. It was confusing. I just want an A after my grade crash last year.” I slam my locker and spin the dial. This year my locker dial is particularly fluid, which I appreciate much more than last year’s sticky spinner. It is far more satisfying to watch the numbers fly by than to have them stop shy of my combination
“That sounds promising. Was he cute?” Janina, having blossomed as she has, is light years ahead of me in the boy department. While she goes out and does sexy things with actual people, I find I’m more comfortable having fake dates in my head with Bill Weasley.
“Maybe? I barely got a look at him. I mostly heard his voice. His appealingly deep voice.”
“I prefer talkers to the silent types. We’re supposed to think there’s something mysterious when a guy doesn’t talk, but I think it just means he’s a dumbass.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” I file this away in the “Things I Will Never Need to Know Because I Will Never Be Asked on a Date Anyway” drawer. “I better get going,” I tell Janina. “I can’t be late for gym again this week. I tried to get Mr. Person to let me drop it, but he gave me some statewide mandate bullshit.”
“Catch you later.” Janina floats off, and I hit the gym locker room precisely as the bell rings. “I’m here!” I scream to Ms. Conway, my beleaguered gym teacher.
“You’re lucky!” Ms. Conway replies from her office.
I quickly shrug off my clothes and dress in my gym uniform: rough green shorts and a worn green t-shirt. Inside my locker is a travel-sized deodorant stick, and I rub on an extra layer. Today is running day, my favorite gym day of the week, because all I have to do is shuffle my way around the track while the conglomerate of gym teachers blasts “motivational” running music. It beats the volleyball unit, where Megan Thickpenny’s main goal is to hit me in the head with her serve just because I did that to her one time. And it’s not like I meant to (on a conscious level).
Before I start my run on the track, I lean against the cinder-block wall and stretch my calves. If I were a serious runner, I would probably change into shoes without tape holding parts of them together. But in my opinion, serious running isn’t something one should aspire to in PE.
Ridiculously loud bass pumps through ancient, crackling speakers while the gym teachers ignore their students and pretend they are in da club. I wouldn’t be surprised if that wasn’t Gatorade in their sports bottles.
I keep to the slow lane, jogging behind two speed walkers.
And then I notice him. It’s that guy from my film class. At least I think it’s him. Sometimes it’s hard to recognize people in this sea of green polyester. He’s one lane over, the lane that says, “I’m not trying, but I’m kind of fit,” jogging with a friend. I slow down so as not to pass him, which I shouldn’t be doing anyway by lane protocol. He speeds away, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I’m still wary about why he would even want to know my name. I find my jogging groove, and as I run I pretend I’m on the Hogwarts track, prepping for my role in the Triwizard Tournament. (In this scenario, I am the Hufflepuff representative, and I do not die.) I’m feeling good, endorphins kicking in, fantasy in full effect, when I see the guy from film class pass me in the next lane. He turns around to look at me, and I’m certain it’s him. That’s when he trips over his friend and slams into the track. So much for my Triwizard Cup.
Dmitri
When I was eleven, my parents took Nicky and me to the Valleyfair theme park in Shakopee. They’ve got roller coasters and log flumes and these pretty cool animatronic dinosaurs. Nicky hated roller coasters back then—actually, he still hates them—so my parents left me alone on the line at the Excalibur, an old-style wooden coaster, while they took him to some tamer rides. The real thrill of the Excalibur wasn’t the twists and turns, it was not knowing if the whole thing’s imminent collapse was going to happen while you were on it.
When the ride finished (still intact), I didn’t see my parents anywhere. So, on my mother’s very strict instructions, which were more or less yelled at me—“We not here, you go straight from roller coaster to bumpy car ride. No talking strangers!”—I walked to the “bumpy” cars. On the way, I couldn’t help but notice this gaggle of girls about my age sitting on benches and looking at their phones.
This was sixth grade, which meant that all of a sudden there were girls in the world. I mean, I noticed there were girls before the sixth grade, but not noticed noticed. (Girls had started noticing boys in the second grade. Go figure.)
Anyway, there was this gaggle of girls in short shorts and bikini tops—a lot of Valleyfair is a water park—and one of them looked up from her phone and stared at me. I’m not the best-looking boy, but I’m not the worst, either. This girl and I held each other’s gaze, and, not knowing what else to do, I gave a small wave of my hand. Only I hadn’t stopped moving while this was going on, and I walked directly into a light post.
It was a full-on, face-first collision—me and the light post—and it knocked me back on my ass. Hard.
The entire gaggle erupted into laughter, like doubled-over, crying laughter. There was nothing for me to do but get up, smile, and bow, as if I had planned the whole thing. (I hadn’t.) Then I turned and continued to the bumper cars, my cheeks red, my dignity left in tatters at the base of that pole. It was the most embarrassing thing that had ever happened to me.
Until today.
For the most part, I don’t like gym class. Let’s face it, most rockers are drawn to music because we’re not good at sports. Running day in PE is the only one I sort of like. You run. That’s it. No rope climbing, no volleyball serves, no having to catch things.
Karl Bloomfield and I started a light jog to warm up, and after a lap we both hit the gas, kind of egging each other on. We’ve been friends since the fourth grade, when Karl moved here from Arizona. The dude still hasn’t gotten used to the cold weather. While the rest of us wore shorts and t-shirts, Karl opted for the school’s green sweats and hoodie. And we’re indoors.
It felt good to run. The strain of my leg muscles and the rhythm and meter of my normally uncoordinated body working together remind me a lot of drumming. It makes me think I should try out for the track team. (Not really.)
I’d just started my third lap when I saw her. Eliana. The girl who wouldn’t talk to me in film class.
Anyway, it didn’t register that it was really her until I ran past her—she was in the jogging lane—so I turned around to make sure it was her, and just as her eyes were going wide when she saw me staring …
WHAM!
Karl and I were hitting the turn when I looked back over my shoulder. With my attention behind me, I kept going straight; I veered off my path and ran right into Karl.