There are people looking at me. I see this when I look up and catch their eyes. I don’t know why they’re staring at me, and I don’t know what I did. But they’re looking at me, and not at her. The girl behind me cries a lot—almost daily. We sit in the back of the class where I feel like a shield to protect her from glances. I’m good at my job because people always look at me, and not at her. Sometimes they smile and let it break into a laugh. She doesn’t laugh at me, but maybe she should to help stop her tears. Everyone else already seems to. I don’t get it, so I don’t try to. I catch the word “spaz” coming off of one of the other students’ lips when he looks over at me. Next to him a girl does something like shush him, and she leans in to whisper something. She doesn’t turn her head or cover her mouth, so I can find the word “spectrum” in the sentence she says, but she’s looking at me now and I’m tired of looking at them. I’m tired of guessing what people mean, so I turn away. Pencil scratches paper behind me, and I know the girl is drawing. I can only imagine what she’s drawing, but I know it’ll be very good. All her art is. I want to turn and peak at it, but I don’t want to distract her, so I close my eyes and listen. I let the pencil and paper sounds find their way into my mind and let them sketch a picture of my own. All I can see is her though, in strong lines and definition. Her picture remains a mystery, but I’ll ask her about it.
(Today I tried to talk to her.)
When class ends, I catch her teary eyes. Forcing herself not to cry, I see the tears being fought away like watercolor paint’s travels being blocked by pastel. Outside the classroom I walk left, she walks right, but today I walk right too. I follow a few steps behind her…
…I don’t want to interrupt her…
…I am being invasive and turn away. She gets lost in the crowd as she continues walking the other way.
At night I try to make art. Instead I only make a mess. She’s in my head, distracting me. I cannot focus, so I think about her. She’s pretty and her drawings are pretty too. I have seen her art; it’s stylized and lovely. Gothic tones and gritty brushstrokes make the pages come alive. Once I stole a glance at a really nice picture. A leg outlined in the top center. Precise details, but aspects make it appear as though it was done quickly, just not so quickly it looked rushed. It isn’t rushed—it’s done with care. I can tell this. There were two cuts on it, showing the openness of the body inside, but it was all black with stars. The cuts were outlined red. Blood ran down the leg and created a backdrop for space with planets drawn with fine, refined, and sharp lines. The background: black. In the corner an alien exposed. He almost made me laugh. In class I had stifled a giggle, but she looked at me, seeming sullen suddenly. I think she thought I was laughing at her drawing. I told her I wasn’t.
I told her, “I like it.”
She smiles and inquires, “You do?” Her smile breaks wider. “What do you like?”
“I like your picture,” and I turn back around.
I want to talk to her about that picture now. I need to know about all the details and study it until I memorize it… I will ask her about it tomorrow.
(Tomorrow has come.)
I want to be here at school today, because all of last evening I was rehearsing in my head what I could say to her. It finally seems like I could make a friend, so I had to practice what to say. I want it to go perfectly, and I want her to want to talk to me. I want to tell her a memory of a time I learned of aliens, and how the little alien she drew reminded me of it. The story goes like this:
It’s three am one morning and outside it’s chilly. But the sky is clear, and the air isn’t cold enough to burn my lunges so I’m sitting outside on my roof gazing up at the stars. Some nights I can’t seem to fall asleep, so I come up here and think about our galaxies. Even when I’m sitting here and still, those galaxies and the worlds within them keep moving. They never stop like us. I’m sitting here, and I notice a bluish hue in the sky. I focus on it, and it travels nearer to me. Engulfing blue lights fly over my house very low, and my entire backyard lights up like daylight. The light fly’s past and disappears, but not a second later a wave of energy shakes my entire house. I stay still for a moment before I go back inside.
I want to tell her this story now, about how there really could be aliens and I want to ask her what she thinks of them. And I want to laugh with her about how silly Martians would think us to be. I didn’t realize it until last night, but I think I’m longing to be included in someone’s laughter. It’s this desire that pushes me to find her and talk to her. I push quickly through the halls until I get to the front lobby where I notice a table is set up. I see her art on it. I think of her. I want to look at the picture but I can already imagine it visibly. I hate crowds; I jog away to class. She isn’t here. I wait. She doesn’t show up. I don’t know why she isn’t here; I want to know where she is. I am shaking my hands in anticipation of her coming.
She does not come.
I don’t go to my next class and I opt instead to go to attendance and ask if she’s here. Perhaps they will tell me.
I pass the display I passed earlier, and I see the drawing there. Students are teary eyed… maybe her art is just that good.
(I stop and stare)
Why does it look like an apology set up for someone passing away? My eyes pass over the board and I see her photograph. She is smiling a beautiful smile...
No— absolutely not.
…she must’ve moved to Colorado.
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