by Jay Geeslin
Staring through the haze of shower-steam at my reflection in the cloudy mirror, I’m still not happy with my hair. Shooting a glance at the clock in the corner of the small, tiled restroom reveals the time to be 6:43; I’ve been messing with my still-damp mousy hair for almost ten minutes now, and I’m running out of time. Glancing once more at the clock, I freeze in debate for a few moments. Screw it; I roll my eyes and grab the hand towel, running it over my hair a few times. I pull open the cabinet on my right, and grab a pair of scissors. I have time.
Snip. Snip. Snip. “Shit,” I murmur, pulling my hand away. I cut a little too much off the right side, but it doesn’t really matter; I’ve already accepted that it’d be a mess either way, and it’s not like I cut off too much–it shouldn’t be noticeable.
After a few minutes, I throw the scissors back into the cabinet and leave the restroom, closing the door behind me. Stepping into my room, I grab my silver glasses, throw my black leather jacket over my white Serious Moonlight t-shirt, and sling my worn satchel, barely latched shut over the hundreds of papers crammed within, over my shoulder. Before leaving, I clip my Sony Walkman onto my belt, and drape the earbuds around my neck.
Passing through the kitchen, a piece of paper pinned to the refrigerator door catches my eye; I must have missed it when I was eating my breakfast earlier.
Rachel,
We have to work late shifts tonight, so you’ll be asleep by the time we get home. There are leftovers in the fridge.
Love, Mom and Dad
I sigh, and continue with my routine; they’re always working the “late shifts,” so this is nothing new. I’ve long since accepted that I’m a latchkey kid, but the leftovers are, at the very least, appreciated.
I’m out the door at 6:57.
The walk isn’t anything interesting. Being late November in northern Ohio, everything is cold, damp, and gray. The buildings are gray, the snow is gray, and the sky is gray. Trudging through roads covered in dirty snow, I eventually make my way to the bridge that crosses over a small river, connecting one suburban wasteland to another. Stopping halfway across the bridge, I pull a cigarette and a lighter out of my pockets. I light the end and take a deep breath of the smoke, before exhaling and sticking the lighter back in my pocket. I pull my earbuds out of my neck to place them over my ears and hit the play button on the Walkman, quickly drowning all other sounds with David Bowie’s Life on Mars?; I never get tired of it, which is a good thing, because it’s the only cassette I own. I take one last puff of the cigarette, and cross the rest of the bridge, dropping the cigarette and stamping it out with my foot along the way.
I eventually push my way through the double doors of the high school right as the song ends; the whirring of the cassette player fills the ensuing silence. I make my way through the crowded hallways of students who couldn’t care less about getting to their classes at all, let alone on time. I slip into my first period class and take my seat in the back left corner of the room, farthest from the door. Pulling the earbuds out of my ears, I shoot a glance at the clock mounted on the wall; it’s 7:10, exactly five minutes before class starts.
Four minutes later the door swings open to the sound of laughter, and in walks Claire DuBois along with her usual group of friends. I can’t help but roll my eyes at her perfectly cut bob and her neatly ironed sweater; she always looks so perfect.
As she takes her seat in the front row of the room, the clock changes and the bell rings. The teacher, a tired man with a dull and droning voice, rattles off his list of names for attendance. It’s really hard to find someone here that actually gives a shit about anything, save for Little Miss Valedictorian with her sweater and straight A’s.
I go through my next few classes on autopilot, ducking through hallways and taking my seats and doodling shitty cartoons in the margins of my nigh-illegible notes. At noon, we’re released for lunch and I make my way to the cafeteria.
After dropping my bag at a round and empty table, my own personal island amidst the sea of dirty windows and uncleaned tile floors, I grab a cheaply-made plastic tray and make my way to the line; they’re serving spaghetti today. A few people ahead of me is Claire, surrounded by her friends, loudly talking about something I couldn’t give a shit about. God, I see her everywhere. I stick the earbuds into my ears and hit play.
Life on Mars? again. As is the usual.
The lunch lady loads a heap of noodles onto my plate, before ladeling marinara sauce on top. I nod at her in acknowledgement, and make my way back to my table. I’m not really watching where I’m going; I’ve walked this exact same path so many times before, that I really don’t need to. I hum softly and quietly to myself, holding the tray with both of my hands. My island is across the sea, right in view, and I’m only a few steps away; the waters are just as clear as they’ve always been, and–
I’m ripped out of my trance as I’m knocked onto the ground by some unseen force, spaghetti and red sauce smearing onto the floor around me, onto my jeans, and onto my white t-shirt. The force of the fall knocks my Walkman loose, and the music is replaced by a familiar mechanical whirring. The whirring continues, the waves of sound exuding from my earbuds and
morphing into waves of color, filling the room like an explosion of paint. I’ve never noticed the faded blue of the tables, the chipped red of the lunch trays, the flaking off-white of the walls, or the myriad colors of clothing and people dotting the entire cafeteria, a torrent of sounds and visages flooding and swirling like a monsoon.
On the floor across from me is Claire DuBois, with not so much as a speck of red on her clothes. She’s staring at me, her blue eyes wide, and her brow furrowed apologetically. She’s looking at me.
“Oh my god, I’m sorry! Are you okay?” she asks, scrambling to her feet and grabbing a fistfull of napkins from the table next to us.
I don’t respond. I don’t really know why, but I’m completely frozen. I can’t so much as muster a word.
“I absolutely did not see you there, that’s entirely my fault.” She holds out her hand to me.
Finally, I’m able to move. I grab her hand, and she pulls me to my feet. She starts to frantically pat my shirt dry with the napkins, doing her best to wipe off as much red sauce as possible.
I still can’t speak.
“And it’s a white shirt too, I’m so sorry.” She pauses, tilting her head. “You know, I don’t think we’ve met before; some first impression I’m making, right?” She laughs, and extends a hand, this time for a handshake. “I’m Claire.”
I take a deep breath, and grab her hand. “Rachel. I sit in the back of your homeroom class, near the window.”
She squints at me. “Back of homeroom? Hm. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you before.”
I shrug. “Most don’t.” I shoot a glance down at my stained shirt. “I, uh… I should probably see if I can get this stain out.” I motion in the direction of the restroom. “Tap water and cheap paper towels should do the trick.”
“You sure about that?”
“No, not really; I’ll throw it in the wash when I get home, see what happens.” Claire takes a step back. “If you say so. Jeez, I feel terrible. If you can’t get the stain out, let me know; I might be able to try and get it out, or just get you a new one.” I wave my hand dismissively. “No need. I’ll live either way. Plus,” I add, pointing at the graphic on the shirt, “I seriously doubt you could find another one of these; it was a Bowie tour special. You’d have to pry one from someone’s cold, dead hands to get one yourself.” I feel myself recoil a bit; why on earth would I say that?
She smirks, and giggles to herself. “Sounds like a challenge. Well, let’s hope it’s not one I have to take. I’ll see you around.”
She waves, and steps around me to walk back towards wherever it is she’s sitting. With her departure, I let out a breath I hadn’t known I had been holding, and it feels as though a weight lifts from me. I instantly become aware of my surroundings, of the hundred other students in the cafeteria that hadn’t so much as batted an eye, and of my own burning face.
I open my Walkman and pop the cassette back into place. It whirs for a moment, and the music resumes. Quickly, I gather all of my things, cram them into my bag, and make my way to the restroom, ducking my head and pulling my jacket close.
The restroom is dirty. Unidentifiable grime is caked into the creases between the tiles of the walls and floor, and the mirror is stained. And now, in the middle of all those stains, is myself. I try to focus on my shirt–which is a lot more red than it should be–but my eyes can’t
help but drift upwards to my face. My hair looks like shit, my glasses are crooked, and my face is also a lot more red than it should be.
Why is my face red? Why was I not able to say a single thing to her? Why was I acting like a goddamn deer in headlights?
Claire’s never noticed me before; no one has. Why the hell should I care? And my shirt is a mess. I try dabbing wet paper towels on the stain, but it doesn’t do much. After a few minutes of this, I cut my losses, zip up my jacket, and resolve to throw my laundry in the wash tonight.
The rest of the day slips by, just as much of a slog as always. When the bell finally rings, resonating like a shrill scream that echoes through each hallway and room, I pack my things, step back outside into the cold, and trudge back home down the street, across the bridge, and through the gray neighborhood, stamping out yet another cigarette on the way home.
I don’t do much for the remainder of the evening, besides pulling off my stained shirt, throwing it in the washing machine, and microwaving a tupperware of day-old leftovers. After moving my laundry to the dryer, I wait about an hour to see if I can catch my parents before going to bed.
My parents never come home, and I decide that I’ll just grab the laundry in the morning. Today was weird, and I want to go to bed.
Jay is a college student majoring in Biology and minoring in Creative Writing. He's never been published before, and despite spending much of his time doing lab research, he still enjoys writing as a creative pastime.