Lessons from Absurdity
Alexander Alan Brown's P.O.V.:
9th Grade, English Class:
Mrs. Ingersson stares at me funny when I walk into her class before smiling. "What made you dress up for class today, hm?" By dressed up, she's clearly referring to my beautiful super villain costume of boxer shorts and tights as well as my bright fucking yellow t-shirt insulting the intelligence of those around me. She's used to seeing me in my black lace gloves however, so I shake up my look a bit by stroking the head of my Dracula-faced rubber duck in her general direction.
I tilt my head back and give a laugh. "Count Duckula and I are here to conquer English class. Mwahaha!"
My friend, Al, swats my back and laughs hysterically as a boy named Addison Milton gives me a stare from over his Jesus Christ bling. I stick out my tongue and wiggle my fingers at him before laughing evilly again. "Lex," Al says, "You look bitchin'."
"Feh, I always look bitchin'. Where's Tash? He sick today?"
"Just late getting back from band," Al says. "J's making him do a solo. He'll be here soon."
Al hands me our notebook that we pass notes back and I flip open to the last entry to read something about getting a character pregnant before strutting up and down the classroom "aisles" to demonstrate my wonderful look. I wag what's actually a cat tail from my butt at Addison before catching sight of someone I've never seen before.
He's kind of effeminate, what with the long brown hair, and glasses on his nose are tilted down to emphasize both the radiation of "I am ignoring your awesome" and "I am trying to read my god damn shitty vampire novel." Oh. I totally have this introduction in the bag. I got this bitch. I refuse to have my awesome ignored.
I flop my ass down onto his desk and begin manically laughing again. "Anne Rice, huh? I've been meaning to read those." He looks down at the cover of the book, but, a second later, he's buried back into it again. Strike one. "You wanna pet my duck? I promise, Count Duckula von't bite… hard. I might though."
This merits me another stare, but he looks intensely annoyed. "The book's not very good. I'm just reading it anyways." He stares at the duck a moment then my face. "And no, I don't think I want to pet the duck."
"Aw, but he likes you," I draw out, shaking the duck in his face. He just gives me a look.
The bell goes off for class to start and Mrs. Ingersson informs everyone in the class to take their proper seats, directly looking at me and a few chatty girls. I shrug and smile at him. I'll be back, damn it. "Maybe you can pet him another time. If you're not scared that is," I say as I hop up. He glares at the spot on the desk I was sitting on without granting me another word before I make it back to my desk.
Oh well, I have role-playing to do. Now what was that about a character getting pregnant? Hoes.
Kane Elliot Stone's P.O.V.:
9th Grade, Drama Try-Outs for Oliver Twist:
I kind of want to try out, but then again I kind of don't want to be here at all. I don't know anyone here, and there are video games at home I could be playing if I wasn't here. I vaguely wonder why I'm still sitting in the circular theater at school since school has already let out, hoping no one decides to sit by me. I'm currently watching the president of the club, a junior who bears a striking resemblance to Jesus, explain what they're looking for. I drum my fingers idly on the cover of the Anne Rice book I checked out from the library, with which I'm developing a keen state of annoyance about. She's not a very good writer. At all.
Another older member, a boy with a brown afro I think everyone else has referred to so far as Twig for some reason, chimes into the discussion as he begins to at random change his pants on the stage. He's saying something about how freshman shouldn't worry about much, because they're honestly rarely accepted into productions as freshman. Wonderful. Another reason I'm wasting my time here and it had to be told to me by a kid who is half in bright god damn yellow Dr. Seuss pants. Of course, he doesn't look that out of place because there is a boy wearing a bright fucking yellow shirt and cat ears on his head sitting a few rows down with his nose in a play book. I sigh; what am I doing here? What made me think that trying out to sing in front of a bunch of idiots for three nights was something I wanted to do?
When Twig's Cat in the Hat pants are fully on, the Jesus kid president goes on to say that they have to wait before actually starting the tryouts because the vice president of the club had to stay over at soccer practice. They then call everyone who wants to participate down for improv comedy to pass the time. The seats around me empty out a little and I stay firmly where I am. There's no way I'm going up there and making an ass out of myself.
I should just get up and call for a ride now. I go to get up when I hear the improv's theme declared as pick up lines. The drama members and hopefuls get into a line, starting to rattle them off as they get to the front of the line.
"I may not be Barney Rubble, but I could make your bed rock," declares the boy in cat ears, snapping his fingers and pointing at the audience. I blink, realizing he's the same kid who sat on my desk in English class today who asked me if I wanted to pet his duck. Long hair frames his face leading to short spikes at the back of his head, but it's the color of his dyed hair that remind vaguely me that I've seen him before his ass was on my desk. Those red striped bangs and blue-black hair belong to the patch of black on the other side of Mrs. Ingersson's class. Who knew he was so annoying?
The lines just keep getting worse and I finally decided that I really don't care to be in the fall musical. I know I won't try out; I won't get up in front of people completely unprepared as a lowly freshman and attempt it. There's no reason to do it.
That's it. I'm just going to go. I hate pick up lines.
Alexander Alan Stone's P.O.V.:
9th Grade Gym Class:
I beat the back of my head against the bleachers as I sit with Mike and Tash. Tash is writing in our notebook, and Mike is attempting to draw boobs but sucking horribly so I take his paper and draw to circles as breasts on a stick figure. "Mike," I mumble handing it back as he stares at the stick figure and starts drawing hair on it. "I'm bored."
"I'm trying to draw one of my female characters, but I can't draw boobs."
"Fag," I mumble at him, putting my hands behind my head.
"Feh, bitch," he mumbles back.
"If anyone's the bitch here, Mike, it's you and you're definitely my bitch, thanks," I retort, earning a bizarre girl-ish laugh from Tash.
His face scrunches up in disgust at the though before I slap him in his overexposed leg thanks to the tight blue shorts we have to wear. "Play basketball with me. We have to play sports sometime in the class if I want to maintain my A."
Mike stares at me. "How do you even have an A? You do the same as us."
"Yeah, but I don't log that I do the same as you. I pretend I run the entire god damn time. Now get up and play basketball. I want a round of Around the World, got it, bitch?" I demand from him. He narrows his eyes and gets up, mumbling something under his breath. "Go run and grab a basketball," I snap at him and he sighs and takes off to go get one as I stand beneath a basket proclaiming it as my own. My sheer presence makes people shy away from it. Sometimes I wonder if I'm really as feared as I think I am or people just think I'm nuts. Or I smell bad. I don't think I smell bad. I lift up my arm and take a waft from my pits. Eh. I smell like sweat but I'm in a thick cotton shirt after running laps in gym class. That's going to happen.
Mike gets back and tosses me the ball, and Tash joins us having probably just finished writing the newest adventures of Reflection, his annoying ass character.
Not even three moves in the game with me actually fucking leading so god damn far, I jump a little to make a cocky move and end up falling down to the gym floor with my foot jutting out at an awkward angle. When I try and stand, I suddenly let out a scream and Mike grabs me and holds me up. The Chinese gym teacher rushes over to see how I am and then rushes me to the nurses office with me leaning on Mike the entire way, telling myself I refuse to cry.
I only start crying when I'm left to myself after the nurse and a few teachers inform me that my injure will keep me from filling my part in the production of Oliver and doing my song and dance. Needless to say, I'm worthless for the next few weeks. Great.
Kane Elliot Stone's P.O.V.:
9th grade, Geography Class
"What the hell? Look at that," my friend Kristopher says, pointing at the tornado documentary movie the substitute teacher is playing for the class. I look up from scribbling in my notebook the threads of an idea for a story and can't help but stare. On the screen at the moment is the close up of a map and a car window, with a location subtitle underneath that reads 'somewhere under a hailstorm in the Texas panhandle.'
"Now that's ascientific location," I remark and we both start laughing from our seats at the back of the class. Kristopher's the first person I've really gotten along with since I started school here. He's completely my opposite, but I guess it's amazing what kind of people you can meet when you lend them a pencil.
Our snide remarks about the quality of the movie makes us more involved with what's supposed to be going on in class today than anyone else anyway. Everyone else seems to be using the sub's presence opportunity to take a nap, not that sleeping is an uncommon habit in World Geography. Despite my efforts to stay awake, I've found myself waking up more than once to discover that only about five members of the class weren't doing the same.
"So," Kristopher says as he ignores the bad educational film again, "How do you feel about our wonderful school, Kane?"
"Personally?" I ask, smiling a little. "I'm just glad that I can walk down the hallway and no one knows or cares who I am."
The grumpy old woman babysitting the class walks by us and shushes us, so I watch as Kristopher takes out a piece of paper and starts to doodle on it, a habit started by the mind numbing boredom of this class. He'll hand it to me in a minute or two for me to add something, and we'll go back and forth.
I tap my pencil on my notebook, smiling. I grew up in a small town, so I'd gone to school with the same people my entire life up to this year. Everyone knew who I was, what I was like. I appreciate the anonymity moving gave me. I'm perfectly content with blending into the background and going about my life.
Alexander Alan Brown's P.O.V.:
9th Grade English Class:
"Hey you," I say while Mrs. Ingersson has given us time to find partners. I hate partner projects on days when my friends are gone. Gah, stupid marching band trips cause me the pain of actually finding someone else willing to communicate with me. Thankfully, there's the long haired boy that usually sits over here all alone for me to bother. He'll probably be thankful to get a partner so easy, if I can get him as a partner. "Want to work with me? I'm really good at understanding Shakespeare." For good measure, I prod him in the shoulder. I'd plop down on his desk but it's nicely guarding against me with a pile of manga and a thick notebook.
He closes his notebook, specifically covering some chicken scratch writing looks me in the face. "Yeah. At least I won't have to teach you."
"Bitchin'," I comment before snagging an empty desk next to him and moving it over. "So what are we doing today?"
He blinks at me and stares. "We're supposed to translate Mercutio's rant to Romeo into modern English."
"Peh, that's easy. You write down a line, I'll write down a line?"
He opens his book to a distinctly different page and nods. "Yeah, sure."
"So, manga, huh?"
He looks at the textbook for the first line without particularly registering me except verbally. "Yep. Lending them to a friend of mine."
"Yeah, that happens."
I sigh and watch him write down his line, taking the paper next and beginning my own translation, which is really awkward given as he's talking about a nightmare fairy for most of the rant. I hate bullshit assignments. "So…"
"So what?" he snaps, and I blink a little in his general direction. Can he be any more direct in the "I'm an ass" department? I've dealt with dickheads before. I refuse to not be this person's friend. He needs it, and he's damn well going to like me because I say so.
"Nothing, really… At all." I hand the paper back over and sigh. I'm bored. "So what's your name anyways?"
He looks over the paper, nods, and begins on his line. "Kane."
"I'm Alex. People call me Lex."
"Okay, Alex," Kane says handing the paper back. I stare at him. I just told him I'm called Lex. Maybe he's one of those weird people that thinks nicknames are only for friends. Meh.
"You know, people don't call me Alex."
"You have a full name. I'm going to use it," Kane responds promptly, setting the paper back in front of me.
I pause the conversation to write my line and then hand it back. "Well, Alex isn't my full name. My full name is Alexander."
Kane smirks. "Okay, Alexander."
I stare at him a bit and feel my eye twitch, resigning myself that this person is apparently also pretty stubborn. "Okay, Kane. Okay."
Kane looks at the book and for once begins talking unprompted. "You think we have to write down every line if everything he's saying is basically the same thing?"
"Yup. Shakespeare was repetitive, and while his stories suck, that also means we English kids are repetitive."
Kane just shrugs and continues onward, and I decide to back down from conversation at this point. He's made himself quite clear that he doesn't want to talk, and I decide to allow him some space. I'll snag his attention eventually. I have full confidence in that.