I couldn't help but feel slightly betrayed.
It wasn't her fault, in her defense. She owed me no explanation. We were not really friends. We had spoken a few times, about general boring stuff.
Where'd she get her bag? I hadn't asked this question. I thought the bag was kind of plain, clearly vintage, but plain and boring. I hadn't thought it was cute, therefore didn't even bother to ask the question of where she got it.

Where'd you get this bag? Jessie had asked Ridley. I don't remember what Ridley's answer had been. I only half listen to what she says. But the conversation sways away from her boring bag and onto The Dave's Matthews band. Apparently it's her favorite. I listen to this part. I like Dave's Matthews, I know this. But I don't know any of his songs by title, I would only know them if they were played. So I sit and just listen to her and Jessie's conversation about it.

We had over the first week's period gathered together to the left side of the room, beside the large almost floor-to-ceiling windows. They were the old type, that where split into three sections horizontally. The middle part opening towards you, making it awkward to look out of it. But design of the window was beautiful, and it was the main reason n I had moved there. That, and that is where the left hand desks where. That, and that is where the pretty girls sat. But mostly, just because of the window.

Ridley had picked the spot first. In the very last row, in the third seat from the front. She had a rather plain face, slightly pouchy, with large eyes and odd short blond hair. I sat behind her, staring at her hair sketching it on the day's notes. It looked good only when she fixed it half up and half down. If it was all down it slightly resembled a mullet, but while it was half up she put the back portion of her hair in a stub-pony tail and let the long sides drape around her face. I like this. I did this with my hair, so clearly I liked the style.
Though, I remember thinking that if Ridley straightened the hair left loose…it would look better.
Her face was usually flushed, her mouth speaking quickly to explain the reason why.
I never listened even though I was the one that usually asked her.
She had a certain thing about her that people where drawn too. But she took forever with her stories.

What had happened to her legs? This I had asked Ridley myself. The other girls listened intently, curious though they had never dared to ask.
She looked at me, surprised by my question. She had worn shorts today with a plain v-neck cotton shirt. She had small boobs, the type I had. I don't mind, I prefer it actually. They won't sag and sometimes we can pull the Kate Hudson-not-wear-bra-because-they-are-small.
From thigh down, Ridley had spots.
Like chicken pocks but with little burn marks. Like cigarette burns.
It sounds disgusting, she had told me. I tilted my head saying nothing, my interest perked.
Why disgusting?
I had warts removed from my legs, she said. Her face slightly embarrassed. Only slightly. Like, if you were embarrassed that you farted, but didn't care because you felt relieved that it was out. Now you no longer had to deal with the uncomfortable pressure of keeping it inside. It smelled a bit? So what? You felt better.
Ridley had removed her moles. So what? She felt better.

It had been two weeks since that conversation. Two other girls had added to our side. Not be all clique-like, because it wasn't like that, but the pretty girls had all moved to our side. We weren't the average pretty girls that get picked out a party and sought after all night. We were the pretty girls with the unique hair, wore scarves in our hair, and had freckles. We were the originals.

I am judgmental. This, I was told, was my character flaw. If I could learn to tone this down, my father once told me, I would be happier.
I am happy, I responded.
He said nothing at first. I wasn't openly hateful, he knew this. I only told my retorts to the people who knew me best. If I told Jessie or Taylor that Ridley's hair would be prettier if she straightened the sides that framed her face, they would think I was just being mean. I wasn't mean. I was honest with my opinions. I did not think the things I thought to be hurtful to other people.
You need to learn to turn on your filtering system sometimes, he then said. Don't say what just comes to mind, besides some people are more than you think.
I believe you, I told him.

I had already judged everyone in that room which I'm sure my dad would disapprove of.
Example one is the Chinese girl. She wasn't Chinese. She was white, with some color of brown hair that was hidden by a cap. The cap, I remember now, was black with some boring slogan on it. She kept one ear plugged up with an earphone. For some reason one day, she had announced to the class that she was fluent in Chinese and she loved Chinese music. I didn't care, but if we were ever in a conversation I would already know what to say to her.

I have two fathers. Mike and Robert.
Robert had sex with my mother, boom, I was born nine months later.
Nine years later, however, Robert was gone. Then came Mike.
Eventually Mike became dad, and Robert was only a silly man who liked the title of dad.
Mike had married my mother, boom, we were a family. Robert was off somewhere, lost in his life while Mike showed me how to fill a humming bird feeder. I wouldn't tell her this just the next part.
Robert had married a Pilipino from Japan. This doesn't really work if you know what the map of the world and its continents look like. I had never met her. He had met her once. They unofficially met over an internet chat. Who knew people actually believed in internet dating? I didn't. I laughed to my mother and my dad, Mike, when I retold them the story Robert had told me over the phone. Robert had married this girl. I wasn't invited to the wedding. But I had received presents to help Robert's guilt. I had received a Japanese CD from a popular girl artist there whose name I couldn't say.
I don't speak Japanese. I realize that Robert only knows me from the fifteen minutes phone conversations we had monthly, but I was sure he knew that I didn't speak Japanese.
But I listened to this CD, and it wasn't bad. Eventually I could sing along with the entire CD. I could sing these Japanese songs that played number one in Japan.

It was this I could tell the Chinese girl if we ever spoke. I didn't know Japanese, but I knew these Japanese songs.
I had spoken to Robert in seven years. I had never spoken to his wife, who was my step-mother. I did not even know her name. If she had children from her previous marriage. Did she even have a previous marriage?
If I wasn't happy in my life, I suppose this would bother me. Having a father who didn't care, having a stepmother that didn't want to know me.
But I was happy in my life, and his new life wasn't a part of mine. Robert and his wife are one of those weird things that you find out about people and think "Hmmm, never would have guess".
You have a Pilipino-Japanese mother? Oh yeah, I do. How about that.
Where do they live? Good question. I had no idea.
Does this not bother you? I pout then respond, Not really. Should it?

But Chinese girl and I never spoke to each other. Many empty seats behind her was a boy named David. He looked like he would be a rebel. Not the "I hate my family" rebel, just the one who tried things just because he grew up being taught to stay away from them. His right eyebrow was pierced. He liked to wear plaid shorts.

"I like your shorts." Ridley had once told him three times. He didn't hear her the first two times. She followed him in the hallway then got his attention. They walked together until he left for his next class. I was people behind them, watching. They would be cute together, I told Katie. She, the sorority girl with the unique look. He, the rebel with not hard look. Katie asked me if she liked him. I didn't know.

The next time the class met, Ridley was late. Katie turned to me.

I wonder if she likes David, Katie said aloud. Jessie turned, curious. David once told the class about his mini motorcycle that he rode. Jessie had commented to him about it. I had never talked to David. If we did, I imagine we would talk about piercings.

I would say, how long have you had your piercing? He would respond.
Do you have any others? I would then proceed to ask. He would respond.
I have a piercing. I would confide to him. He would ask me where, I assume.

"I wonder if she likes David." Katie had asked that day that Ridley was late. Once she rushed in, leaning slightly forward with her heavy backpack, her boring purse slapping loudly against her pale cigarette burned legs. She dumped herself into the seat, her face red.

You and David would be cute together, I told her suddenly. She was sitting oddly in the seat, she looked at me awkwardly.
Why? She asked.
I shrugged.
I saw you guys walking the other day. You would be cute.
She shrugged off my opinion by throwing off her boring purse and pulling out her fiction book from her bloated backpack. Katie asked her if she liked him. Ridley didn't say much, she made the idea sound ridiculous though she didn't say much. Nothing negative. But the idea was dismissed from our thoughts.
I saw him at a party last weekend, she told me later. I couldn't imagine that David at one of Ridley's sorority parties. I didn't say anything back. That day our teacher read us story. The story had some erotica in it. I frowned the entire time, listening to this story with the weird sex scene, staring out the window.

I don't think I could write a sex scene in a story that would published. My parents would read this. My friends would read this. What would they think? Maybe, if you were a good enough writer they would not think of you writing this. Instead, they would think of the narrator. Good writers could write sex scenes that their parents would read and not think, "My child is a pervert".
I told all this to Taylor after we had discussed the issue in class. The teacher was big on discussing stuff like this. He loved to hear our opinions, and especially to Taylor's. She always had a different way to think about it, or she had noticed something in the text that the rest of us did not. I didn't usually pipe up during discussions so I waited until after to talk to Taylor about what I thought. Some girl butted in our conversation this day.

She was in a sorority, I knew this about her. I have never talked to her before, like most the people in the class. But I don't have fake conversation thought up with her.
I have questions for her, but I would never really ask them. If I did, I could hear my father marking them as rude. So I would continue to ask myself about them but never her.
Are you like a sixth black or something? Explanation: her hair looked thick and fried. Overuse of a straightener (maybe she should talk to Ridley sometime…) but it didn't look how most white people did.
Are do you do your hair life that? Explanation: it was unbelievably long. But it was cute how she did it. She never wore it down; instead she wore it in a formal ponytail. The crown of her hair was teased, I assume, but not pinned.
How did it stay? Explanation: Maybe it was the weird black part of her.

I don't remember what she said her name was. But every day I would peak at her hair during class. The teacher knew her as the girl that would always bring in drinks. Sonic, usually. But on the rough days, or rainy ones, she would buy coffee.

Other than her hair nothing really stood out about her. I never noticed her shoes or her clothes. I couldn't tell you how she dressed so I assume it's not that cute or different. She was pretty though. Sadly, I forget our conversation with her that day. That girl just wasn't memorable. Her hair was though.