While I was gone, throwing up my insides into a toilet, David had apparently become a challenge.
Ridley versus Colleen.
Whose Colleen?
Katie sighed. Why do you not remember her? We talk about her sometimes.
My expression did not change, and Katie just merely looked back at Ridley, David and this Colleen girl.
Oh.
The girl with the cute hair, with formal ponytail girl, the is-she-black girl, the Sonic drink girl to the teacher.
She's pretty, I say.
Jessie rolls her eyes. I guess I have said this before.
I then say, It's not my fault she doesn't have enough of a personality for me to remember her name. Jessie frowns. I guess I forgot to filter that time. Katie shrugs, not caring. Taylor ignores this conversation as well.

I peer at the back left side of the room. Closest to me sits Colleen, with her cute hair, wearing large pearl earrings.
I hate those earrings. They're too big.
It reminds me of when old ladies wear large earrings and their ears sag.
I want to ask, does it hurt to where those?
I don't ask. Filtering.

She has her hand on David's arm. They are talking and he's laughing.
He's not that cute. He's not ugly, but he's nothing too special.
Ridley is on the other side of David; mouth pressed together, her arms crossed.
She's staring straight ahead, clearly fuming. Who knew she's have competition for that boy?
I guess I said this aloud because Jessie replies she would never go for him.
No? I say.
No. I like athletic guys, she says. Jessie was one of those cute girls without trying. She never really wore cute clothes that you'd go buy. She wore the large shirts, fitted hoodies and shorts and just looked cute. She's the refreshing old fashioned cute. The cute without trying.
Boo, I hate those girls. But, I do not hate Jessie.

I think David skateboards or something, I say.
Oh yeah…she pauses. He rides that motorbike or something right?
Sure, I say not quite remembering.
Katie pipes up and retells the story. We were suppose to write poems, about a noun, an object, specifically not a person.
We need concrete! I remember the teacher repounding into our heads. Everyone writes about people as characters. Imagine objects as a character. Some boring girl piped up and over talked with questions. The teacher interrupted her and used the example of the Amityville Horror.
Was the house not a character? He asked. Good point, I remember thinking. Then he and Taylor engaged in a conversation that the class sat silent to hear. I didn't pay attention.

He had used his motorbike for his object, Katie told us.
Oh.
Katie, then I rememberd, used shoes. How she took them with us everywhere, how they witness our most precious memories but we just toss them like trash once they're too worn.
Her title had been the words shoes in French.
Ridley, I remembered, had used her car. I don't remember what kind of car. Her paper was headed with the large words SLOAN.
What is Sloan? I ask. Sloan reminds me of Sydney's back stabbing boss from Alias. I didn't really like that show, it was so confusing. But Jennifer Gardner kicked ass.

Ridley had replied with her kind of car. I nod my head.
I didn't know anything about cars. I didn't like her poem, but I didn't tell Ridley so. Filtering.

For that particular assignment Katie and Ridley had been in my group.
I hate poetry. I am terrible at it.
Apparently they both loved my poem. This pleased me.
My high school English teacher had openly disliked my way of poetry. I could not write about serious stuff when I wrote poetry so instead I wrote it from a sarcastic point of view.

The first poetry assignment of my senior year in high school I had written with my best friend, Elliot. Elliot didn't like English or writing. So she was completely on board with our "love" idea of a poem. Ms. Smith our English teacher nearly choked when we read our poem aloud.
It was a love story being told from the point of view of a man in a prison. He was a high school teacher who had an affair with a student. Apparently, the student was loose and she moved on. He was upset and reckless and he was caught. Then, placed in prison to rot and think about is love for this teenage girl who never wrote or visited him.
The class laughed, we got a good grade on the assignment but Ms. Smith frowned at us.
This was not what I meant by a sorrowful love poem girls, she had said. She advised the class that no others should be like ours. There's weren't.

Ridley and Katie had loved my different approach to poetry.
I had written the poem from a stranger's point of view. Trying to win over a man from a slutty girl.
Yes, apparently in writing I couldn't keep sleazy girls out of it.
It was a synonmyn in the end. The man had to choose between the two.
The stranger who represented contacts and the slut, girl that everyone already had, was suppose to be glasses.
They thought it was clever. I like compliments.
Ridley wrote about her weird car. David wrote about his little mini bike. I wonder what Colleen wrote about.
I asked Katie this, she didn't know. She told me to ask her.
The assignment was from two weeks ago or so. It seemed irrelevant now.

Have you ever gotten your hair straightened? I asked him one day, weeks later.

Actually I have, said David. I smiled; I love when guys straighten their hair.

Though now, David could no longer straighten his hair. He had shaved his head over the weekend, the buzz cut look. I turned around pulling out my binder.

Hey you never said if you liked it or not, David said to me.

It was now that I realized that maybe he didn't know my name. This always annoyed me, if I knew their name and they didn't know mine. But thinking about this also reminded me I wasn't completely sure his name was David…it could be Steven. But it was either of those names, because there were only three boys in the class. Who knows what the third boy's name was.

I turned, he was smiling.

I actually don't remember what it looked like before, I laughed telling him. His eyebrows drew together as he tilted his head, confused.

It's just a weird thing once I see someone's hair is cut I know they got it cut but I can't remember what it looked like before, I muttered.

Oh, ok. He nodded and shrugged. Ridley then spoke up confidently, clearly liking it.

The class we talked about writing horror and the difficulties of it. The teacher mentioned that writing fantasy and love would be harder because it's difficult not to come off cliché. I pouted out my lips, taking notes as he talked but dazed out the window watching random bikers' swerve around parked cars. The class ended with him doing a madlib.

I grabbed my bag and headed for the door.

Hey wait!

I turned.

David, I said. Jesus I hoped that was his name.

Yeah, he said. He looked weird. Maybe he was sick. He opened his mouth but Ridley caught up to him smiling.

Ready to walk? She asked him. I didn't know what this meant so I ignored it and turned back to David.

Uh, thanks for noticing.

I don't understand, I replied to him.

The hair, he said not paying attention to Ridley. She was distracting me. Like a dog that's worried its master is leaving so it gets all clingy. Ridley could be a dog's name. I would name my dog that. That or Scotty. Wait if I had a dog named Scotty I would spell it i-e rather than with a y. Scottie is much better.

Hey wait!

Jesus Christ who now? It was Katie. Ridley pulled David away.

What was that about? She asked. I didn't know.

I don't know, I answered.

Oh, she said. She sounded disappointed. Maybe I should've made up something.

He asked me to sex him up in the empty classroom.

He admitted to me we have the same father.

He wants to commit incest.

She said something then paused and finally, Do you? She said. I guess I couldn't say any of it now, moment passed. It wasn't that clever anyways. What had she said? I couldn't remember…Jesus I'm awful with social situations.

Sorry what? I answered.

I asked if you didn't mind walking me to the bus, Katie said slightly irritated.

Oh sorry no, I road my bike today. I smiled and quickly slipped off into the other direction.

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a/n: yeah, i know i make lots of grammar mistakes, weird commas, and all this.

oh well, i dont really like editing. sorry. so hopefully you like the story enough to put up with it.