The Yellow Umbrella

Chapter Five: Flour Father of the Year

"So, are we having a boy or a girl?" Mr. Darbs, the health teacher, barked.

Handing Ricky a set of dice, she shook them with her toned arms, and let them roll on my desk.

"Even number. Girl." She answered.

"Good. Jake couldn't handle a boy." Mr. Darbs teased.

Mr. Darbs was quite possibly one of the biggest mysteries in the world to me. He was this tower of a man who said everything in his outside voice, and called his students losers if they didn't beat the other gym class (we never did). But then some days he would show us baby pictures or talk about cuddling up with his dog between laps (we ran laps as punishment for being losers).

I rolled my eyes and turned back to my computer. While the rest of the class was putting together their flour babies for the senior health project, I was working on my college applications. To my dismay, the same question was still unanswered on all my applications: Why do you want to attend our school? Why do you want to pursue a BFA in film? Why why why?

I had about twelve pages of general ideas.

I skimmed till I reached page seven; lie about yourself to make the admissions boards like you more! I liked that one about as much as I liked telling the truth about my boring self. I literally brought nothing to the table other than good grades. Grades meant nothing if I wasn't different. I felt so ordinary it hurt. Why didn't I volunteer more or design an app or something?

As much as I hated to admit it, I was just another kid who dreamt of going to school in New York City and making it big. But I couldn't write that.

"Hey Jake," Ricky slammed the lid of my computer shut, "Can you like, you know, help with our project?"

"Oh right because a flour baby is more important than my future." I muttered, opening my laptop back open.

Ricky slammed it shut again and held her hand over it, "Well you can't graduate without passing health and this project is worth half our grade. I already put the stupid thing together"

I glanced at our baby. It had a boxy body, a styrofoam ball for a head, and button eyes. Ricky was a lot of things, but she definitely wasn't an artist.

Rochelle Hart, also known as Ricky, was our grade's residence tomboy; super athletic and only wore sporty attire all year round. Ricky played three sports and had the varsity letters to prove it. We met in my music in media class in seventh grade, bonding over our mutual hate for country music.

I leaned back in my chair and held up my hands as if surrendering, "Fine okay, you have my full attention."

Ricky flipped her wavy brown hair over her shoulder and started writing on a worksheet, "What should we name our baby girl?"

Without hesitation, I answered, "Hudson."

"Hudson because...?" She let her voice trail off.

I felt my phone buzz.

Ignoring her, I pulled it out of my pocket and checked it.

Mom @ 11:27-

Did you let Crackers out before you left for school?

I sighed and ignored her text.

"Seriously, Jake?" Ricky let out an exasperated sigh, "I chose you as my partner because you're usually on top of this stuff. What's going on?"

I laid my head on top of my computer and groaned.

"Well for starters; I have no friends, no girlfriend, my family is falling apart, oh and I don't know why I want to major in film." I muttered, "Happy?"