Querencia- A Ryden Fanfiction

Chapter One: Chips

“I want you to open your books to page forty-seven, and begin reading.” My English teacher, Mrs. Barnes, calls. “We will be going over this section tomorrow.” I open my copy of Hamlet and start to read silently, resting assure that I draw no attention.

“Mrs. Barnes?” A girl calls from the back of the room, hiding her cell phone under the sleeve of her sweatshirt. “Will there be a test on this?” She's so conspicuous, with her cell phone brightness turned to its fullest and the tiny clicking sounds of her nails against the screen. The girl is wearing a blue sweatshirt, and a pair of jeans that are ripped and frayed at every corner.

“Ryan, is there something that you would like to add?” Mrs. Barnes glares at me. I pretend not to hear him, and continue reading. “Ryan Ross, explain the chapters that we have just read.”

“Mrs. Barnes, w-weren't the chapters due by the end of the p-period?” I stutter, looking at my shoes and the book in which I have not yet read any of the chapters assigned.

“It is the end of the period, Ryan. Speak to me after class.” Mrs. Barnes looks angry, at least more than usual. Those five words, speak to me after class, are something I dread tremendously.

After a long five minutes of class discussions and the occasional glare from Mrs. Barnes, the bell rings and I walk slowly over to her desk, closing Hamlet. “You wanted to see me?”

“Yes. Ryan, you are missing six assignments, all in which have to do with Hamlet. At this moment, you are failing this class. Do you understand?”

The word hits me like daggers into my skull. Failing. It is a word that I have heard too much of all my life, and it is a word that deteriorates my self-esteem. Failing as in losing, as in not being good enough. I miss the rest of the conversation. “Ryan, if you do not finish these assignments, I will have to fail you.”

~

I meet my friends in lunch everyday, at the exact same table. We've been sitting at this table for years, and it almost seems irregular to sit anywhere else. Spencer, my best friend, sneaks up behind me. “Hey there, little guy!” He says.

“Hey, Spence. Where's Brent?” Brent is the friend who has to sit with us because nobody else puts up with him.

“I don't know.” Spencer shrugs, and then sits. “Maybe he is sick today.”

Brent is not sick today, because a millisecond later, he sits down right next to Spencer and puts his feet up on the table. “Heard there was a new kid at the school today. But he's totally a loser. Check this, he wears these weird pink glasses!” Brent laughs, followed by a cheeky smile that always annoys me. Suddenly, Brent lifts his sandwich out of his Captain America metal lunchbox. He calls it “vintage,” I call it juvenile. Well, maybe not to his face, but I definitely think it.

“I'm going to go get a bag of chips,” I say, getting up from the circular table and walking towards the vending machine.

I stuff a dollar in the old vending machine, pushing A6 for a bag of Fritos. The machine sucks my money, but takes no action in providing me with the chips. “Come on!” I mumble, pressing A6 once again. Still, the machine stays silent, and the Fritos on the inside are mocking me. Then, a boy about my age gently pushes me to the side. His brown eyes are staring at me. His clothes include a light purple hoodie, and dark blue jeans. I look at his face, and see pink glasses. This is the “loser” that Brent was talking about?

“Let me see if I can help.” He smiles, pushing A6. Newsflash, mysterious stranger. I've already tried that. After that failed attempt, he backs away, looking at the ground. Well, it was nice of him to try, I guess. I sigh, and slowly walk back to my seat at the table. All of a sudden, I hear the sound of clattering glass hitting the ground. I whip my head around, to see the glass window of the vending machine broken in thousands of pieces, and also to see the boy on the ground, shaking pieces of vending machine out of his dark brown hair. He reaches into the broken machine, and pull out a bag of Fritos. Dusting off his body to clean the glass, he walks over to me.

“I got the Fritos.” He says, grinning wildly at me. “My name's Brendon.” Brendon hands me the bag of chips.