Incinerate

Chapter 13 - Friday

There isn't much conversation between Elliot and me during English come Thursday morning. We focus more on the reading assignment, an excerpt from "A Sound of Thunder" by Ray Bradbury. Fascinating tale, cited as an early representation of the butterfly effect. I had read it for school last year back in Huntley; I guess Heritage Grove uses different textbooks. As the class takes turns reading paragraphs, I wonder how often this will occur. How many other stories will resurface in this year's curriculum? At least with my other subjects, there's less of a chance of such repetition.

Chemistry and World History come and go, setting the precedent for the rest of the year. The bell rings and we are released from the latter. In between classes, Sera has been nowhere to be found. Such is the case as I stow away my thick World History textbook. I make my way to the cafeteria with my sack lunch and pick out an empty table. The others had showed up not long after I sat down the other day, and hopefully today will be the same. Time crawls in an odd simultaneous too fast/too slow; the more my sandwich disappears, the longer it seems before someone will sit with me. By the time it's gone and the soda can is drained, only a few minutes remain before lunchtime is at its end.

At least, I figure at the chiming of the bell, there's still Gym with Timbo.

His friends keep him occupied most of the time. As we all take a walk outside around the track course, they crack jokes and talk about this and that. Even with Timbo's invitation to walk with their group, I can't shake the feeling of being left out. I don't know their references, I don't know their stories about classmates, I don't know anything. I'm just there to occupy space. Every now and then, one of them says something funny and I laugh along. But otherwise, I'm more like a wallflower. (What are the perks of that again?)

At home, though, Cujo is ready and willing to provide me with some socialization. While it's a little different with him hanging out on Ole Petunia as I play video games instead of engaging in conversations with my friends, it's enough. Mom asks the standard "How was your day?" and I give her basic vague answers.

Friday doesn't fare much better. Leah sticks with her clique in Biology. Come time for lunch, I linger at my locker. Though I've had no such luck thus far, part of me wishes to finally see Sera. Even if she makes some snarky remark, it's better than not being talked to all day. As I head to lunch alone, I remind myself that at least there will be Art later. Unless, of course, she skipped school. Can't rule out that possibility.

Another round of lonely sandwich time leaves me to people-watch. So many groups fill surrounding tables. Football players wearing their jerseys, cheerleaders in their uniforms, band kids wearing "HGHS MARCHING BAND" T-shirts, and innumerable unlabeled students. They all go about their conversations as they chow down on either the meatball sandwiches provided by the school or whatever they brought from home. So many friendships, most likely forged ages ago when they were little. What are the odds that I would have none of my newfound fellows in either lunch period? Not even Sera, but she'd said she doesn't do lunch in the cafeteria.

Hm. Maybe I could find her. Or at least a place of my own. This place isn't as big as my old school was, so there are bound to be fewer places to go for some solitude. Just gotta walk around and find one. Or I could ask Elliot, Timbo, or Leah. One of them might know.

The bell releases me to my final class of the day. Sketchbook and pencils in tow, my hope finally wakes up with every step toward the Arts Hall. Finally, I'll have someone to talk to. I'll be able to reach the highlight of my day. I'll be able to see her. The day's mood practically reverses as the doorframe comes into view, an eagerness filling and lightening me. But as I enter, a shadow flashes over my heart. Her seat from the other day is empty, and she does not appear to have relocated. Not to be torn down so easily, I take my spot from Wednesday and ready my tools. Occasional glances to the door let me down with each entering classmate. The bell rings once more, and the last of them shuffle in. The seat to my left remains empty as Mr. Rainey goes into his lesson (though it feels more like a monologue) about the painting American Gothic. That elation, brief though it was, deflates the longer he rambles on. By the end, as he lets us have free drawing time again, I've got nothing left. The blank page stares again, but I can't find the will to care. It remains just as bare when it's time to go home.