Young Writers Society

     Who am I? That is the most important question for starters. My name's David. I'm sixteen, and I'm—naturally--still in high school. I have brown hair, little muscle to show off, dark eyebrows, fairly green eyes, and a baby-smooth face. My life's okay, but school's a bother. So I would shirk all of it if I could. School’s boring as hell though I've heard hell isn't really boring--just painful. Anyway, today I have to go to school again since it's a Wednesday.

     I stand up from my bed and go to the kitchen to eat some raisin bran cereal, and afterward, I go to the bathroom to brush my teeth. Once I finish, I head to my dresser in my bedroom and look for something to wear--other than my pajamas. Once I’ve found my clothes, I dress by putting on dark-blue denim jeans, my socks, my green shirt--the one that says to trust me because I'm a Jedi, and my solid-black sweatshirt which I snatch from the open clothes closet in my room. Today's cool enough for this kind of apparel. So, no, I'm not going to be hot in all that I'm wearing. I guess things are going to be fine—well, fine enough for a normal, dull day. The only thing that catches my attention is my orange shirt which was underneath the Jedi one. I haven’t seen that shirt in a while. It says, "Why am I different?" on the front; and on the back, it explains how I'm supposed to be a Christian and has a Bible verse on it. I think the verse was John 3:60, which my mom says is great; but I don't really remember. I feel bad that I’ve forgotten though because my mom has always been good to me. Whatever things she’s given me I should use, right?Wearing the black sweatshirt would have covered the back of the orange shirt so that no one would see the weird explanation of why I ought to be different, but why would I wear a shirt I disagree with? I close the drawer of my reddish-brown dresser and forget the shirt. Wearing it would have sent every other student at school the wrong message about me: I don’t want to seem like a self-contradiction.

     After I've finished everything I needed to do in my room, I go down the staircase (since my room is upstairs), enter the living room, and sit on the lime green sofa to wait for the school bus because I have little else to do: I've already eaten because I'm the type of guy who can't go for much more than a few hours without thinking about food (I don't have juvenile diabetes or anything, but I just like food, you could say.), I've already brushed my teeth, and my book bag rests firmly upon my shoulders. As far as I know, I've done everything I needed to. Since I’m in tenth grade, going to school is certainly a habitual thing by now.

     Once I can see the school bus outside the window, I stand up, walk out the door, close it behind me, make my way to the bus, and enter. Upon entering, I pass swiftly by everyone up front because I still don't know most people here and really don't care to look at their unwelcoming faces. However, I do have two friends who ride the bus with me: they’re Jason and Asia. Jason and I are real buddies: we’ve known each other since junior high, but he sits somewhere else on the bus. Asia, on the other hand--well, I guess I’ve got some explaining to do: that dark-haired, blue-eyed girl with the body of a real woman is not my friend. I wish she were though. I’ve only ever gotten out hi or hey around her, and I’ve only been trying to make a connection with her since the start of the school year a few weeks ago when she came to this school. Still, she almost kills me with her look. I’ve caught her eyes a few times. Maybe she likes me too. I’m guessing not, but, even as good-looking as she is, she doesn’t have a boyfriend. At least, I don’t think she does. Anyway, I put my thoughts off Asia, for a moment, and try to amuse myself by just observing things for the fifteen-minute ride to school. Otherwise, I’ll feel more tired; and when I have to go to class, I’ll have a lethargic body and sluggish mind. I can’t indulge the fact that I feel sleepy—no resting my eyes and no using the bad posture that plagues me when I’m tired. I must hold my body up until I get to class. I have to stay awake, alert. Oh, gosh, I feel myself slipping. Stay awake, David. Come on.

     Just as I feel there’s no hope to stay conscious left, I look out my window and see that almost everyone has left the bus already. We’ve arrived. I stand up and blood rushes from my head so quickly that I become dizzy and see multi-coloured specks clouding my vision. However, I do manage to get to class.

     My first class to do is English. I hate being in there. It couldn’t be any more boring. Also, the teacher’s a hypocrite. She says to use whom as an object and not to say who for whom, but even she is guilty of that mistake. Her name is Mrs. Smith in case anyone cares. I know: it’s a really uncommon name, right? I just sit there and listen to her hypocrisy because I have to until the class is over. Once I’m done with that class, I’ll have to do the same thing in the next one. Though I do have to participate, most of what I do in the classes is just listening to what the teachers say. At least, math class has taught me how to count and, well, do math. Apart from that, yeah, I hate school just like everyone else does, and I have to endure the whole annoyance of being in class as on any other day.

     Then, once the classes are all over, I go to see a night-time football game because Jason is going. I don’t really care about school pride. So I wouldn’t go otherwise, but maybe the game’ll be worth my time somehow. I don’t know. I have nothing better to do.

     Since I had already returned home after my classes ended, I ride my dark red bicycle for the short trip back to school: the football game’s started. When I arrive on the scene, I dismount my two-wheeled machine and begin walking toward the game. As I go, I look at the field: our players wear red jerseys and helmets while the other players are clothed in all white except for their shorts; the shadowy green grass is lit poorly by yellow lights on the field’s corners. I push through the people on the bleachers to find my seat next to Jason. “Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” I reply. “How’s it going?”

“I’m good,” he answers me. “What about you?”

“My day’s been boring, of course,” I answer, trying to get some sympathy from someone who feels the same way about school as I do—that it’s a waste of time.

“Yeah, well, forget about that for now. I got somethin’ for ya,” he says and hands me a canned Coca-Cola from the 12-pack he has by his feet. He has a buzz cut (His hair is brown.), a slimmer face than mine, a somewhat muscular body, and hazel eyes, which look black on this dark night. He’s wearing a sweatshirt like mine though I think it has a brand label somewhere on it. He’s also wearing jeans, a grey tee, and DC shoes. Somehow, I wish I were more like him—cooler.

“Thanks,” I reply and finally take my hands out of my pockets and sit down on the silvery bleachers. “So—I didn’t miss anything. Did I? I mean—not that I care much.”

“No, we’re just down three points is all,” he says. “So did you get to talk to that girl yet?”

“Nah,” I say, shaking my head.

He pauses. “Well, actually, there’s this party at her house in a week,” he suggests. “You wanna go? It would give you a chance to meet her.”

“Sure, but I mean how am I supposed to go if I don’t know her?” I ask.

“Well, I’m going,” he replies, “because a friend of mine got me an invitation. I could probably ask him to get one for you.”

“I don’t know,” I answer. “If I can’t go, I don’t want to take a space on the guest list.”

“Ha ha, don’t worry about that,” he laughed. “Things aren’t nearly so specific.”

“Okay, well, supposing I can make it, where is the party?” I ask.

“It’s about thirty minutes from here,” answers Jason. “If you want, we could carpool together. It’s next Friday night.”

     Feeling doubt even more so because my parents would probably say “no,” I simply tell him I don’t know. I stop looking at him and talking, for a moment, to realize that this whole time I’ve ignored the game. We’re still losing. I think the score is still three to zero, but I don’t make sure of it because I don’t care a lot.

     My thoughts are getting depressing now. I knew I wasn’t going to be able to go. Why did I even ask? I should never have even considered the possibility of going. I want to meet Asia—badly. I’ve had this sort of silent crush on her, but my whole going to her party is not going to fly with my parents, both of whom are restrictive people. Thus I decide to wash away my sorrows with some Coca-Cola. I pour the caramel-coloured liquid down my throat and allow it to pacify me, give me new hope, make me forget about that girl I can never be close to. It’s something that gives me focus—drinking cola. I wish I were stronger. I wish I were more able to bear this sort of thought and just forget about it, but somehow, even though I don’t know her, I feel that I miss Asia. What am I thinking? I take another chug of cola to divert my attention, and doing that helps a little. Maybe I can just forget about her. I’ll have to because, even if I had met her, my parents would never have approved. Then again, why am I so worried? What would really happen if I did try to be friends with Asia? I can’t think too hard about that. I’ve never been a great kid in high school, but I’ve never outright disobeyed either. I’ve always maintained some amount of respect for the rules, yet I look around and don’t see my parents who so easily condemn this world that everyone else here lives in: there they are—boys and girls who would quickly engage in all the immoral activities I’m not supposed to. I don’t understand how my parents could be so judgmental when they’re not here. They don’t face what I face; they don’t struggle with what I struggle with. I begin to wonder if maybe I should look at them the same way they look at me—someone to be judgmental about but not to listen to or try to understand. I’m tired of paying so much attention to people who pay so little to me. Though I know inside that what I’m thinking is wrong, my sympathy goes to myself here. Somehow—somehow, you’re about to screw things up, David. “I hope not,” I think.

     I hear a lot of screaming now. The game must be over or nearly over. I look at Jason who, like me, doesn’t care much about our school; but he’s becoming rather involved in the game by cheering and shouting like most other people here. I start to watch. Wow! That’s a run: a player from our team sprints from about the 55-yard line and into the end zone as the defence try desperately to stop him, and our team scores so that the board now reads, “Three to six.”

“We’re actually winning,” I think. “That’s a shocker!” “You know what? This game isn’t so bad,” I remark aloud.

“Yeah, it’s pretty good!” my friend replies enthusiastically.

     I spend the rest of that evening drinking my cola and watching football with Jason until I go home. Though I don’t normally care to say it, we won. When I arrive back home, I meet my mom as soon as I enter through the front door of our white house which has dark grey shingles.

“So--" my mom says, "how was it?”

I take a little time to process the situation I’m in before telling her, “I had a good time. The game was okay.”

“How was your friend?” she asked.

“Jason?” I say trying to verify whom we’re talking about.

“I think so,” she says. “He’s the one you were out with?”

“Yeah,” I reply. “He’s okay, just as usual.”

“Well, that’s good to hear,” she answers. “Have you eaten yet?”

“Yeah, I made myself a sandwich when I got back,” I answer. “It's all good.”

“Is there anything you want to talk about?” she asks, trying to seize the opportunity as I make my way upstairs.

“No, everything was great,” I say. I hesitate. “I think I’ll go and plop down on my bed,” I say, with a smirk to distract her. “I was really tired this morning.”

My mom smiles in return: “Okay,” is all she says though I know, quite uncomfortably, she’s not satisfied with what I told her.

     I then slip away from Mom. I need some time to work up courage to confront her about how I want to go to Asia’s party, but she’ll probably refuse. I lie awake on the bed and think about how much this situation is just not working for me. Will I ever be able to make my own decisions?