Young Writers Society

Chapter 2

The Geopoliticus Child Watching the Birth of the New Man

The first day of school, as a junior at least, is more boring than the sophomore year. It’s like your being thrown in the same routine as last and you’ve just got to go with it. As far as I see it, high school is worse than life. It can really fuck a person up.

I sit at lunch with nobody, my lab partner is Michael Dowerlin- the football player who’s dumb as rocks, and my teachers are lousy. Who knows, maybe they’ll start teaching us something when they get paid better…maybe they’ll start getting paid when they teach better.

But all of that’s okay because I finally got into my AP art class with my favorite teacher Mrs. Cove. I’ve had her for all three years now. I love her because she’s eccentric and crazy, and always bashes on the school board committee without caring.

Today she’s wearing her yellow overalls and the blue fish shirt. She raises one paint covered hand –she’s always covered in paint- and slams it down on the kid whose sleeping’s desk. He jumps and everyone laughs.

“For those of you who don’t know me I am Mrs. Cove,” she says. She’s smiling triumphantly. She’s made the class laugh on the first day. That’s a big deal for teachers. “So today we will be sharing our summer projects.”

When no one moves to get their project Mrs. Cove adds “If we finish with all the projects I’ll give you all some ice cream.” Everyone jumps from their seat to find their project.

I remain seated. My project is already on my desk. Mrs. Cove notices I have mine first.

“Miss Hughs,” she says. “Take your project on up there and speak your little heart out. Tell us what it’s about.”

Lucky me.

I take my painting up to the front of the classroom. I feel like a circus freak in front of a judging crowd. I know their judging me. I hesitate. My throat is dry. It burns.

I notice one of the guys in the back exchange rolling eyes with his buddies. They smile and laugh. Mrs. Cove walks up their aisle and slaps the guy with rolling eyes up the side of his head.

I bite my lip. It was funny.

“Common, we want ice cream,” a girl says.

I know her. She was in my second grade class with Mr. Sampson. She’s a snob.

I take in a shaky breath and place my painting against the white-board. Everyone turns their head to the side to observe it. I can’t tell if they like it or if they don’t know what they’re looking at.

“That’s amazing Helena,” Mrs. Cove says, walking up to me. “Tell us what it means.”

I bite on my lip. The blood tastes salty.

My paintings are surreal. My inspiration is Salvador Dali, if that means anything. I like Dali. He’s crazy, weird, and paints controversially. In other words, he’s like me.

“I painted this this summer,” I say finally.

Everyone looked at me. I felt like hyperventilating. Their eyes, they were burning into my skin.

“What is it,” one kid asks. I couldn’t tell who it was. They were all lumping together into one massive, blurry glob.

“It’s-”

It’s a rendition of Dali’s work, Geopoliticus Child Watching the Birth of the New Man, with my own touch. It’s in black in white because that’s the way I view the world. Instead of the egg it is a cocoon with a young girl coming out of it. My mom and brother are watching the rebirth of me.

“- a picture of a girl turning into a butterfly.”

As usual, my words are hushed, like I’m whispering a secret. I can’t help it. It hurts to talk louder even one decimal. No one seems to have heard me except for Mrs. Cove.

“Very good Helena,” She says when I don’t go on. “Go ahead and have a seat.”

We didn’t get to finish all the projects, but we still got the ice cream anyway. It was my fault I suppose. I took too long.

Too long at saying nothing.

My next class is my AP U.S history class. It’s taught by the football couch who intends on yelling everything he says. I sit in the back where he doesn’t see me not pay attention. I don’t know anyone in that class. I’m a social outcast. But it’s better that way.

Mr. Patrizio goes right into the lesson. He sounds like a machine gun. I go right into my sketching.

The rest of the day goes by in blur. I ride my bike home, the events of today already a distant memory.

Maybe tomorrow will be a more exciting day. After all, I have my odd classes to go to. A whole new set of teachers to remember. I often wonder what the efficiency of the even-odd days has. One day odd classes, next even, Wednesdays no first period. All the freshman, I can see their heads spinning.

My head is spinning.

A whole new year ahead of me. One day down, one-hundred seventy nine to go.