All My Blog's A Stage

Today, I’m back at school. I’m on autopilot through Homeroom, History (It truly is too early to be memorizing medieval events of every English aristocrat) and French until lunch. I take a seat at my usual table with four other kids who don’t really have their own table. Avery Blackwood, for example, for all her black lipsticks and corsets, is shy and quiet, unlike the angry goths of table seven.

“Your cup is different today.” She nods towards my tumbler as I pull my lunch out. Today it’s silver with glitter and says “STRAIGHT OUTTA THERAPY”. I got that one for my birthday last year from Aisha. 

“You should know by now she has a collection of them.” Patrick Jones comments with a mouthful of pizza, slinging the half-eaten slice around the table like a pair of nunchucks. I hate to say that that’s him showing his manners. Melissa Afton lowers it with a single long, glittery pink nail. She was just exiled from Julia’s group for…something? I really don’t keep up with the Kardashians of this school. Her nails were a matte pink, dusted with glitter and had red Love written on the middle fingers and red sequin hearts on the ring fingers. 

“And you should know by now not to sling your food around.” She rolls her icy blue eyes. “What are you? Seven?” Patrick huffs, rubs the bridge of his freckled nose and throws his shaggy brown hair back in an attempt to get it out of his eyes. He claims he’ll be the captain of the football team, and we’ll all start respecting him, to which we reply that he has to make the football team before he becomes captain. 

“Missy, don’t be so hard on the boy, you know he’s trying his very best with his singular brain cell.” I tease. Missy snorts into her water bottle while Patrick glares at us both.  

“Why do you think the writer would leave on a cliff hanger like that?” We all nearly jump out of our seats. 

“Don’t scare us like that, Coco!” Missy’s voice curls up into a whine. I have to put my leftover chicken quesadilla down to prevent myself from choking. Charlotte Morozov looks up from her book. With violet hair and grey eyes, she almost looks like a character from her manga novels. 

“What?” My voice is hoarse. Coco hardly ever talks, even less than the rest of us do when we’re together. Sometimes we forget she’s there. 

“Why would the author end without finishing the love scene? Akihiro and Keiko were about to confess their love to each other on the battlefield but then it ended! And the next volume isn’t coming out till July 23rd!” She sighs, curling into a ball on the cafeteria table bench. She’s the only person in the school shorter than me. “But then it’ll be on Akihiro’s birthday.” Coco takes on her usual dreamy-eyed look and pulls her beanie on tighter. It has a Stitch handsewn onto the cuff (She gave me the Stitch tumbler). Missy makes a face.

“I really don’t understand you people and your – what it is called? Manga?” She pronounces it like “mango”. Coco scrunches her china nose as I shake my head. 

“You wouldn’t. I don’t think you’ve read a book since the second grade.” I tease. Aisha would be rolling on the floor if she heard Missy’s mispronouncing. She’s the one who told me to give Coco to the book series she’s been obsessed with, Rakkībaka: Legend of the Fox. Missy huffs and flips her strawberry-blonde hair. 

“Miss Afton? Why are you not sitting with your friends?” Mrs. Frake is suddenly beside us, her double chins wiggling to the beat of her mouth. “Are they bullying you?” She pulls her cardigan around her tighter. I swear every English teacher across the nation has a cardigan. Our school of locally famous for student-to-student bullying since a group of kids (suspected from Julia’s group) cyberbullied a student to the point of transferring, so all the teachers are on high alert. 

“No, Mrs. Frake, I’m just spending some time with my other friends.” Missy flashes her perfect shiny-like-diamonds smile, sweet as the chocolate bar in Patrick’s hands. It’s almost magical how she can wear that much glittery dark berry lipstick and not get it on her teeth. Mrs. Frake nods and walks away to start eye-balling the football team who are trying to stick mashed potatoes to the ceiling by flinging it up with their spoons. Only, one is staring at me. I try not to make eye contact, but I can feel him burning a hole straight through my scalp. I inspect my nails as I aggressively eat the rest of my lunch. Eventually, I have to look up. Jayden Sanders is staring so intensely I’m sure that his eyeballs are about to fall out. He knows I’m avoiding him, and I know that he has awkward questions to ask me. I want to just live in my own bubble where I come to school, go home, write books, and then do it all again the next day, but no, someone just has to ruin it. I sigh and stand. 

“And where are you going?” Patrick asks nosily. 

“Patrick! You can’t just ask people where they’re going!” Missy scolds. “It might be private!” I slip away while they bicker. I don’t know where I’m going. The library, possibly? It’s quiet there. I have a hall pass from Mrs. Frake that she forgot to take back. It’s a brown teddy bear, and no one will ask for it because our hall monitor is too busy smoking in the back of the school to be walking around checking hall passes.

“Hey Katalinia,” I freeze when I hear the voice behind me. It’s Jay. He’s the only person I know who calls me by my full name. I secretly expect a health bar to appear like in a boss fight. I turn around and can’t help but pity Jay. He’s fiddling with the strings on his hoodie and shuffling around like he doesn’t really know what to do with his hands. 

“What do you want?” I inwardly cringe. My voice came out much more rigid than I thought. 

“I-I have a question for you.” Jay’s face is turning red. I study him, searching him for…motive perhaps? My eyes dart around the hallway. What could he want to ask me about? Finally, they land on bulletin board a few feet away. Amongst the ball game flyers and student club sign-up sheets, there was a sparkly black and orange poster. Halloween Dance October 27^th! Make sure to vote for the SPOOKIEST couple! The sign read. My eyes widen. 

“No.” I turn on my heel. Wingman (Wingwoman?) or date, it’s a hard pass for me. “Nope, nopity, nope, nope.”

“Katalinia, wait-“ He starts, but I’m already walking down the hallway. I’m used to walking fast to keep up with my longer-legged friends, so Jay is now jogging to catch up with me. “It’s just one question!” I stop. He looks relieved. I sigh. I can see him in the reflection of the school’s trophy case. His long legs look awkward, and his shorts suddenly seem too baggy for his lean frame. I turn around, mostly because I feel sorry for him. If he’s coming to me for relationship advice, he must be desperate. 

“Just one,” it comes out as a hiss. 

“Well, I want to know if I have a chance with someone.” He’s now inspecting his shoes. I fidget with the chapstick in the pocket of my jacket. “They’re really funny and nice, but they don’t know I’m there sometimes, even though I sit right behind them.” I’m in all his classes, so I run through who he sits behind. Mostly Cole Randy, the football captain. They all sit together in one big clump. But there’s someone else. I can’t remember who it is for the life of me.

“I think that if you really like them, you should tell them.” I choose my words carefully. The last thing I need is to be roped into a complex love triangle worthy of an anime trope. “The worst they can do is say no, right?” He nods. I feel like there’s something else he wants to ask me. “You want me to be your wingman?” I fold my arms. He squirms. “You know I can’t do anything if I don’t even know who it is.” Jay lets out a whine-like huff and reaches to scratch the bandage on his face from last practice but pauses. 

“Fine.” he retorts. He opens his mouth again, but the bell rings, and students flood out of the cafeteria like rice when you swish it around in a pan. This is my chance to get away. I have study hall next period in the library, and I can become almost invisible in the shelves upon shelves of books. I’ve calmed down a bit by the time I’ve fought my way through the crowd into the peace and quiet of the library. Mr. Yasuda smiles at me over the rim of his glasses. He looks like Mr. Miyagi meets Uncle Iroh. I’ve always thought of him as somebody who used to be a ninja or do something else really cool but is now undercover as the one thing his enemies would never think to look for: A happy pai-sho playing grandpa-librarian. He stands from his desk where he seems to be in the middle of a game with himself. I didn’t even know you could do that. 

“Kat!” He claps his hands together then spreads them out again like he’s warming them up. I love the way he adds the “-e” to the end of my name so it sounds likes ‘Catty’. “Did you enjoy As You Like it?”  

“Of course, I did!” I dig through my backpack and hand him the play. “My favorite part was his monologue All the World’s a Stage. He’s kind of like a darker version of Charles Dickens.” Mr. Yasuda beams with delight. 

“I knew you’d like it! Shakespeare had his own critique on society.” He cleans his glasses on the hem of his shirt. He does that when he’s excited about something. Mr. Yasuda has known me since middle school when I mustered up the courage to ask to check out the book Everything, Everything back in 6^th grade.  

The librarian is a not-too-tall middle-aged, thin Asian man who almost never frowns and laughs all the time. Everyone is his friend, and he knows every book by heart. I’ve been in the library many times, but I’ve never been brave enough to do anything more than smile at the man, much less talk to him. I don’t want to interrupt him. He looks really busy placing little tiles on that odd diamond-shaped board. I look down at my book. I really, really want to read it during Reading Hour in class, but I don’t know how to ask to check it out. I slowly creep up to the desk. There’s no way he’ll notice me. My head doesn’t hardly even peak over the desk! I take in a breath, and the almost-silent action seems to alert him of my presence. He looks over his almost-Harry-Potter-round glasses. 

“Can I help you, little girl?” He asks. My throat is dry. He has the thickest accent of anyone I’ve ever met under the north Washington sun. He smiles. “You want Everything, Everything? That’s an advanced book for someone your age.” He says. I’ve been around the Boss’s/Client’s/Transfer’s Kid block a few times and can tell the difference between fake and genuine surprise, and he seems truly impressed with my selection, though he probably thinks I snuck over here from the elementary school. I nod. He opens his hand for my book, and I slowly turn it over for him to stamp. The little gold nameplate in the mess of books, plants, and autumn decorations reads Masaki Yasuda. 

“Thank you, Mr.-“ I quickly decide whether to call him Mr. Masaki or Mr. Yasuda, “Yasuda.” I say meekly when he hands me my book back. I’ve always heard you should call adults by their last names with a Mr. or Ms. in front of it. 

“Come back when you finish, and I’ll show you another book that you may like.” He gave another smile. Some of Mr. Yasuda’s teeth on the bottom were shifted behind each other, like they were more shy than the rest of him. I run my tongue over my own braces. I guess not everyone gets them as a kid. I think to myself. I like his shifted teeth, though. They make him seem more human than the perfect robotic teachers of the rest of the school.

There wasn’t much diversity there. It was like The Stepford Wives if it were a school. I can still remember being the black sheep of the class. One boy actually asked me – in all seriousness, unfortunately – if my family had come over from Mexico illegally and “was it cool like in an action movie? Did you have to hide in a bag of rice?” when I let it slip that I was a second generation Hispanic American. Like, what? Do you not have a filter? A brain cell? Is there anything in your brain to make you think it’s ok to ask that? My mother was angry enough to almost pull me out of that school when my math teacher congratulated my parents on their “amazing English.” She said they had no right to treat her as if she were “just a dog preformación un trick for su dueño.” She speaks in Spanglish (Spanish-English) when she’s feeling something strongly (mostly anger). My 7^th grade year, Mr. Yasuda had told me that he was taking a job at another school. The replacement was a much younger lady who, if she cared about books, didn’t show it. She slammed books so hard you were sure their spines were going to fall off. The library had always been my safe place, but, that year, I avoided it like the black plague. I was so happy when I crept into the library of St. Lauren’s High School to scope out the book scene and saw a familiar head bent over a worn pai-sho board behind the desk. I’m still in my own little world of memory when a crumpled piece of paper lands on my desk. 

9 x 36 = ???

Zachary couldn’t do simple math to save his life. I scribble 324 on a scrap of notebook paper and toss it over to his desk when Mr. Duff’s back is turned to the board.

“Since almost all of you failed the last exam, we’ll be going over what you all missed” He had spit all over the room with failed and missed. I thought his little broom mustache was to keep him from giving free showers to the front row of desks. I had passed the test, so this was practically a free period for me. Algebra wasn’t my strong suit, but I had studied for the test that was worth twenty percent of our grade and got an 89 to show for it. Lower than I’d prefer, but it’s fine. Zachary, on the other hand, had taken a fat 40. He nods and writes it down on his paper. I keep forgetting that I shouldn’t be doing his homework for him. He’s in eleventh grade, he can do it himself. I meet up with Matt and Zoey in Science. It’s not a wonder that there was a rumor that they were dating last year. Matt has a protective arm draped around Zoey’s shoulders which she seems to not mind. She’s holding her books to her chest. I would give anything to be as flat as Zoey is and not get the “your chest is just too big, mija” speech from my mother whenever I find strapless, backless, or low-cut dress or shirt.

And then she wonders why I only wear hoodies.

 They slide into seats next to each other. They have the same dark hair and eyes and the same diamond-shaped faces. With Matt being a much taller than Zoey, much more brooding, and much more muscular, he looks more like her bodyguard than her brother.

“Hey Kat! Sapphire Morozov waves me over to our desk. Sapphire is Coco’s identical twin sister. She’s wearing a rainbow long sleeve shirt under a bleached jean jumper. She has this really pretty pastel rainbow hair and the same grey eyes and heart-shaped face as her younger sister. They wanted something that would set them apart, but after wearing opposite colors, opposite styles, and generally trying to be as different as possible, they were honestly one more “so are you Coco or Saph?” away from tattooing their names on their faces. So, their parents let them dye their hair whatever color they wanted. They’re both natural blondes, so I guess it’s easy to maintain. While our teachers let us stay with our lab partners, he separates us for projects based on letter grade. That’s why I have Sapphire (a nice high-B-low-A student) as a lab partner but Zoey (high As all the way) as a project partner. She looks under the table. “Cool platform heels.”

“Ah, thanks. I just picked them up from JC Penny for $30.” I do a little pose. They’re fuzzy black ankle boots with a 3-inch heel. “There’s always a sale on summer and fall heels when it gets close to winter.” She nods like it’s common sense. The sky is blue, water is wet, the best time to buy heels in in boots season. Saph’s thrifty, but I’m just plain cheap. She always reminds me of a slightly more casual Lady Gaga, but almost as extra.

“You sound like Ichi-sensei with those ’ah’s” She rolls her eyes. She’s had to listen to Coco talk about Rakkībaka for a couple months now.

“I have gotten lost on the path of life.” I say seriously.

“That’ll have to be your excuse if you don’t sit down before Mr. Hates comes in.” I scramble into my seat just as Mr. Yates walks through the door. Mr. Yates is probably twenty-six at the most, but he’s more like an old general who doesn’t take anything from anybody, hence the nickname ‘Hates’. If you’re not in your seat by the time class starts without a tardy slip, you’re counted as absent. He’s a tall and has a mop of shaggy black hair that he’s always running his hands through, dark eyes that are always squinting like he’s determining who’s a cheater and who’s not, is always scowling, and always, always wears a crisp black suit like it’s prom night. On that note, I actually want to see what he wears to prom. He’s basically an annoying version of Matt but from the future. A lot of the girls think he’s cute, which he would be if he wasn’t ordering us around like soldiers all the time. I promise you that you haven’t felt fear until you’re sitting at your desk looking at frog DNA and then feel a heavy hand on your shoulder and a deep voice says quietly “Have you finished your observations yet?”. I want to see Ash make some fanfiction out of that. (Wait, no, no I don’t. She’ll take that as a challenge.)

“I’m truly impressed with your scores on the last exam.” His voice is flat. It’s hard to tell whether he’s sarcastic or not. He hands out the papers, taking special care not to touch Elissa Hills’ hand. On the first day of school, she tried to kiss him because Julia said he was an 11^th grader who was madly crushing on her, and I’m guessing that freaked him out. Who knew best friends could be so cruel? “You may all have a free period-” cheers go up all around “-to do your homework or read quietly.” Groans come from every corner. Mr. Yates bites his lip, then shakes his head with a sigh. “You may use your cell phones He takes a seat at his desk and begins reading The Night Circus for the thousandth time. I’m relieved when I see 95.4% Good job. on the top of my paper. I was so focused on cramming for my math test that I forgot to study for Bio. It’s broken my perfect record, but it’s substantially better than the 48 I was expecting. Saph pokes me with her gel pen. She then taps the cap end on her notebook, all while staying perfectly focused on her notebook.

At least try and LOOK like you’re reading while your daydreaming! He’s watching you!!

I quickly change positions so that I’m looking at my open book. Ah, yes, cellular respiration, one of the many joys in life. I pull out my history homework and start on it. Might as well do something productive if I’m just sitting here. I’m still answering questions on the French revolution when the bell rings. I hate, hate, hate that bell. It’s too shrill and long. Like, yes, we get it, class is over. I’d rather have a church bell wake me up at three every morning than hear that bell anymore. I gather my stuff and head to the only class worth the school day: English. Mrs. Frake smiles at me and beckons me over.

“Miss. Carnin, I was hoping you would know where an object of mine is.” She seems tired. I smile and pull out the teddy bear. She looks relieved.

“I thought you had forgotten it.” I say, giving it a final squish before setting it down on her desk. “I didn’t realize it until I got home the day before I got sick.” she opens her mouth again, but I pull out a plastic purple portfolio and hand it to her. “Four pages on the examination of Brutus’s character and why he felt killing Caesar was the only way to protect Rome. Double space, Times New Roman font, size 12 font, the whole nine yards.” I grin. Mrs. Frake is a nice teacher, but she’s a stickler for formatting. She raises an eyebrow but takes it from me. “Zoey told me the paper she was working on, and I had a lot of time to kill this week.” I nod back to where Zoey is obliviously writing in her journal.  I poke her at I pass by her seat. Her head shoots up like I caught her cheating.

“Don’t scare me like that!” Zoey scowls.

“Sorry, I didn’t know I was interrupting you writing about your boyfriend.” I tease and peak at her paper. She smacks me lightly on the arm.

“Don’t say that so loud! And you know good and well I don’t have a boyfriend!” Zoey hisses. I put my hands up like I’ve been defeated.

“Fine, fine! What are we working on?” Zoey puts her journal back in her backpack and produces a 3-ring binder and textbook and flips through it.

“We just finished Julius Caesar, so I think today we’ll have a slideshow of the play going over all the points of it.” Zoey remembers everything, so it shouldn’t surprise me that she’s memorized the way our teacher does intermission in between assigned reading. Just as Zoey predicted, Mrs. Frake drones on about Shakespeare’s attributions to society as we know it and why Julius Caesar was so important. I take out my notebook and start to doodle roses. They’re really easy and fun to do. That is, until you draw one on your thigh and then get called to the office for having “gang-related tattoos” when you wear shorts the next day in gym class. My gym teacher needs to touch some grass, and, most importantly, go to a nursery. By the time Mrs. Frake’s class is over, my notebook is covered in flowers and I realize that not a single note was taken. Zoey is not going to be happy with me when I ask to use hers. As soon as I get out into the hall, Saph runs up to me and links her arm through mine.