Play Next by Franco Machado-Pesce
I’m not the one you hear about in songs. Or anywhere actually. In fact you probably have no idea who I am. It’s okay though, you’re not the first one and it’s not your fault. I’m pretty easy to miss.
My name is Felix Cole and I’m the one who sits in the back of the classroom, staring out the window instead of paying attention. I don’t have bad grades though, funnily enough, but that’s besides the point. Wait- Okay, no I’m sorry, let me start over.
Hi. I’m Felix Cole and I’m the kid who sits in the back of every classroom, looking out a window. Alone. Headphones plugged in with music playing so loudly that it leaks out to torment anyone around me. You might be thinking to yourself:
Oh you’re that kid.
And well, yeah I am. There’s no point in hiding things when there’s no one to hide them from. Don’t feel bad for me though. In fact, it’s kind of nice.
My high school is like any other. Evil teachers who assign way too much homework, because it’s unfathomable for teenagers to have lives of their own. I mean, it doesn’t conflict with my open schedule, but I’d assume that it might for others. There’s an obsession with sports, specifically football, which is ironic because our team hasn’t won a single game. And most importantly, Bell High thrives off the social class system. We have: the preppy kids (who’s trust fund is larger than I’ll ever make), the jocks, the nerds and their subdivisions (the gamers, the math club, the chess club, the science club, the math club.. Yes, I know I said it twice, but come on, it’s freaky how much these kids love math), the theater kids, the outsiders, and then… there’s me. Sitting in a claustrophobic cafeteria or classroom with only music coursing through my ears.
I like hearing all the groups interact though. The sound of everyone’s laughter echoing throughout the halls or the squeaking of sneakers on the laminated floor. Even the silence brought on by the pierce of the bell is refreshing. In a way, I’m lucky. I get to hear everyone and everything, without having to be heard. That’s pretty cool, right-
“Mr. Cole!” I lift my head up and instantly regret it as I meet my chemistry teacher’s eyes. I don’t mean to exaggerate, but you’ve heard about the myth with Medusa, right? The gorgon who turns everyone who looks her in the eye to stone? Well, when I look into Mr. Wilson’s eyes, it’s just as petrifying.
“Yeah, Mr. Wilson, I’m sorry.” I open my notebook and jot the notes on the board as quickly as I can. Mr. Wilson lets out a scoff and stomps back to the front of the classroom. His round body wobbling as he does so. Honestly, if you didn’t gaze into the soulless pit that are his eyes, he’s harmless. Imagine a younger Santa Claus: plump, with a heartwarming beard. Minus the gifts and cookie addiction. He always wears a tucked-in Hawaiian t-shirt to go along with his pale khakis. Then to pull off the whole high-school-science-teacher ensemble, socks and sandals. I know, I know. Stunner.
“I don’t get paid nearly enough to teach here,” my teacher groans as he writes the latest point on the board, “you kids could at least pay attention. That’s all I ask.”
“Yes, Mr. Wilson, it won’t happen again.” I reply, timidly. Annoyed, my teacher whispers to himself and continues his lecture. As soon as he turns his back to write again, a ball of paper flies across the front row, hitting a boy in a letterman jacket on the head. He turns and reveals a handsome smile. He unfolds it to find himself laughing with his friend who reads over his shoulder. Must’ve been a cute joke or something, I wouldn’t know. The jock crumples the paper back and chucks it back to where it came from: a girl in a bright cheerleading uniform. She ducks and it falls to the ground, right at the feet of Mr. Wilson. Arms folded, he taps his foot anxiously.
“Mr. Whitmore, if you could please stop with the horseplay in my classroom, it’d be greatly appreciated. In fact,” he bites his lip and points his nose at the board, “why don’t you answer the question on the board?”
“Sorry, Mr. W.” The boy gets up to reveal a strong presence. Tristan Whitmore. Varsity quarterback. Class president. Class of 2016 Heartthrob, your all around adolescent role model. He starts to write an answer on the board, but his varsity jacket takes up all the space. Have you seen how big those jackets are? It’s insane, but hey they must be comfortable right or else-
“You’re lucky a certain football team needs you tonight or else you’d be in this classroom afterschool, picking up all the papers you love to throw around.”
The boy finishes writing an answer and starts to walk back,
“I know Mr. W, I appreciate it, but… you know how I do.” He chuckles and slides back into his chair. Mr. Wilson mockingly slides back to the board and erases the answer.
“Yeah, I know how you do wrong.” Mr. Wilson mumbles to himself, vexed. Tristan crumples up another piece of paper and chucks it back at the girl. She flashes him a pleasing smile.
Jessie Hallows. The captain of the cheerleading team and all around embodiment of perfection. Holy shit, is she beautiful. If I could just show you a portrait of her, I would, but two things: A) that’d be weird and B) it wouldn’t do her justice. Her brown hair flows perfectly to her shoulders, with each strand reflecting light from above. Almost as if she came out of one of those shampoo commercials, you know? I’ve never really seen her up close, mostly because whenever I even think about her I just start to cough or shake, but if I did, I’d get lost in her eyes. They’re a light blue, almost grey even and like a soft fog, emit a sense of mystery.
Nothing compares with her laugh though, or her smile. I never understood the whole appeal of dimples until I saw her. When her grin reveals the crevices in her cheeks I get all nervous and tingly inside. When both come together, nothing bad can happen in the world… What?! N-no! I do not have a crush on the quarterback’s girlfriend! I swear it… I’m a dreamer, but a reasonable one.
RING.
Saved by the bell. I’m the last one to get up and out I go into the deep, unknown maze of red and gold halls.
I struggle to open my locker. I’m not always good under pressure so, fumbling with the lock is a sort of trademark of mine. It’s not my fault though. Think about it: passing time is one of the most stressful concepts in the high school experience. Five minutes to: get to your locker, open it, switch your folders, get your books, and go to class. Honestly, we aren’t given enough credit when we make it to our next period on time. I shut my locker and behind it pops out a girl with purple hair and a torn jean-jacket. She jumps, startled.
“Oh,” she lets out a gentle sigh, “I didn’t see you there.”
We make eye contact and I quickly turn away to go to my 6th period. No looking back. I don’t really know who she is, but from her dark monochromatic wardrobe (besides the vibrant hair color), she’s most likely a punk. Or an outcast. One of the two.
I wish I turned around then though, because if I did, I would have probably seen her staring at me turn around the corner. But I didn’t.
Vrrrrrrr. I take my phone out of my pocket and find a notification:
First Private Lesson with Mr. Van tomorrow, 2:30.
And for the first time today, I smile.
