Since these chairs squeaked like crazy with the slightest movement, I had to take care to turn my head softly. We had been sitting for some time before I took a break from my shredding of the print-outs to take a look at my leftover-in-arms. We were the leftovers, so we sat in the leftover chairs. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to make it sound like we were being forced to sit there or that the girls were being bullies. I didn’t think they even deserved to be called chairs anymore, but in that sense they were a perfect fit for leftovers like us. A far cry from the sleek metal chairs everyone else was sitting in, these two were beat-up with paint chipping off them to reveal the raw wood underneath. Ninagawa and I were placed in a group with three other girls who nonchalantly pointed us toward the two oldest seats in the classroom. What our raised hands communicated loud and clear was the fact that neither he nor I had yet to make any meaningful connections within our class. There was one other leftover besides me, a boy named Ninagawa, who raised his hand in the same servile fashion. I should have just answered, “yes.” I think I must have looked pretty scary, holding my hand at face level and glowering all over the room. Thanks to that, when the time came for the teacher to ask if there was anyone left not in a group, I had no choice but to raise my hand. Once I’d have thought there’d be a line connecting me to a girl named Kinuyo, my friend since middle school, but apparently not, seeing as how she’d just ditched me in favor of her new group. I could draw you a pretty accurate graph of it even, which was funny considering there’d be no place for me on it. It was June now, two months into my first year of high school, and I already had my class’s social structure down pat. Did he honestly think any kid would just pair up with whoever happened to be nearest? It goes without saying that people will try to stick with their cliques. His words sent a wave of visible tension throughout the room as eyes began swimming frantically in search of friends. “We’re going to be doing group experiments today, so everyone form teams of five with whoever is sitting closest to you.” That was our teacher’s thoughtless instruction at the beginning of class. It’s enough to make me want to pull all the curtains closed and send the science room into darkness. Unfortunately, those same sun beams keep reflecting off the microscope’s lens and flashing into my eyes. Their exaggerated movements send particles of dust flying everywhere, and it’s really rather pretty how they sparkle in the sun’s light. Sharing the same workstation is a gaggle of girls all gathered around the microscope, chatting busily as they peer in over and over again I don’t suppose I’d get a turn with it even if I wanted one. It is a solitary monument to my detachment. The mountain of shreds accumulating atop my section of the desk grows bigger and bigger with each noodle-like strand I add to it. I’ll just be over here, ripping up these print-outs. Fine, then, you guys have fun reading all about the Brazilian Elodea. I could care less about microorganisms, and as I cast a sidelong glance over the rest of the class, I decide they’re way more excited over chloroplasts than any high school student really should be. The noise of the paper ripping drowns out the ringing of the lonely bell, and better yet, makes me look deliciously disaffected. The reason I keep tearing pieces of our leftover science class print-outs into slender strips is to keep my classmates from hearing that sound coming from inside me right now. And it’s enough to make your head feel ready to split. It’s crisp and clear and loud, like an alarm bell going off between your ears.
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