Watermelon
The only thing which made me want to stay at my old school, Arts Magnet, was all the history and connections I had there: My friends, my teachers, and all the crazy shit that happened. When I changed schools I was dumped in a completely new setting, structured classes, absents and tardiness counted, a completely new system with new people I had no idea how to interact with. My eighth grade year would never measure up to the seven years of sheer fucking awesomeness I had at Arts.
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“I,” I took a dramatic pause and glanced around my desk, finding practically all my classmates looking at me, clearly anticipating what I was about to do. “Am about to sit on a chicken egg.” I’d gotten the egg this morning when checking the chicken coop with the other chicken attendees and was sitting in math class, nearly three hours later, when it came to me, I had just had an epiphany; I nearly cackled like a retarded monkey.
“I’ve no clue where I heard this but this will work, I swear, you can totally sit on an egg and it won’t break.” My classmates looked suitably convinced for my tastes and I glanced around the portable classroom; Bill, my math teacher, looked like he was having fun talking to the back of our heads and the door to the portable was open and a steady stream of sunlight entranced me for a moment before I grinned again. The moment was drawing closer. I lightly lifted myself from my plastic teal chair before placing the egg on my seat, hearing it roll around slightly before settling, I sat back down with an air of grim finality offset by my giggling. My classmates erupted into hysterical howls and laughter accompanied by the wet crunch of the egg under me.
I closed my eyes, biting my bottom lip to keep from laughing even if my shaking shoulders gave me away, and cupped my chin nodding sagely, as if deciding on the outcome of an experiment. I then stood, craned my neck to check my yolk and shell covered ass, before practically sashaying to the recycle bin and fishing out a couple pieces of paper, followed by the wheezing and laughter of my classmates. Wiping down my chair and patting down my jeans before sitting down and crossing my hands on my desk, smiling sweetly at my gawking teacher, surrounded by the comforting sounds of my friends and classmates laughter and cries of praise. I knew later in the year my mom wanted to pull me out of Arts and put me in a better, more structured school, to better myself; like with all the programs she’d enroll me in without my input, where I’d lose touch with my friends and only gain acquaintances in return.
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The ball smashed into my face and sent me stumbling back furiously rubbing at the snot running from my nose, checking for blood and just making sure my nose hadn’t finally broken and sent shards of bone into my brain; killing me like that guy Nikolas Cage offed in ConAir. I glare over at Kris as he hits the tether ball and it speeds around the pole. The crowds, mainly boys, around the theather ball pole cheer and scream. And I, one of the two girls who were always playing with the boys at recess, waited patiently as the ball circled closer to the pole, towards Kris’s victory, and then I struck. I punched the ball and watched how it swung back and barely missed knocking off his glasses before catching it as it swung to my side. I smirk, rubbing my sore nose, and juggling the ball from my right to left hand. “Ball or String?” theather ball was very serious at my school. If you even touched the string in a balls game the crowd would scream and shout foul, kicking up dirt and pushing at each other, calming only when the ball was handed over to your opponent; this also happened if you stepped on the line separating you and your opponent. I was better in string games, every one knew it, Kris grinned, “You play strings doesn’t matter I dun care.” Perfect. I positioned myself feet spread, hand holding the ball cocked back, and spun. Lifting my leg, right or left depending on how I played, and spinning on the toes of my grounded foot, once, twice, before launching the ball. (I later learned it was my boobs that probably kept me balanced.)
If there was one thing I missed more than my friends it was probably the theather ball. At Bret Harte Middle School we had P.E. I was new to the changing in the locker rooms and the actual teaching of a class meant to piss you off, tire you out and make you sweat, before running around and diving into bushes playing tag was the only source of exercise I ever got, I was used to running and playing the games; it was the girls I could really make due without. I didn’t make friends easily. I was the new kid, I was weird, strange, someone completely different. I always wore a t-shirt regardless of the weather until I got to Bret Harte, where a group of girls had the balls to constantly comment on my arms which convinced me to constantly wear a hoodie. People at Bret Harte never really understood me, and my peers constant teasing and jeering practically turned me into an antisocial mess. The people I left behind at Arts understood my sense of humor and personality quirks, having once gone around saying I love you to everyone. I was surprised at how people interacted with each other in this strange new world; how rude they could be, one girl had the nerve to ask me as if we’d known each other for years if I was poor after seeing a picture of my sister, how they casually insulted each other and made biting remarks.
It was weird when I finally think about that school year, remembering the fun stuff that happened all while thinking wow, I was surrounded by complete assholes. Since I always roughed around with the boys at Arts during P.E. the girls found me too rough and complained, loudly within earshot of everyone, “I think she BIT me, omigod.” We were playing basketball and I was one of the few girls wearing the standard P.E uniform of blue shorts and white t-shirt on this strangely sunny yet freakishly windy day. The courts were split between boys and girls, based on the fact only the boys were any good at the damn sport with the exception of one or two girls, and I decided meh, what the hell and shuffled over to the girls court, kicking at tiny pebbles. I could dribble a basketball and run circles around some guys but when it came to actually making the ball go through the hoop I was practically hopeless. On the off chance I could hurl the damn ball accurately enough that it actually made it to the hoop, I’d cheer and pat myself on the back. But the two days of basketball were complete torture I was way too something for my team mates and they seemed to feel the need to lie to the Coach to try and get me in trouble. I was seriously shocked I mean if I hated someone to the extent these people seemed to hate me I’d need a damn good reason.
But the worst upset in P.E. came when playing flag football. I looked forward to the days we were going to spend playing one of my favorite sports, I hid my disappointment when the no tackling rule was introduce because at Arts, next to Theather ball and the numerous versions of Tag, there was Tackle Football where a ball was tossed around and whoever caught it would have to charge their way across the thick mat padding the area around the monkey bars avoiding having themselves tackled and pinned under a hoard of energized seventh graders. I played one of the front blockers and was having a kick-ass time shoving people and being shoved back in return when Billie, a girl I was slightly acquainted with but felt was a total bitch, switched out with the guy I was covering. Apparently Billie felt my shoving was unnecessary because the next minute she’s looking at me like I just sacrificed her first born and clutching at her arm before waddling over to the Coach and talking to him while looking over at me as I watched, completely confused. “Spenser,” the coach came over to me, Billie trailing behind him, and placed a hand on my shoulder, “you need to calm down a bit and be a little less violent.” I stopped my self from gaping, what the fuck, and nodded stiffly because I knew if I opened my mouth I start firing off curse after curse. I turned and walked stiffly off the field and settled down on the sidelines, detachedly noticing the gravel biting into my butt, before pulling my knees up to my chest and hiding my face in them; glaring at the kids still laughing and having fun then to the coach and finally Billie, my eyes misting. I felt that the sooner I left this place, despite the after school programs where I actually had a tiny handful of friends and the time of my life, my new and exciting science class; blowing up pipettes, leaving the tips of you fingers red, and electrocuting yourself and class mates being some of the cool shit we got to do, the happier I’d be. Leaving the Oakland school system would get me away from these people; I couldn’t wait till high school.
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I stood on the very edge of the yellow bumpy line on the BART platform at Fruitvale Station, looking at a rusted quarter, ignoring the huddled group of dark skinned men grinning, covered in paint splattered clothes and talking in rapid, smooth sounding, Spanish next to the escalator. My very first day of high school started early, it was around six when my sister smacked me in the face to get me up, “Bitch wake up!” “Leave me alone fatass”, and around seven when we left the house. I wasn’t really excited, just ready, for what, I have no clue. It was cold on the platform and two San Francisco trains had already breezed past me and my sister which left me wondering as to when this damn train was supposed to show up.
I was looking across the platform when the Richmond train finally pulled in, noticing an Airplane taking off from the Oakland Airport in the distance flying off to some unknown destination, steady and confident, I paused for a moment and grinned a little before shrugging and squeezing into the all ready crowded and warm train. Hmmmmmm, I wonder if there’s a good place to eat breakfast in Berkeley?