Cross: Ch. 1 My Life as a Blank Sheet of Paper

Chapter 1:1

My Life as a Blank Sheet of Paper2

My name is Stephen. I’m your average student out of a mindless army of teenagers at just another average high school in the middle of nowhere in particular. Well, I don’t like to think of myself as average, but in the end I guess that’s what I am. I mean, let’s face it: I’m not really that smart, I’m terrible at sports, I don’t know very many girls, and I can’t do a back flip. How much more average can you get? I am, sad to say, a blank sheet of paper. Sometimes though, I wonder if there isn’t something under the paper that no one knows about. Something that not even I know about.3

So anyways, there I was, walking down the hall with my life long pal, Vincent. Vincent and I were having a deep discussion on why Mr. Grossen was the dumbest science teacher to know a proton from a photon, when up walked Gorgeous on two legs. 4

“Hello, Vincent,” she purred. “Do you have a date for the dance yet?”5

The dance, by the way, was a couple of weeks away. I didn’t even know there was a dance yet.6

“Yes,” he answered. “But you should ask Stephen. Stephen is much sexier than I am.” He slapped me on the back.7

I smiled my most charming smile.8

She gave me a look that threatened to scrape me off the bottom of her shoe, then turned and walked away.9

“Oh well, call me if you change your mind. You’ve got my number,” she said over her shoulder.10

“She doesn’t recognize a true sexy man when she sees one, does she Stephen?” consoled Vincent.11

“Yeah, right. Thanks anyways, Vincent,” I answered.12

“Hey, no problem.”13

We performed our signature hand shake. I’m pretty sure Vincent didn’t have a date for the dance yet.14

So, that’s my life. Pretty sad, huh? Well, you might ask, why is this loser writing a book? The answer, I’m afraid, is much too complicated to fit into this sentence, so I decided to write a book about it. Pretty clever, huh? Okay, maybe not.15

Anyways, if you’re still with me, I think that to tell this story properly, I’ll have to give you a little background first. You see, I wasn’t always such a loser. Back when I was a little kid, I was quite the guy. I had a wide variety of friends, including girls, which was unusual at that age. I was about as happy as a first grader could be. My teachers loved me and called me talented. My parents loved me and called me successful. My friends loved me and called me Stephen.16

And then what happened? Well, Dad got a transfer. It was only for a couple years, but when we returned, all my friends had moved away, forgotten me, or just didn’t want to be my friend. Except, of course, for Vincent.17

I met Vincent when I was five and we’ve been best friends ever since. He’s one of those guys who can just tell what you’re feeling without you having to say it. I have tons of good memories about Vincent. Anyways, while I was out of state, Vincent stayed here and never missed a beat. Consequently, Vincent knows about twenty times as many people as I do. Not only that, but for some reason he attracts girls like a magnet. Vincent is not a blank sheet of paper.18

But no matter how different our social standing, Vincent has always stuck by me and I have always stuck by him. Once in kindergarten, he got sent to the principal’s office and Ms. Kellger had to let me go with him because I refused to leave him. That’s how close we were. Of course, it helps that we had last names that were almost identical, so we have most of the same classes and lockers right next to each other. Still, not many people find friends that close. He’s stuck by me for four years since I moved back, and never once has he been less than my closest friend. Why, you may ask? I have no idea.19

The first day of school is where it truly begins, I guess. You can imagine it as well as I can remember: beady-eyed women stumbling over names on the roll call and daring you to correct them with your furious glares. Vincent and I decided that the best seats were always in the back corner, away from those terrible vultures of education. Unfortunately, those vile women had devised seating charts. Curses! And yet, they had been so foolish to seat us alphabetically. The upside was that Vincent and I still sat next to each other. The downside was that we sat in the front row.20

Of course, there were some exceptions, such as Mr. Grossen, who seemed nice enough but had some sort of speaking problem, and Ms. DeMayo, who was just plain strange. The most memorable, though, was definitely Mr. Carol.21

When Vincent and I first walked into his world history classroom, we chose the back corner seats, as usual, and prepared to be shifted to the front for the umpteenth time that day. Surprisingly, the muscular man with a buzz cut up front appeared to have no intention of moving us. He looked like he was in his early twenties, not the kind of guy you’d expect to be a teacher. He calmly sat behind his desk on his computer, seemingly oblivious to twenty five teenagers yelling, flirting, and basically starting the year off on a rowdy note. Amid the racket, he quietly stood up and wrote “Mr. Carol” on the blackboard. The mayhem continued. He turned around to glare at us.22

Then, quite suddenly, he barked, “QUIET!”23

The room got dead silent. Never have I heard a teacher yell at his students like Mr. Carol did on the first day of school.24

“Thank you,” he continued in a quiet growl. “The purpose of this class is to have fun and learn, but if things get out of hand I will be forced to yell like I just did. I will tolerate no talking without raising your hand. I will tolerate no food or drinks in this classroom. I will tolerate no disruption of the learning process. That includes farting.”25

At that moment, someone decided to let one rip. Vincent roared with laughter. I, having a little stronger survival instinct than Vincent, contented myself with an inward smile and quick scan of the room for the offender. Surprisingly, Mr. Carol did not seem upset. Instead, he grinned and held up a small electric device.26

“I’m glad you like my fart machine. I received this from a student two years ago,” he explained. “Other gifts that have to do with farting will be greatly appreciated.”27

Well, you can guess where it went from there. Mr. Carol’s World History class was undeniably the best class I’ve ever had in high school. Not to say that no one learned anything. Mr. Carol seemed to posses a miraculous talent of disciplining and teaching us, yet having fun at the same time. I don’t know, maybe it was because of his age that he could relate to us better, but some how he made everything about world history interesting. He was always willing to go off the beaten path into topics that everyone thought was interesting, such as Aztec sacrificial procedures or that weird plate thing those guys in Africa do. It was education in all its original glory, school the way it should be.28

Quite the opposite of Ms. DeMayo.29

Ms. DeMayo was a short, dandruff-plagued lady with dark curly hair. Upon entering her classroom I was bathed with a warm, musty atmosphere that smelled faintly like last Thanksgiving’s stuffing. This was one of the only classes I didn’t share with Vincent, but I chose my customary seat in the back corner anyways. Ms. DeMayo leered at me with what she might have imagined to be a friendly smile and promptly placed me in the front row. Next to me she placed a kid with hair that stuck out in various directions and a surfing T-shirt. I immediately disliked him.30

“Um, Ms. DeMayo, can I sit in the back, please?” he whined.31

She grinned as if he had just said a funny joke and said, “No, no, no, no, no. You all must sit in alphabetical order so that I can memorize your names, Stephen.”32

“My name’s not Steven, it’s Jason. His name’s Steven,” he added helpfully while pointing at me. “And the class isn’t in alphabetical order.” 33

Duh, I thought. It would take an idiot not to notice that.34

“Very funny, Stephen,” she grinned again.35

A cheerleader in the seat behind me, whose name was Shannon, giggled foolishly. My dislike for Jason grew.36

“Now, class,” Ms. DeMayo continued, “I know all of you would like to have some fun today, so we—yes, what is it Stephen?”37

“No, really, my name’s Jason. His name’s—“ 38

“Will you please be quiet so I can continue the lesson?” she begged.39

Jason looked confused. “Um, okay…” He was obviously more used to being yelled at than begged by his teachers.40

“Thank you, Stephen.”41

He looked as if he was about to say something, but he caught himself just in time. Shannon giggled again.42

“Now class—where was I?—Oh, yes. We are going to make nametags!” declared Ms. DeMayo with triumph in her voice.43

Her announcement was met by incredulous stares. Jason let out a half-hearted cheer but was quickly silenced with a look from Shannon.44

Ms. DeMayo seemed slightly disappointed that the mere mention of nametags had not caused us to leap for joy.45

“Yes, well, I’ll just pass these out here and let you guys figure them out,” she mumbled dejectedly. She gave all of us giant nametags that each had a little dotted line in between two bold ones, much like you would find in a kindergartener’s desk. Then she slunk to her desk and sat with her head in her hands.46

The classroom quickly dissolved into anarchy.47

Jason grinned at me and said, “I’ll write ‘Stephen’ on mine and you write ‘Jason’ on yours, okay?”48

I couldn’t help but smile. It was a pretty funny idea.49

“No problem, Stephen,” I conceded.50

Shannon giggled.51

************************************************************************52

Her rich, cheerful laugh echoes through my mind, flowing through the dark crevices like a bubbling stream. Overhead, the rain gently massages the metal roof and flows down to the ground behind the nearby window. She sits against the wall opposite mine laughing at my attempts to catch goldfish in my mouth. The bag has been left unopened in my suitcase, I had totally forgotten about it until its rediscovery a few minutes ago. 53

I toss another one in the air. This one drops perfectly onto my waiting tongue. She raises an eyebrow in silent appreciation of my skill. Her friend says something, and her attention is diverted to the conversation around her.54

My gaze wanders down the hall, lazily shifting from face to face of the friends and strangers of my church’s youth group. Some are bored or asleep; others laugh or chat actively with their friends. Many are enjoying a contest between two teens to see who can walk the farthest on their hands. One of them topples over amid noises of disappointment.55

Uninterested, I allow my mind to drift. I find that once again I’m looking at the beautiful girl across from me. It’s hard to put her beauty into words. The only thing that comes to mind is the prettiest girl you’ve ever seen, times ten. If you think that’s hard to imagine, just think how hard it is to look at her. Her waistline has just the perfect degree curve, her legs, one tucked beneath her chin and the other stretched in front of her, are perfect in all dimensions.  Shadows from the rain outside dance across her face as she talks with her friends, trickling like ghostly raindrops down her perfectly smooth cheeks.56

I hastily break my stare and chastise myself for being rude. Then I notice that she’s looking right at me. A shy smile creeps across my face as I nervously fidget with my bag of goldfish. At loss for what to do, I toss another one in the air and catch it in my mouth.57

She laughs her rich, bubbly laugh.58