Day 1 Scribbling-doodling- an observant moron would retort such words at my awkward attempts at
conversing in the bedlam of the bustling metropolis that is Dundy High's courtyard, during the
mist of a neglected lunch. Sure it may be doodling-or for lack of a better term scribbling- to them,
but to me, while I drift away from the sneers and obvious whispers about my gangly, rouged,
appearance, it's an outlet for me to immerse myself into a world only penetrable by virgin pens.
The world of drawing, where the irritating jargon of the jocks, preps, and sulking goths- not to
mention the want ' to ' be innovators by being their own click, is nonobservant and the fresh
scratches and scribbles can be tethered into an image that can ignite the stagnate joy in me. It may
be novice, it may have no concrete meaning, and it may induce a mild migraine sensation, but to me
it's awesome and a step forward into the exotic path of artist. Ha, me artist ' no ' , I'm
just Jerard doodling in the protective shadows of an ancient oak tree, just balmy enough that
perspiration doesn't cling to my cargo shorts or plain T ' Shirt' waiting for the tell tale
call of my muse. 'Umm' can I, by chance, sit here with you?' a girl, who has to be in my
grade, (eleventh) timidly asks. I commence my meaningless scrawls again but her tone forces me to
glance up towards her. 'I'm new, and it seems that everyone at this school isn't keen on
allowing new people in their clicks ' besides you, that is.' Well, I'm the true innovator '
that's why everybody loathes me and spreads nasty rumors about me so, I don't even
know if she's my type. Curvy figure, acid wash jeans, same olive tone as I, maroon eyes (me also),
and scarlet hair that limply tumbles down her backside, framing her circular face; albeit it would
be hypocritical of me no to give her an audition, so I give her clashing emerald tang top a try.
'Sure, I don't mind at all,' Truth be told I really don't, and I wave her over in
wholehearted eagerness. I finally have an ally against the sneers from the innocent bystanders; this
will be pleasant if it last. Day 3 We meet at what we now call 'the line tree' (scribbles just
sounds so blah) everyday at lunch now, and we even have a couple of classes together: Lunch ' is
it so a class ' English III, and World History (doodling capital of the world I tell you, for I
despise it with a passion like no other). Although lunch is the essence of our blossoming friendship
' where our lives are broadcasted beneath the impregnable sanctuary of 'the line tree' ' we
still maintain a friendly bond. It was yesterday that I discovered her name to be Andy. At that
revelation she glared at me and warned me not to laugh and, to my ultimate pleasure, all I did was
grin mischievously and chuckle under my breath. In the veiling shade provided by 'the line tree'
and the bedlam encompassing us, she didn't even take note of my rebellious snicker' at least I
think she didn't anyway. Until she sucker punched me in the tender muscles of my shoulders; cotton
isn't adequate protection from the wrath of an enraged girl ' especially my sapphire T '
Shirt. 'What did I say? Not to laugh, yea I thought so. Hopefully this will teach you a lesson in
chivalry,' she is still donning, and I'm still wincing at the pulsing pain from my under
protected shoulder, massaging it slightly, when I randomly decide to throw a pile of wilting lawn
clippings toward her inclined body. As I expect, it ceases her drawl about appreciating women but
provokes her established talent of grass throwing. 'Okay, you want a grass war do you? Well here
it is,' no, that's not me, it's Andy's play jaunt. I swear she has more testosterone than me
coursing through her veins even her glee filled tone is suggesting some of the male hormone. She
wins. I lose dreadfully, in a masquerade of shredded grass and premature rose flowers of the weed
variety. It was a difficult decision to make; but, in the end, I allowed her rein victorious with
her army of insipid vegetation. Because that's what acquaintances are for ' not friends 'I
have provided her a third day here at the click harboring Dundy High to be backed in effervescent
joy. Now comes tomorrow; will we speak ' I don't know? Day 5 World History has to be the
epiphany of bland subjects. I mean come on, how many plausible ways are there for a teacher to tell
his pupils the ancient Maya's civilization collapsed, and they all vanished without a trace. That
must have been how the television show 'Without a Trace' was conceived. One mundane World
History teacher muttering the same exact things over and over again inspired a teenager lost in a
day dream. Luckily for me, I proudly sit slouched in the back row nearest to the blotched windows.
Sometimes a pristine view of the boisterous outside world is visible from the minuscule holes in the
mounting grime: today isn't one of those occasional days. A torrential rain is accompanying the
bulbous clouds that await our departure to the bus or, in my case, a deadbeat silver Nissan Ultima
(Luckily, Andy and I have already had our session under the 'line tree' today.), trashing about
on the paneled glass adjacent to me. Hmm, is it possible that Mr. Lumbar is actually raising his
voice in rebellion to the whipping thunder and momentarily blinding lighting? Nope, it's just Andy
feebly attempting to tether me back from my distraught position in this too ' small ' for ' my
' gangly ' legs wooden desk. She is my partner in crime in this slightly endurable class; she
kicks it back with me, where his dreadfully whiney mutter is barley audible on the normal days.
'Hey, draw me,' she jubilantly whispers. Now she is completely fixated on my drawing pad that,
quite indecently, lie a blank canvas in the event of an interesting storm knocking on the window.
Her excited expression is intimidating. 'I know you like to draw, so draw me. Just don't level
my breast and give me a shaggy mustache, like yours,' another warning, then she proceeds, ' Just
think of it as a random person, and everything will be fine,' she curtails this joyous statement
with a rapid, rhythmic, tap of my drawing pad. How am I suppose to do this; I only draw abstract
things? I haven't had a random person approach me
like this before. This is the queerest behavior in my book asking me ' no telling me ' to draw
her. Who does she think I am, Picasso' but I don't want to displease her? After all she is one
of my only acquaintances in this clich'd school, did I mention I also have been expelled from
three other schools according to them, and I don't want to lous the only person who doesn't
avoid me as it I am the plague. A treacherous act, not condoning rude, I would be committing if I
just deadpanned no at her 'request', so hesitantly, I rectify my slouching posture and turn
towards beaming being, stubby pencil in my hand. It only takes a minute moment to fixate the joyous
image in my mind, whilst the majority of the class engages into a controversial debate on war. Like
the Mona Lisa, Andy practices perfect stamina as I actually attempt to draw her on my blank
sketchpad, but I only alternate my glare when my confidence begins to wane, which is practically
flanking every stroke of my whining pencil. When my 'masterpiece' is complete, my heart is
flexing rapidly at the mere thought at providing Andy the fruits of my labor, for I have never
allowed people to glace upon my drawings. Well' I think I would if they would ever apply interest
in them but then again, maybe not. Just as surprising is the sweat that is strolling down my palms;
the battering rain has halted once I nervously place my exhausted pencil down upon my desk. Andy is
fashioning an impassive expression now; nothing can ever make her grimace, not even the occasional
remark about her name. Strutting my own sly grin (where has this come from?!) I gently tear away the
parchment from its rankled seams ' almost blotching my efforts at drawing the imperfect image with
a tear saying slightly cowering in anxiety, 'Well'umm, it's done. But don't get your hopes
up; I'm an amateur after all.' Although the qualm outside has ceased, the now rigorous debate in
this confined classroom has reached a level that is unprecedented in all my years at Dundy '
especially World History. Who would have known that students would spit with such mace at their own
colleges in World History or that it would be about a random war in a country that I have no
knowledge about? Nevertheless, Andy's features relax once more as she swiftly takes the crippled
paper from my trembling hands; even an acquaintance evokes great influence upon me. My apprehensive
expression must be queuing her off that I'm extremely sensitive about my drawings; she just stares
at it for a few moments, creating a blockade before her face. One more minute passes ' is swear it
feels like a decade ' and she chuckles a bit as she gently places the picture back on her own
decrepit desk. 'You gave me a mustache!' she points at me with her index finger while accusing
me. 'Why yes, I did. Got a problem with that?' I reply slightly laughing at the humility of the
situation, but also as to contemplating over what she may inflict upon me now. Another blow to the
arm, I hope not, for my shoulder hasn't recovered from her jab two days ago. 'Yes, I do,' a
short retort and I barley notice when she plants a kiss on my blemished cheek. 'Now would a guy do
that to you or do you swing that way.' As her words evaporate from around me my body temperature
skyrockets, and it feels as if my face has taken a fancy towards the absent sun. 'I ' I ' I
-,' stammering doesn't aid in this increasingly awkward moment. Its density is only manifesting
now, and she quickly cuts my faulting words off. 'Shh,' placing her same finger on my lips, she
halts my inarticulate words. 'That was nothing, just a friendly reminder that I am a girl.' Her
emphasis only resurrects the crooked smile because I know that she's a girl already. She didn't
need a physical demonstration, but it was quite pleasurable for me. Friends, yes I guess we are now
friends. In fact I grasp her finger that still lies upon my crackled lips and pronounce, only to
her, 'I christen this the beginning of a friendship.' 'So do I,' she replies as she takes
her seat back in her desk, looking past the bushy mustache I just drew on her mural. After five days
of hanging out, mostly in this torture chamber (World History) and besides, she is the polar
opposite of the glaring clicks. Maybe this artist negative, has finally discovered
his true friend. I just need to allow them into my life, embracing the jokes, but tell me again '
why didn't I think of this sooner?