Shadows of Silverlake

Bouncer’ ought to be a word used for athletes or someone that’s always active, not someone who’s a glorified bully, paid to intimidate the physically non-domineering’ Clyde said as he plopped into his seat with as much noise as could be generated in taking one’s seat.

I noticed the slight wetness of his hair and the redness of his face, with the upturned mouth. It was either one of two scenarios; it was either Clyde had somehow left his house in a hurry that he hadn’t dried his hair, which was about an hour from school, or he’d had a ‘friendly’ chat with the Muzzlers .

But wait, I’m getting ahead of myself, where are my manners? My name is Elowen, but you can call me Elowen, Loe, Lowe, Lo, Low; heck, you can even call me Desert storm or Pharaoh. I’m just kidding, but go crazy, I mean what’s in a name, …as long as it’s endearing. I can be endearingly poetic, as the reference to Shakespeare will allude to, and analytical to the point of being annoying, because sometimes people don’t want to think things through. I do not like fried eggs in any form apart from a tomato omelette.

" Did you take the bus to school?’ I asked Clyde.

‘Yes’, he answers with a confused look at the unexpected question.

Clyde took the bus to school, which would mean that he had gotten to school at the same time as most of the kids in school, and that would mean that he’s been in the school premises for at least an hour and a half or so, ample enough time for ones hair to get dried, even if they had a late shower. This would bring us to the second and most probable option.

‘ The Janitor’s closet has a lock on the inside, and it’s the safest place to keep things out of reach of people ‘ I said , somehow making his look of confusion deepen.

I sighed, ‘ Next time you see the Muzzlers, just get into the Janitor’s’

He looked at me with wide eyes and a dark flush, then he looked away.

The Muzzlers aren’t a wildlife awareness group, neither are they animal control. They are a group of special people in Silverlake High, who have a signature move of dipping the heads of kids in toilet bowls, like fries in ketchup, and expanding underwear in creatively painful ways. They can be quite the creative bunch, ready with new ideas and methods of subduing children. The wet hair upon Clyde’s head would mean that they would have taken a trip to the toilet bowl.

I am already exhausted ahead of time for the day ahead of me. Today is one of those days when you really contemplate the importance of the formal schooling system. I would much rather be asleep right now than listen to another mathematical formula being coined.

‘ Okay now, everyone settle down’, Mr Sigmund said as he walked in, his signature move at trying to get the attention of the class.

This is the part where I zone you out, I love school, but today, I can’t stand it, talk less of letting you go through it. I’m not apathetic to school, but because I spent the last night alternating between watching comedy club and a documentary on the evolution of potato chips. I don’t want to hear any judgement okay, I needed to de-stress from the math equation that just wouldn’t give.

So, here we are, you listening to me as I zone out, in a bid not to take an involuntary nap in History. I’ve tried doodling, but somehow I end up making scraggly incomprehensible lines that just speak of paper wastage.

To my left, are Lexa and Dean laughing over a viral video of a kid found buck naked in the gym locker room. Why that is supposed to be funny or endearing to the public’s appeal is beyond me. I can’t walk three lockers without seeing someone snickering over their phone.

Lexa and Dean are being very obnoxious in their laughter, and half the class can hear it, but somehow Mr Sigmund remains oblivious to all that’s going on.

Fast forward to lunch break, and here I am sitting at a table, with my ham sandwiches and peanut butter banana splits. I watch the cafeteria scene play out, like any ostracised weirdo kid character in a story. I can spot the new kid, kind of obvious by his ‘Bella Swan’ awkwardness and fast darting eyes moving from table to table, trying to decipher who is not a shark enough to allow him to sit with them.

I know this should be the part where I wave them over and tell them to sit with me, make them feel comfortable and at home, like they gave that one friend they can rely on, but not today. My response is torn between staring out ahead or avoiding all forms of eye contact. But before I can do either, this kid walks up to my table with all the grace and poise of a duck on roller skates, and plops into the seat across from me.

‘ You’ve got some balls, kid, you realise that it’s bad manners to sit when someone doesn’t ask or invite you to. What if I’m one of those mean kids that will make it their life’s aim to make your life miserable for something as flimsy as taking a seat?’ I said to the kid, amused at his actions.

‘ I’m sorry, it’s just that I didn’t know where else to sit, and you were looking at me’ , he said, packing up his lunch and getting up.

I laughed at his discomfort, ‘ it’s fine, I’m just messing with you. You can sit here ‘

I could see that he wasn’t fully at ease, and looked just about ready to bolt.

‘ What’s your name?’ I asked, returning my attention to my food

‘ Ken ‘, he said

‘ You sure don’t look like it though’ , I said , not sure if I was trying to make a joke or a well placed barb.