Freon Tiger

I sit in the third row of the fifth column of Mr. Zediker's algebra class, in a twisted-steel molded-plastic lacquered-wood one-piece desk that touches the wall opposite the entrance to the room, and I'm not ashamed to admit that I can't do algebra worth shit, but it's a required course for ninth-grade students, even if the bulk of us will barely manage to claw our way out this nightmare, and so I manage the best I can, which mostly consists of filling in the blanks of my math textbook with semi-plausible answers to avert the brunt of Zed's admonishment. If it looks like I'm trying, then he just assumes, rightfully so, that I'm not cut out for mathematics, let alone life en masse, although the joke's on him since neither of us is capable of using French phrases correctly. Stupidity opens doors, I suppose.

A girl sits in the desk ahead of me, and I'm pretty sure she's a young woman but it's difficult to ascertain because I rarely catch a glimpse of her beyond a mane of black hair that flows down past her shoulders. I can say with certainty that it has a lot of volume, but for all I know it could belong a girly guy with excessive tresses, and the fact that I have my head down most of the time inhibits the task of determining gender further although my instincts assure me that it's most definitely a female which sits in front of me. Probably.

The prescription of my glasses is out of date, which is yet another factor that impedes my perception of the girl sitting ahead of me, but it's a mixed blessing, all things considered, because it allows me to squint at the board when called upon by Zed, who just assumes that, in tandem with the tie-dyed shirts I wear repeatedly, I must be a poor, drug-addled kid whose parents choose to spend money on booze rather than provide up-to-date eyewear for their child, and he doesn't care because, as he's informed his students several times, he's two years away from retirement, so he just shakes his head when I misread the numbers on the board and moves on to the next unfortunate soul. Don't blame me for taking advantage of the system, even if it's to my detriment, and I still don't know if the girl in front of me is truly female.

For some reason, through no effort of my own, the wooden portion of my desk is pressing against the plastic seat ahead of me. It was like that when I got here, believe me. I guess I didn't notice at first because I'm a child of the sensory-deprivation age, and I'm still not really aware of it, but I am mindful that the young woman in front of me is actually a young woman because she's twisting around to peer at me. She's quite pretty, I must admit, even though she's throwing a disdainful look toward me which suggests that I just ran over her pet dachshund and picked its shattered remains apart with my teeth, which is weird because I'm not old enough to drive a car without parental supervision. I adjust my glasses, uncertain as to what the future entails.

"Umm, could you, like, move your desk back a bit," she mutters with a puzzling tone of voice, as it's neither presented as a question, nor is it befitting of the horrific expression displayed upon her face. At best, or worst, it's nearly apathetic which is odd because she's telling me to do something, but I'm not one to argue since I'm not that cool.

I shrug, say 'Yeah, sure' and wiggle my desk backward; no one sits behind me, so there's no danger in the move, but still she wears that look of disgust like a Halloween mask come into fashion. Eventually, she turns around, and she probably won't say another word to me for the remainder of the semester, but at least now I know she's a girl, and a strangely alluring one at that, for obvious reasons.

My mind wanders, besieged by fanciful longing, and I can't help but pretend that in five years' time, this girl will be on friendly terms with me (like a friend, but not quite), and ten years beyond that, she'll casually mention that she's had a crush on me for a while now, but I wander even further; what would I say in such a position? The odds are ten to one that my lungs won't welcome oxygen the way they once did, my eyes will no longer be an enticing shade of blue, and my tongue will be as tied as it always has been, so I suppose that I'd be unable to say all that much, and fifteen years from today, I'd probably be comfortable with that. We'll see, which is a mantra I chant whenever wistful thinking defeats me.


(I don't shine like gold, but you'll remember me.)