Bored

Another story I wrote....

Physics class. Most boring of all classes in the 7-period day. Nothing better to make your eyelids droop to that dangerously close state of face-planting into your desk, let alone getting that wicked parallel set of lines across your face from a spiral notebook. Let's just call it a temporary tattoo.

Today was a 10 on the snore-worthy scale of boredom. 90% of the girls in this particular class were wither resting their heads in their hands, blankly staring at the dry-erase board, or texting friends on three-hundred dollar phones, hidden behind outrageously large designer purses. The guys were... well... sleeping. 

With my pen as a metaphorical sword, I fought off said boredom by drawing. To me, nothing was more appealing than doodling on a scratch piece of paper when the teacher couldn't care less. Soon enough, I found myself dragging the tip across the next clean page in my notebook. 

Most of the time, the pictures that I squeezed out of the Papermate were completely random and without purpose. I think today I actually tried to make a recognizable image. It turned out that my love for my guitar weaseled out onto the page. 

I rapidly sketched contour lines for a knobby hand playing what looked like a G7 chord on the neck of the guitar. Swift lines became shadows and a three dimensional figure began to take shape. Another hand followed down to the base of the instrument, plucking away on the strings. Not bad for twenty minutes of monotonous ramble on Newton's theories. 

I guess I also have an obsession with drawing hands. I guess that being an artist has some relation because I haven't figured out how to draw with my toes yet. My hands are my connection with basically everything: high-fives, eating, fixing my hair, driving, playing guitar, cracking my knuckles when I'm nervous, etc. If I didn't have hands, it would be as if my world were in black and white - the real vibe would be missing from the picture. 

Today was also different from the rest on a separate scale. The kid next to me saw what I was drawing. The thing is, he's different. No, scratch that - he's awesome. He wasn't like other guys I knew. He acted his age, not his shoe size. He actually knew how to say "Thank You" and "You're Welcome." He knew how to apply deodorant on a daily basis.  He understood that you earned your grades, teachers didn't hand them out. And he knew how to play guitar. Really well. 

Today he noticed my drawing. He saw the lines and shadows and eraser marks. I caught the fact that his jaw dropped the slightest bit. I pretended not to notice. 

"That's sick," were his words. I took it as a compliment.

"Uh... thanks," I replied, somewhat lamely.

I saw his eyes move up and down my notebook. I hoped that he didn't notice the flaws.

Finally his eyes caught mine. They were bright, emerald green.

I immediately knew what I was going to draw the next time I battled boredom.