Mateo Rici

I have nothing to do. My Physics lab teacher has yet to make an appearance and so, for today, everyone's off the hook. There are 2 classes worth of nutty teenagers who dont know whether they should be happy that they dont have class or irritated at having to wake up so early for nothing. Personally I would have liked to keep the company of my matress for a while longer than I did. He wasnt around last week either, and it makes me wonder if he even knows that we were there and he should have been too.

I toddle off on my own after my classmates leave for the terror of calculus. My nose having been too stuffed up for comfortable respiration, and my eyes being to leaky to focus on the blasted squiggles I knew in the back of my mind had to be numbers, I failed the diagnostic test last sem, had then been unceremoniously dumped into math one and am now a semester behind. I suppose its not sooo bad. And then again, there isnt very much I can do about it now, is there? Not really, no.

The errant blobs that I call my feet have led me to one of the newer buildings within the SEC complex area. As I push open the doors a frigid blast of wind hits me. A sharp contrast to the stifling heat of the outside world. Another contrast is that of sound. Or rather the lack of it. There seems to be a hush over every single person in the room, bent over a desk, not a sound escaping their lips or from anywhere else. The silence disturbs me. Not to mention the paranoid feeling that if I were to breathe, everyone would hear the rasping intake and pull pitchforks from their nether regions and stab me to death. The price of defiling this silent sanctuary.

Cautiously, I inhale. Not a sound. I smile to myself and am, for other than the usual reason, very happy that my nasal passages are clear. This mini triumph of breathing in hand, my confidence grows and I decide that I have the audacity to pull up a chair. I take 4 steps past a motionless figure, either a non-to-pretty statue left there as decoration, or a gangly bespectacled boy engrossed in his copy of "Enjoying Fiction" that big orange book that I bought and practically never used. I pull the chair from the table, lifting it off of the floor in the effort to minimize any noises and wince when I hear the dull scraping sound of the chair legs on tile as I settle my posterior into the seat.

I crane my neck around, looking for signs of life and irritation. None. No one seems to have heard me or that treacherous chair. Everyone is just as silent and unmoving as before. No steely glares, scowls, or looks of loathing. Most importantly, no pitchforks. I relax. The fear for my well-being slowly seeping away, taking the tension with it. My jaw unclenches and I begin to breathe again. I am safe.

Tentatively, I begin to settle down. I bring my big white notebook out of my bag, the doggy on the cover peering at me with its adorable still life eyes. Next, out of my pocket comes my trusty zebra super-fine tip pen, just between you and me I enjoy people noting my tiny handwriting and this pen helps with the job. Lastly I take my iPod out of my pocket and sticking the headphones in my ears get ready to press play and move into my own little bubble with the spell of silence closing in around me. But before I can start any of the music, horror of horrors there is a racket. My eyes widen as I look down at my right hand pocket, as it vibrates, the distended tone of spongebob squarepants screaming from the region of my hip.

Ah shit.

The spell shatters as I grope my pocket clumsily, frantically, deperately. The tone seeming more obscenely loud the longer it plays. my ears are still ringing as the tone is cut short. I look up sheepishly to find that all eyes have turned from their books to my face which appears to have turned its trademark tomatoe red. My cheeks burn with a furnace fueled by shame that is painfully etched all over my crimson countenance.

Now they react. Now they scowl and glare with a deep disgust at this noisy, oaffish creature. They'll be bringing out those pitchforks any minute now. Slowly, I rise from my chair mumbling apologies and back out of the room as silence returns.

I think Ill wait in the caf instead.





prosepusher

*an initial attempt at creative non-fiction*