Being the New Kid is pretty bad. Even if you’re as used to it as I am. All the new cultures to fit in and conform to. All the little different slang and nuances in each and every different school with the different faces you’re forced to see every day (I’m a good kid who doesn’t skip, after all. I’d like to maintain my high GPA please.)

The class was a total bore. It was an AP English class, and we were sharing our poems that we wrote after doing a whole unit about it. The thing is, in this total bumfuck nowhere town in the United States of-A, most of the students in this school don’t really have a single artistic bone in their body. So we get boring, repetitive, trite little poems about their boring lives watching television or losing a football game in drawn out, monotone voices. How cruel of the teacher to put us through this awful bullshit.

I just sat down in my chair and quietly fiddled with my pen, pushing long blond bangs out of my eyes. Maybe doodling around the various moles on my wrist (I have moles all around my body, especially on the face. Not my favorite thing about myself, but I personally don’t believe in doing any procedures on my body if not necessary, no shame if you do).

After the last girl, a somewhat entertaining little poem about a pet fish, went to her seat, Mr. Pearlman gave a drawn out clap and then announced the next name on the list. “Owsley Laurenzi?”

Owsley? What kind of name is Owsley? I did notice a few of my classmates whispering among themselves that I could only barely hear. What’s so special about this guy?

He was awfully cute though, in this sort of nerdy, innocent way I liked. Owsley had thick glasses framing dark eyes, a head of messy brown hair that looked like he had barely combed today, and was nervously chewing on the edge of his short, worn-down fingernails. 

I gave him a look from my own desk and he shot me a glare back. Not mean, but confused and a bit insecure, as if he was saying, “why pay attention to me at all?” 

Owsley read out the poem from his paper, an unfolded but crumpled up little piece of notebook scrap that had been hastily torn out, telling from the jagged edges.

He said it in his voice, steady and surprisingly deep given his shrinking aura. It was about two boys. One boy was friends with the other boy. He wasn’t sure to tell the other boy, however, that he was in love with him. This little story ends with a kiss, drawn out, beautiful.

It sort of reminded me of myself. I’m not too sure of labels, but I guess some people besides myself would label me as a bisexual. I’ve had girlfriends in the past, yeah, but I have kissed some guys before. It was sort of a quick, funny thing but I was kind of into it.

One guy it did bring to mind was a guy named Juan when I lived in a country far from here, who liked me, given that we hung out quite a few times and would always pull on my hair or tease me as if I was a girl in that teasing matter I supposed back then friends do.

But then, one day, after a long day of class, Juan asked me if I wanted to be his boyfriend. I said no, that I wasn’t into guys and I didn’t swing that way. But that was maybe 4 years ago, when I was 14 and didn’t know much about myself or any better. So I thought about Juan and back then and wondered if I saw him again I would feel differently. 

The whole class was silent as usual, which was surprising and ticked me off a bit given how it was about ten times better than the other poems we had here. Mr. Pearlman gave a small clap, and said “Thank you Owsley.”

Personally, I hated it. I hated how everyone moved on and seemed to have ignored Owsley and his art without care. I thought about talking to him, about telling him how much I loved it and that his talent shouldn’t go to waste.

Owsley sat down in his chair, nervous and shrinking as always and all I could think about was him and that amazing poem and how beautiful it all made him seem.