Casey
Casey’s backpack slammed into the ground as she carelessly shrugged it off her shoulders. Years ago this sort of behavior would have drawn stares from her classmates, but they had long since grown accustomed to her personality, and besides, the classroom was almost empty. A fashion slave, as she called the girls who obsessed over their makeup and wore $800 jeans, was hunched over at a desk, busily applying mascara. In another corner, a couple jocks – football players if their letterman jackets were anything to go by – were quietly guffawing at some boneheaded wisecrack. A scrawny boy seated in the front row was leafing through a tome labeled “Calculus: An Integrated Approach,” pausing only to adjust a pair of oversized glasses that were probably upsetting his center of gravity. The teacher, Mr. Gilman, was nowhere to be seen. Casey glanced at the wall clock – ten minutes ‘till starting time. She guessed the teacher was scarfing down donuts in the teacher’s lounge. She leaned back in her seat and propped her shoes up on the desk in front of her, hoping to catch a little more sleep before the day began.
The relative silence of the room was broken as a pair of fashion slaves made their entrance. “Like, I can not believe Miranda is wearing that jacket with that skirt,” one of them said in outrage.
“Like, totally,” the other replied indignantly. The slave at the desk hastily tucked her mirror and makeup away and greeted her friends in shallowness.
“Okay, get this. You will not believe who I saw Gordon with,” slave one was saying.
“Who?” the other two said in near perfect unison.
“Allison!” Appalled gasps all around.
“Allison Garrison?” slave two inquired. Slave one nodded.
“Like, what the heck does he see in her?” slave three chimed in.
“Like, she doesn’t even wear makeup,” slave two said as if this crime was tantamount to murder.
“Like, I know, and she, like, shops at the worst stores.”
“Like, totally.”
Casey interrupted their conversation with a barely audible groan. The slaves immediately snapped around to see who had disturbed their counsel. “Like, what do you want, Baglow?” Casey didn’t bother with a response. “Hello, I’m talking to you,” the slave continued.
“You better watch your mouth or I’ll put my fist in it,” Casey replied indifferently, cracking one eye open. The slaves were only a few feet away, and they all gasped and tittered at her threat.
“Like, you’re a disgrace to women everywhere,” slave one said condescendingly.
“Better a disgrace than an idiot,” Casey shot back.
“Ugh!” The slaves gave her dirty looks and stalked away, still gossiping amongst themselves. She put her feet back on the floor and buried her face in her arms. There weren’t a lot of things she disliked, but fashion slaves, Shakespeare, and coming back to school were a few of them.
“Hey, Case,” said a male voice. She could hear the boy taking a seat beside her. “First day back’s always the worst, huh?” Casey grunted in reply, and the boy laughed. “Well, cheer up. It’ll get better.”
Casey raised her head and blinked as the bright classroom light threatened to blind her. “How was your break, Mark?” she asked.
“You should know,” Mark replied, grinning despite the fact that the sun had yet to peek over the horizon. “You threw snowballs at me almost every day.”
“Except Christmas,” Casey nodded in agreement.
“Yeah. And that was when you left that two-headed snowman on the front step,” Mark laughed. “Nearly gave my mom a heart attack.”
Casey was still too tired to laugh, but she managed a smile for him. They’d been inseparable since the day she’d bloodied his nose back in second grade. It was a simple story, really. He’d stolen her pencil, she’d tried to reason with him, and when that failed she’d punched him in the face, end of story. When her two-day suspension expired, she and Mark became best friends. Strange? Maybe, but Casey was glad to have a friend like him.
Mr. Gilman entered the room just five seconds ahead of the tardy bell, his face red and sweaty with exertion. He certainly wasn’t known for his athleticism, and to Casey’s sleep-deprived mind, his gray suit made him look vaguely like an elephant. Mr. Gilman puffed his way to the front of the classroom and set his briefcase on the desk, flipping it open and rustling through some papers until he found the attendance sheet. He quickly scanned the classroom and silently checked the boxes on the roll accordingly. The whole process took less than twenty seconds. Mr. Gilman double-checked his work, nodded with satisfaction, and put the papers back in his briefcase.
“Welcome back,” he said, still panting as he took his usual position behind the lectern. A couple students mumbled a reply. “I hope you all enjoyed your break, and I certainly hope none of you forgot about your essays.” Every student, with the exception of the scrawny nerd in the front row, groaned in unison as they shuffled through backpacks for their papers. The classroom descended into mild disorder as thirty or so kids shuffled to the front of the room and back to their desks. Casey noticed with a detached interest that none of the fashion slaves moved from their seats. Doubtless Mr. Gilman would be hearing their sob stories later.
Mr. Gilman carefully gathered the pile of essays and stacked them neatly on his desk. “Open your textbooks to page two-hundred-and-fifty-six,” he said. Casey lethargically drew the book from her backpack and flipped through the pages. The words “Hamlet: Prince of Denmark” stared up at her from the page, and she groaned inwardly. If there was anything she hated more than Shakespeare and the first day after break, it was the two of them combined. She steeled herself for a long fifty-five minutes, hoping none of the fashion slaves would get called on to read.
Mr. Gilman finally arrived at the correct page and cleared his throat. “Can I get a volunteer to read? Yes, um…”
“Kyle,” the kid said, and twenty-nine heads whirled around. None of them recognized the name or voice, so his next words were predictable. “I’m, uh, new here.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Mr. Gilman said. “I didn’t realize… ah well. Please read the first paragraph for us, Kyle.”
While the new kid read, Casey extracted a beaten notebook from her backpack, flipped to a clean page, and scribbled a note to Mark. This is going to be murder.
Mark chuckled quietly before writing his response. Wonder where the new kid came from?
How would I know? Casey scribbled back. He’s kind of weird, though.
Why do you say that? he asked.
He volunteered to read, didn’t he? Casey pointed out.
I guess, Mark agreed. He seems like an okay guy, though. Maybe we should talk to him after class.
Casey studied the new kid has he sat down, wondering if it would be worth the effort. He was thin and had an academic air about him. Maybe he likes to study, she wrote. It’ll give us someone to copy.
Mark sighed audibly as he wrote out his reply. Could you at least try to be nice for once?
I’m sure he’ll be fine by himself.
Are you kidding? Remember when Angie moved here? It took her three weeks to find someone to talk to!
Why do you want to talk to this kid, anyway?
To be nice. It’s not easy coming to a new school.
Well, I don’t think –
“Casey Baglow!”
Casey’s head snapped up. Mr. Gilman was watching her with a look of indignant displeasure. “Are you passing notes again?”
“No, sir,” Casey replied. Mr. Gilman motioned for her to put the notebook away, and she grudgingly returned it to her backpack.
Satisfied, Mr. Gilman returned to the lesson. “Christina, would you please read the next line?”
Slave number two made a big show of standing up, and Casey prepared herself for the inevitable onslaught. “‘Nay, answer me: stand and unfold yourself.’ Unfold yourself?” she repeated. “Mr. Gilman, I don’t get it.”
Casey felt her spirits sink even further when she found the line they were on. Two lines in and the girl was already lost. If there was one thing Casey hated more than Shakespeare on the first day after break, it was Shakespeare on the first day after break as read by a fashion slave.
