WONDER

"I often find myself wondering if the sky will fall on me one day. The deep blues of the sky fill me with anxiety, but the sight of soft clouds calms me immensely. I'm a natural thinker and tend to overthink things. It's like I'm a computer that's always on and never shut down. Or maybe I'm like a search bar that keeps looking for answers to questions with infinite outcomes and possibilities...-"

"Okay, that's enough. Layla Fray, you can take a seat. Thank you for that fascinating essay, although it was quite mind-boggling and confusing. It still intrigued me." Mr. Davison motioned his hand toward the desk in the back, and I followed his direction, slowly walking by curious peeking eyes and zombified students. I overheard slow murmurs with my name in it, gossiping - typical.

I made it to my desk and sat down near the window. The classroom was an average-sized room with gray, dull walls and pictures of small blue jays scattered on the left side of the classroom. Mr. Davison's touch, of course, I think he had a fascination with blue jays. The flooring was a soft, tan carpet that made walking easy. I could imagine my feet sinking into the ground like quicksand, my head spinning with thoughts. I often created unlikely scenarios in my head, and if I shared them, people would think I was high.

No one ever seems to understand the way I think or my essays. They never ask for an explanation or why I think the way I do. Despite this, I always seem to get perfect grades in my English class. However, I don't fully comprehend why. Mr. Davison never...

He never understands them either. Every time he states that my writing is well-written, it makes no sense. He compares my writing to an ocean, cluttered with trash but beautiful on the exterior, making it appear perfect. However, to outsiders, it is confusing and mind-boggling. Suddenly, a hand shoots up high. I notice that it belongs to a boy whom I have never taken notice of before. I don't know his name either. He is three desks down from me and two across. So, I squint to get a better look at him and see what he wants to say.

Mr. Davison didn't seem happy with the student raising his hand to ask a question, even though it was his job to answer them. However, it seemed like Mr. Davison knew what the student would ask. I felt overwhelmed and confused as I looked around the dreary, gray classroom. These thoughts are going to be the end of me, I swear.

The student cleared his throat and ran his hand through his short, unruly, charcoal-colored hair. He looked older than a typical high schooler due to the small amount of facial hair on his chin and jawline. Somehow this made him appear more attractive. I felt my face heat in the palms of my hands, and I cursed my stupid girly mind for thinking that way. There's a reason I have no friends let alone guy ones.

Some kids if any had little to no facial hair.

"Can you please have Layla explain her essay for us this time? I think I can kind of relate to it in a way, and if you'll allow me to, I'd like to give my take on it. It's excellent work, and the title is as simple as the 'sky' yet so thorough..."

I instantly felt my face grow scarlet red and started twirling pieces of blond hair in my hand, a nervous habit of mine. This student caught me by surprise. No one ever cared about my writing, and he wanted to have me explain it to the class and believe he understood it. I wonder if he's pulling my leg or something. Maybe messing around with the teacher. No one liked Mr. Davison anyway, he half-assed everything including his teaching effort, and his attitude towards it. He didn't care to get to know his students. So, what made him want to be an English teacher?

Mr. Davison arched a brow and tapped his shoe on the floor staring at the back of the classroom for a minute before bringing his gaze back to the kid and cracking a small chuckle. "Go right ahead Ace Stone tell us what you think her essay meant, please." Mr. Davison's gray eyes crinkled, and he was covering his mouth with his left hand as if hiding an evil smile. Was this a joke to him?

I wanted to hide my face under the desk, but fought against it, and brought both of my hands to my face. God, why is this kid doing this? I guess his name is Ace.

"Sky is the expression of the world weighing down on her, and she has to bear it all on her own. She wishes her world would collapse. This means that she wants to stop all the pain that she must be feeling. The essay is about a girl dwelling on thoughts - thoughts that don't make sense to herself. She gives us the hint about saying she is like a computer that never shuts down, mm activated. Like, a brain that constantly thinks and thinks. So, ultimately, this essay is about depression, anxiety, and being in your head too much..." Ace stops speaking, and the entire classroom grows silent - deafeningly silent. You could probably hear a pencil drop on the floor.

I feel my eyes itch, and I reach up to rub them. A girl in front of me turns around to stare at me. She looks at me like I'm an injured dog. I shrugged. "I'm fine," I say, hoping she'd turn back around, and go back to ignoring me.

"Well, well," Mr. Davison drawls, clapping his hands. "You've cracked the code or placed the puzzle piece into its missing slot. Great job, Ace." He patted his back, and Ace shrugged his arm off an annoyed look now etched onto his face. He walked back to his desk and dipped his head down into the comfort of his arms. "Whatever," He scoffed and closed his eyes.

"What a deep essay," A student commented.

"Yeah, I didn't think Layla ever made sense, but after Ace explained it to me, I got it. I can relate too." Another said.

I sighed. Are they just copying him or what? Is Ace that persuasive? He led a hurdle of sheep and they all followed like sheep do. At that moment, the bell rang signaling that the school day was over. I sighed again and picked up my green bag tossing it over my shoulder. I catch Ace's eye and he gives me a weird look.

I shook the uncomfortable feeling away and tried to avoid looking in his direction again. I move through the students, pushing and shoving to leave the classroom first, and I finally make a zigzag exit out of the room. I breathe the hallway air, stuff my hands into the pocket of my gray sweatpants, and tug my black hoodie over my head. I, of course, never dress to impress at school, I dress to be invisible. I hide in the shadows of the school, and ace all of my classes. I was told that I was a smart kid, smart but lonely.

I knew going home was the worst part of the day, I fought the emotions surfacing and pictured my dad on the recliner switching the channels non-stop. His sickly face paler than usual, his dark hair greasy, and unclean. His beard was longer than before, and his eyes were red and puffy - lastly, a beer can was clutched between his bruised knuckles. I wince at the thought and try to brush it away.

It's the same scene every day I witness it. So, why was I still not accustomed to it yet?

And people wonder why I daydreamed so much...I suppose it was my way of escaping my reality.