“Life’s Waking Cherry Blossom”

That alarm, I HATE that alarm.

When people wake up in the morning, they usually don’t think about how beautiful the sun is or how green the grass can be. The only thing that’s on their mind is if they even managed to wake up at the right time. And even if they did wake up early, they’d be fighting with the “bed demon”, pleading for an extra “5 minutes” of sleep. Because for some odd reason, the place they woke up in must be a dream. Summer hits, the air is bad, your AC sucks, and the people outside just won’t shut up. Who wouldn’t think this reality is a dream.

For most people their day consists of work, parents, high school, money, rivals, and other trivial matters. But when it boils down to me, it’s different. For me, i’m not looking forward to anything, because anything new is bad for me. I’m the 1 percent out of the 99 the does something in their lives. Arguing with my “bed demon” is like a job in of itself. It made me even do research on the type of people that DO have a reason to wake up.

You see I believe there’s 3 types of “morning wakers”, excluding myself of course. These 3 types depends on their purpose for waking, for example, do I get up to work endlessly to receive wands of paper that have actual value? Do I get up due to an anticipation of something? Or do I get up to bear responsibility for what ever actions I have committed myself to? But alas, if these questions really defined the reasons people woke up, it would be a boring world.

I have to admit though, if there truly is a reason that I get up, it’s due to the fact that there’s something out there I don’t know. It’s a story, one that I can’t reach or comprehend. Knowledge that's unreachable. This story could be anything. It could be a piece of paper, a leaf, even the dirt on the ground. And ultimately, even a person. But that doesn’t mean im not happy with my story, my life. It’s just I haven’t found a reason to be happy about it yet. To put it bluntly, my life hasn’t had it’s high spirited moments. It’s mostly full of regret and sorrow, narrowing between it’s most triumphant moments. But you can think of this as a summary of my prologue, no, a segue. And what better way to start a story then an interesting conflict, one that most people don’t experience.

So buckle up, it’s going to be some long extra minutes of sleep. You see I broke my contract with my “bed demon” and now I am experiencing a nightmare. Or rather an unpleasant memory. So before I wake up ignorant and confused, allow me to share with you the memories I have leading up to this moment. The beginning of my story.

I was remembering it.

It was like this same morning. Where the air was unbreathable, the fan made me sick, and sun beamed at my eyes. When the only reason for getting up was to turn off the alarm and realize I still had an hour left before my day of labor.

My father went to work early that day, leaving behind breakfast before he left.

Finally after yawning ridiculously loud, and cursing the temperature of this world, I got up, put on my clothes, and got ready for school.

“Only three more weeks huh….” I said as I brushed my teeth.

On the table there was a half eaten egg yolk and some toast he left behind. This was a subliminal message from parents indicating to “finish my food because I have no time to”.

“..don’t leave food outside and expect me to eat it…” I threw it away.

After drinking some warm milk, I left the house, locking the door, and saying good morning to the landlord outside.

“Hey lil mon, tell ya fada ta pay the rent. It bin two week an still me no see no money. Tel em i said that!”. She yelled.

A positive lady I do say myself.

For a little while I found myself absent - minded when I walked to the school. The same streets I would pass by, and the same bus stop I would wait, it was all like second nature to me. In those last three weeks of high school the only thought that remained was when the hell I would get out here. I knew the time they sent us home from school, but it was almost as if it were an omen, as if someone was purposely making the hours longer for me to bear. We were a charter school so we got out much later then public schools. But if I had to tell you the difference it would be just that and nothing else. Everything was the same.

“High school. Only three weeks left.”

I would repeat it in my head every time I had the chance.

Before my 3 week count down to freedom, there was a class I always thought was purgatory. I despised it even more then Calculus Honors and AP English. So you can understand a bit of my frustration dealing with this for almost 4 years. It was a 3 hour class, “Collegiate Prep” we called it. Our teacher Ms. Gane would always have habit of bring up topics related to future careers and goals she wanted us to accomplish. Honestly I thought it was a waste of time from day one. So in order to escape the discussion, I always pretended to fall asleep each time she would bring up the topic. But now it was different. On the first day of the three weeks she called us one by one, asking us about our futures and goals, and what we wanted to be in our coming lifes. But this time instead of pretending, I was actually doing the sleeping. Come on a 3 hour class?! Not even caffeine could beat that feat.

That is to say though, I did hear them.

Each student was called and each one gave an answer. Though they were mumbles, I could remember hearing each one perfectly. It was amusing though, hearing idiots saying that they wanted to major in bio medical engineering, but forgetting that their average GPA’s ranged from 0.8 to 1. I really hoped a GED worked out for them.

When Ms.Gane came to me, I remained silent. I was half asleep, what did you expect. But she wasn’t dumb. She noticed my lack of participation for almost 4 years on this matter, and wouldn’t submit to my lack of devotion.

“Jamie I know your not sleeping!”, she shouted. “Keep your head straight and tell us your goals!”.

I remained defiant. I had no reason to tell her my future.

“ Yo maybe he’ll work in a gyro stand!”.

Everyone laughed at the comment.

It was an annoying student i knew, one I couldn’t even bother remembering. One of those “im the popular kid who tells jokes on people to become more popular” kind of kid.

“(Name), I told you about disrespecting other classmates!” She yelled at the “im the popular kid who tells jokes on people to become more popular” guy.

“Alright, like damn. Don’t have to EXPLODE on me.” It was another joke, an indirect one. But everyone seem to understand it by chance. That was enough to fully wake me up from my sleep.

After that day in class, Ms.Gane pulled me away to have another one of those “important discussions” . It was always like that ever since i started my “pretend sleep” plan. But I never listened to her rambling.Why? Because she was clueless in every way possible.

“Jamie this is the last i’m going to tell you!” She looked at me with these narrow vision eyes.

“You need to straighten up young man, your future is very important! And you know by now the consequence for not answering in class.”

It was a detention of course. Like I haven’t had enough of those.

She started again, with disappointed look on her face. Well not like that was any new.

“Jamie, what would your mother….”

She stopped for a phone call. I remember almost laughing out loud.


Seriously, teachers knew nothing about their students.

Finishing her conversation on the phone, she had given me one last nag.

“If you don’t take your life seriously, your GPA will reflect upon that. Do you really want to graduate with a low GPA?!”.

I remained quiet.

I’ll say it again, teachers know nothing about their students.

After her pompous nagging, I went straight to detention. It was a place I grew far to accustomed to.

“My GPA would reflect upon my life, huh?”, I thought to myself, amused by her clueless statements, “Then that must mean I have a really good reflection.”

A GPA of 4.48 to be more specific.

We don’t receive our grades once a week, or once a month. It comes every year as a final result.

It’s more of “do your work and be awarded in the future” kind of approach.

And with that result, I was announced as a valedictorian. The only one in the entire school.

As the teachers awarded me in class, clapping as some students snared and gossiped in the back, I found Ms. Gane nowhere to be found. I almost laughed out loud that day due to the irony.

But honestly…I felt empty inside.

I didn’t feel anything when I got the award. Sure I felt a sense of triumph over all the students in the school. But it never really felt like it was an achievement or an award.

It was more like an identity or a label they slapped on my back. And seeing how I kept a low profile in school, it’s was no wonder most people were surprised by my achievement. Even the idiots making fun of me.

The days followed towards the graduation ceremony, where I was told to give a speech, one I didn’t write. I was preparing myself, preparing for a harsh truth. That this whole school was a lie, a trickery. I was a tool, a tactic used to promote the school’s “notorious” graduation record and “high” average GPA.

And even knowing that, I still had to go on stage, giving a fake smile to all the parents and college advisers that came to the ceremony. The speech I gave felt like bottomless lake, words that felt short on their meaning.

“Never lose your hope and ambition. Always strive for success”, I shouted.

To bad I lost it the next day.

I don’t know if you notice but i wasn’t popular kid in school. Im that quiet kid who only cares about himself, and couldn’t even waste time with pointless chatter. That boy who’s always made fun of by sluts in the school, spreading rumors that I like another particular person that’s ugly to them. But I also have one trait that separates me and the rest of them. I am light skinned. More specifically I am part Indian. And to add some icing to the cake, I am the only light skinned, part indian, boy in my school. Every one else is as black as charcoal. My face is also proof, as I have been known to grow beards in the span of 3 days. So when the last week of high school came by, it wasn’t a surprise when I found my lovable classmates showing me their never ending and continuous support.

“Yo Jamie heard you going to a nice college”, one of the classmates said. He was the same popular idiot that made fun of me in Ms. Gane’s class.

“Yo bro don’t make fun of him, he might put the whole algebra book in ya head” His hooligan said.

“Ya you right ha! Yo this nigga couldn’t even lay a girl if he tried tho!” Everyone turned and laughed. There eyes looked at me, looked at me like dirt. I remained in my seat awaiting the one comment that would set me off.

“Yo ain’t you indian?”, He looked at me.

“Na bro i think he’s pakistanian”, His support hooligan said.

“Yo you sure he didn’t cause 911!?”

There were “oh”s and “oh shit that’s messed up” sound effects coming out now.

“Oh shit bro im weak!!! He was probably there setting off them bombs dog hahaha!!!”.Everyone continued. Laughing, criticizing, provoking, and finally shaming.

I got up and left. It’s one thing to deal with this for almost 4 years but I wasn’t going stand around and take it. As soon as I was about to leave though the popular idiot shouted, “Yo relax bro im just jokin!”

It was that moment. That comment. It was the first time I ever felt like killing someone. I stared at him, as if I wanted to cut his head clean off.

“Yo what!”, he started yelling. Everyone started peering in, looking at both of us. Glaring and snickering.

Finally my temper got the best of me and I spoke up.

“If your family died on that plane it would be no joke. Your selfish demeanor and incompetence is something I can no longer stand, that’s why im leaving. I’m not your ‘bro’; your pack of hooligans you gather in. So what if im part indian? What are you? African American! Doesn’t your people eat their own shit if they can’t afford money. Don’t your people rape others for personal gain? What’s so different between you and me? You think just because im lighter and look different from you, you have some authority over me?! You think im some outcast and should be treated differently?! What do think you have, power?! Your just another piece of shit in the world!!”

I looked at everyone’s eyes, all of them whispering and snickering with each other. “No. Your all worthless pieces of shit. Each and everyone of you know nothing. You have no value or respect for others or yourself. It’s no wonder your souls are as black as your skin”.

I turned my back at the doorway. As I walked away I stood still in my tracks as the popular kid started yelling.

“Yo what fuck is wrong with this guy?! HHAHAHAHHA!!” The popular kid laughed, no, all the kids started laughing.

“I GUESS HE EXPLODED HAHAHAHA!!!!”. The laughter echoed from the class, grabbing the teachers attention in the other rooms. One of the teachers came running inside.

“What is going on in here?!”, the teacher yelled.

The students all quieted down. I was still outside, clenching my fists looking down at the floor. The teacher saw my outside.

He was wearing a typical white shirt with a pink tie. His pants navy blue. He approached me.

“Are you in this class, Jamie?” He asked.

“No”, I said,”Not anymore”.

“Jamie?” He was puzzled.

After I walked to the bathroom I heard the same teacher giving them a lecture about hurting a classmate’s feelings.

As if that worked.

Nothing was going to change them from what I know.

When I was first introduced in school, I was always treated as an outcast.

I’ve been embarrassed, I’ve been shamed, and I’ve been labeled by those idiots my entire life. I was tired. I just couldn’t wait to go to college. To leave this stupid place.

As school ended, and I walked to my usual bus stop. But for some reason, other students followed me. And found that puzzling. No one ever took the bus with me, or even walked this route.

That’s when I heard them laughing and snickering behind me.

So of course I turned around to see.

It was them. The popular kid and his hooligans.

“Yo indian, come here boy”

I continued to walk.


His hooligans grabbed me by both arms, and kneed me in the stomach. They dragged me behind an abandoned post office. I was panting and scared. There were at least 15 of them.

“Yo you think your the shit now huh? Just because you got some high grades or something. You think you can talk shit and get way with it?!”

One of the hooligans grabbed my face, forcing me to stare. Apparently some people agreed with my little declaration in class, but i guess it didn’t go well for his status in school. But I never apologized or took back anything I said, especially that.

“Your all worthless, EVERY SINGLE ONE OF YOU ARE SHIT. YOU CAN ALL BURN IN HELL!!!” I shouted.


He kicked me in the face. My head bounced like a soccer ball in mid-air. As I fell, several other kicks came. From head to toe, from stomach to back. It was like hammers hitting me from all directions.

“What’s wrong indian nigga can’t fight back?!” My arms were layed on the ground, and my head facing the sky. I looked around and saw specks of blood on each of their shoes.

They were trying to kill me.

I remembered looking up at the burning sun, with my cheeks numb in pain. For a second I could have swore I saw a white feathered bird pass by.

The girls from his little group came, walking to where i was, staring and snickering.

Some even tried to assault me verbally commenting on how I looked in my bloody state.

“Oh my god he be lookin like a dead rat tho!” One of the girls said.

“Eww he’s so fuckin weird, why does he keep looking at the sky?”. Another one said.

“Maybe he’s prayin haha!”. The popular idiot grabbed my head. “Hey weirdo the fuck you lookin at huh?!”. His hands were so rough, it was like crazy glue bonding to my head. I didn’t understand. Why was this happening to me now? Was it just because I spoke out? Was it just because I finally had a voice?

Then it was like light. My head bouncing up and down. Blood gushing out in the bright sky. It was a punch that slammed my head to the ground. I lost control of my thoughts and for a second wondered where I was.

“OH SHIT! YO YOU KNOCKED HIM OUT HAHAHA!!!” All the girls and hooligans laughed. I was breathing heavily, seeing all the blood escaping from my head. Thoughts were leaving and slowing down. I was losing consciousness.

“Hmph! All fuckin talk, but you ain’t got no shit to back it up. Your the real piece of shit!” He stepped on my face. “YOU FUCKIN INDIAN HA!!”. I moaned in agony. The pain was unbearable. One of the hooligans even tried to rob me while I was in pain, searching my pants. He later on pulled it off.

“HAHAHAHAHA YO WHAT THE FUCK IS HE WEARING HAHAHA!!!!” I had worn my striped boxers. The girls, no, the sluts, continued to laugh while the guys continued to search. They were thugs, they robbed people. Even their own classmates. Even people’s virginity.

That’s when I realized.

I heard the rustled paper in my breast pocket. The only 20 dollar bill I saved up.

“Yo he hidin something in his pocket up there man”. Realizing my intentions, I clenched my breast pocket like a katana. My hands were beaten severely in the process. Never have I felt them bruised and cut up as they did then. I was on the floor as 15 students tried to rip open my hands for a 20 dollar bill. They kicked, they bruised. One even tried to cut my hands with his knife.

They all failed.

“Yo what the fuck man”, the popular kicked me in the head, “give up the bread boy”.

The girls were surrounding me. Their stench was unbearable. Their panties were fully viewable in my position, and I remember wanting to cut my eyes if I had to bear looking at their nasty crotches for another second.

“Why don’t beat him some more, he’ll pass out,” one the girls said, looking again in my pants for an valuable objects.

So time passed.

I remained lying on the floor, kicked, beaten and even thrown. Time was like a feather falling from the sky. Everything slowed down for me. My eyes, my breathing, my body was about to shut down.

That’s when I saw them.

The teachers from our school that were passing by. They caught a glimspe of my unstable condition. My bloody corpse. They ran towards me with faces of bewilderment, pushing the boys and the girls out of the way.

“OH MY GOD WHAT HELL IS..”, she pushes one of the hooligans, “WHAT IN THE WORLD IS WRONG WITH YOU KIDS!!?”

They all run away, the stupid ass hoes, and the hooligans. There butt crakes in full view as they ran. One of them almost had their pants fall off.

“JAMIE!!JAMIE!! ARE YOU ALRIGHT!! HEY!!”, the teacher was pushing my body and crying. Just crying. The other female teacher held her breathe as she called the police. Soon people gathered over my helpless body, bickering with each other. Saying how I was another one. Only one of my eyes were open. I just remembered how dark the sky got. The clouds started forming.

It started raining.

I was told I passed out on the way to the ambulance and had a minor coma for 2 days. My father had visited me continously, despite his arguments with his boss. I layed there day after day, thinking to myself.

What would have happen if those teachers didn’t show up?

Would I be dead?

After two weeks in the hospital, I was discharged. My body suffered a bone fracture on my hip, arm, and hands. My father rushed to me as he heard the news. He clamped my head on his chest.

“I'm so sorry James…”, dad said, “I'm so sorry”

I felt droplets of water soaking my head.

“It’s okay dad, it’s alright”, I said.

When he carried me home, his face looked like he hadn’t slept in days. There were so much wrinkles on his face, that a definite number wouldn’t suffice. He lifted me up and carried me to bed. My whole body was covered in bandages and casts, having little to no mobility. My father caressed my hair.

“It’s gonna be alright James”, He smiled.

He left after I told him I was okay, and then asked if he could give me the book he got while working.

As he walked away I stared at his huge back. The back of his head full of visible white hairs. Dad was getting old.

My dad was 100 percent Bengali, meaning he was an immigrant in the U.S. He was born in Dhaka and raised in a poor family. He would tell me stories of how he ran to the streets and handed corn to the elderly. And how they would give him Bengali money in return for his dinner at night. His mother would make porridge with only flower and salt, for that was the only food they had. School meant everything to dad, however in Dhaka it was to expensive. Instead he would ask the school kids for their homework and learn from that. His mother was a doctor before, but retired due to her illness. She had sickle cell anemia, a term dad knew nothing about. His father too was very ill and passed away before dad could even see him.

So when I thought about the hardships my father went through, I wouldn’t even complain about my problems. It wasn’t even close. His lifestyle, his culture, everything was so interesting and sad.

But my mother, that’s a different story.

I knew nothing about her. Her height, her weight, her looks, her culture, her own voice, everything was oblivious.

All I know is that she left me in front of dad’s door in a basket and a note.

She abandoned me.

So yes with that revelation, dad isn’t my real father. I was adopted by him as soon as he saw me. But that alone was enough to judge someone’s character.

He took care of me, despite our blood relation or ethnicity.

Though when he found out I was part indian, he was a little bit joyful inside.

But to me, it never bothered me. I grew up with this man and saw the work he did, saw how he would come home almost a rusty old truck, and always knew this simple fact. That it was impossible for this man to have any kids of his own. Who would love a man that cleaned toilets, swiped floors, washed people’s clothes and even lifted boxes, all for 3 dollars and 50 cents an hour?

Money was everything, and if you didn’t have it, you would stoop to the lowest levels to get it.

But my dad never made money to impress, he made it to support.

His goals, his ambition, everything was focused on me.

When he came home exhausted and withered out, like a drunk man almost falling down, he would hide it from me, turning around as soon as I saw him. He would instead look at me and smile, giving that cheery laugh like Santa Clause, “Hows my son! HAHA!!”. His beard would peek out like a chin, while his big belly would stick out under the striped shirts he wore to work.

He would collect books for me, since he knew I always read them. He had people that would give books to him for the price of the work he did. He would come home so relieved, almost losing his breath coming through the house door. “I got something for you, Jamie!”, he told me once. It was a book. He told me a librarian gave it to him after sweeping the floors. It was called “Les Fleurs du mal” by Charles Bandelaire. It was book that I was interested in.

It’s cover always sent it apart from other books. It showed a flower with an eye sticking out.

“You know I can’t understand these poems son, so I thought I could give it to you”, He laughed.

“Hehe thanks dad”. I laughed with him.

My dad had even built me my own library in the basement of our apartment for every single book he would get his hands on. When he looked at the books stack up, he would get all teary eye’d, almost admiring all his hard work.

But the day when he heard I was valedictorian, he never felt so proud.

After waking up in the morning after a week of healing at home, he came to me with breakfast in a plate. As I ate, he watched. His eyes went down, shaking a bit.

“Hey James”.

“Yes dad?”.

“I'm really proud of you”. A tear came down his eye as he looked at me. A smile so wide with eyes blinking rapidly. He gave me a hug.

And then his voice became more serious.

“Have you decided which college to go to James,”. My head was still on his chest.

“No….not yet”, I said ,completely forgetting about that issue.

I knew if I left, I wouldn't be able to see my father’s smile.

With my grades, I could have easily gotten into Stanford or those other beautiful campuses out there. My dad knew that fact.

But after witnessing his exhausting state each day of my life, that stirred a goal inside me. To see a day when my father could finally rest.

After surpassing high school, and healing up my injuries, I decided to attend a college that was close to him.

It was called Hunter College.



I got up from bed, with my hair looking as ridiculous as a sheep’s wool.

I had finally awakened from my nightmare. My “bed demon” wasn’t so kind to me.

I yawned, stretching my hands in the air. Everything was healed up and ready to go. Of course the reason i’m waking up now is because…

“Today’s the first day of college huh?”.

And so here I am, waking up on the first day of college, reminiscing about my past, complaining about the heat, and putting together my thoughts on life. A typical morning if you ask me.

I turned on the stove and cooked dad’s breakfast before I left. He layed on the bed naked from the bottom half. The heat must’ve torched him to such lengths. A truly formidable foe.

After finishing breakfast and leaving, I took a step outside and looked up. The sun was bright, and the sky looked so beautiful.

And it would have been better, if I just remembered to search on how to get to my college in the first place.

I started panicking after learning this horrible truth.

Luckily the landlord helped me.

“Ya haf a take de far train straight until ya fine de street name sixty ate”.

Thanks to my normal encounters with her in the morning, I have gradually grown accustomed to her Jamaican accent and was able to understand that completely.

“Be careful sa, keep ya chin up and kal de police if anyting happan. Ya understan.”

“Yes ma’am”. I guess even she was worried that day. After all coming home and looking like a zombie isn’t the best of sights.

After taking the 4 train, I finally understood why dad doesn’t like them.

How the hell do people just sit in one place and and just look at something.

Either that’s the greatest concentration i've ever seen or people just turn off their brains.

Seeing the college for the 3rd time now, I was still unimpressed. I was thinking a place full of grass and leaves and absolute silence.

Instead it’s two building with people crawling in and out like rats.

My heart began to race. Would I really have to go through the same 4 years,just like my high school life. And why of all days did I have a dream about my high school on this particular day?

“But still, what a nightmare….”, I shook my head, whispering to myself.

My first experience in classes wasn’t as bad as I thought.

Psychology was my favorite subject, and I loved to debate. Ideas and educated minds all came overlapping each other during class time.

“Finally!”, I thought, “a place where people can speak with respect towards each other on concepts they are confident in”.

It’s so different from high school. Everyone acts like themselves. It’s like i’m reading multiple, open books. When one person struggles with something, all the class members struggle. No one’s smarter or stupid. It’s perfect.

The only slight problem, however, was something I was completely clueless about.

I was only 5 feet tall.

Which means, everyone looked like skyscrapers to me.

I was walking into my Pre-Calculus class, when my teacher instantly dismissed me out.

“No no no this is the wrong place child, where are your parents?”


“Your parents, are you lost?”

“Huh?!”, I was staring at him in bewilderment.

How could he not notice i’m 18. Look, im even starting to get some hair on my chest.

“Um Professor, i’m James Hollen, I spoke to you during the orientation.”

“James Hollen?” He walked away and looked at his attendance sheet. His eyes instantly looked shocked. He ran up to me clasping both of my hands.

“Oh how rude of me Mr. Hollen. I didn’t mean to insult you like that!”.

He must’ve talked to the person behind me during the orientation the entire time, thinking it was me.

“Please call me James, it’s okay”.

The Pre-Calculus Professor wasn’t the only one that had me on a “kid” status. The security guards came looking for me, thinking a toddler was lost in the building. They were shouting on the radio station describing, what I was wearing. When people saw me, they started staring. Some even tried passing their assumptions on the situation.

“Hey are you looking for you parents?”

“There’s a kid in college?”

“This generation is picking up fast”

“My kid got into college too at 12!”

“Maybe he’s little Einstein…”

“Einstein reincarnated…”

The comments just kept floating like bubbles in the air. Seriously what’s wrong with me being short.

After giving my story to the security guards, I left and realized that it was break time in my schedule. I headed down stairs in the cafeteria, sitting in an empty table.

I just sighed.

“Do I really look that short? Man, this is such bull….”, I whispered.

I put my head on the table crossing my arms.

I wanted some divine wish, a god, granting the heights people wanted.

“I swear I hate everyone…”, someone said.

“Yeah me to…”, I said.

Wait what?

I looked up and saw a girl looking at me, puzzled. Her eyes were like darts focusing in.

“Um what are you looking at?”,I said puzzled.

There had a worried look on her face.

“……..Are you…lost?”

I felt like someone slapped me with a cactus.

“This is why I hate people”, I whispered.

The girl was even more confused. She sat there. Her eyes were big, but she had a small face. She had a blend of brown and white skin, but she looked kind of asian. Her hair was long and silky, and she wore a white t-shirt with a sumo wrestler on it.

“How old are you”, she said, as if the dumb questions couldn’t get any dumber.

I played along.

“I’m 9,227,520 minutes old”, I said while smirking.

Her eyes narrowed down, like she was REALLY thinking.

“So your 18 then”, she said.

I was surprised. Didn’t think it talk her that long to answer. The girls back in my school couldn’t even solve a geometry problem let alone mathematics. Unique indeed.

“Wow didn’t think you’d solve that so soon. Your unique I’ll tell you that”. I said while laughing.

She glared at me, thinking that I thought she was stupid. Well she wasn’t off.

“So what’s your problem?” I asked.

“Hmm?”, her eyes blinking surprisingly rapidly.

“You were troubled by something, no?”, I stated, “Or were you just pretending so someone can talk to you?”.

As you can tell, I have a bit of a history with woman. I don’t particularly despise them. It’s just that high school has changed the way I viewed them. They are vile, selfish, and uncaring. All they want is attention and fame. Taking advantage of whatever person they get their hands on. But even I believed, somewhere out there, a woman like that didn’t existence. The same goes for a guy. Men were cruel and spiteful, using power to dictate. That’s why I don’t have much friends. No, I don’t have any friends.

And yet.

I’m actually talking with a girl right now.

“Pretending?!”, the girl looked confused and shocked, “Woah, im not that desperate or lonely.”

“Really?”, I was intrigued.

“Got friends?” I said.


“Family lives here?”


“Classmates here?”


“College professors you like?”



“Oh of course!!”, her eyes light up when she said that. It shocked me a bit. It was almost like it was an accomplishment or something. But all of sudden those sudden reactions started to fade.

Her shiny eyes starting losing it’s glimmer.

I had to ask.

“Broken up?”

Her mouth opened up but nothing came out.

She just shook her head up and down.

“Well at least I know your social status.” I teased

She narrowed her eyes at me. Scary.

“Look I was just sulking because I flunked my biology test okay! ”, she stated.

“How did you flunk?”

“How else would you flunk?”

She didn’t study.

But I guess she started college much more early then me. I guess she must have been one of those honored students.

“Sorry if i ask but what was your GPA in highschool?” I was really curious.

“Oh a 2.5”

Ehh?! A 2.5! I’ve never heard of such number! Not even close to honored!

“Really?!” I said shockingly, “So then, why did you start college so early?”

“There was a program they offered at the school for low-income students, so I took it and got in.”

I see. So she’s low- income too.

“What about you, what’s your GPA?”, She asked.

“Oh a 4.48”

Her jaw dropped.

She was completely frozen in place. Like I did when I heard her’s.

She looked at me as if it were a problem saying that so nonchalantly.

It was almost as if she heard numbers from a lottery ticket, and was only one number away.

“WHAT HELL ARE YOU DOING HERE!!?”, she yelled. Everyone looked in our direction as if we were having an argument.

Her face became red, blushing in embarrassment.

She whispered, “I don’t understand, with your scores you could even go to Harvard. Even if you were low income, they’d still offer you scholarships like crazy. Why here of all places!?”.

I smiled. Because the question was so simple to answer.

“Well lets just say it’s to keep someone smiling”, I said gently.

Lunch time was over and coincidentally, we both had to leave for class.

Still bewildered by my high school accomplishment, she asked me for my name.

“Im James Hollen” I said confidently.

I was then that i realized how tall she was. As soon as she got up, it was like seeing a transformer coming out of it’s vehicle state. She could have been over 6 feet tall. How could anyone like that exist!

Realizing this, she looked down.

“Pfft..”, she started.

“What! There’s nothing funny about my height!” I said annoyed.

“Your like a toddler!”, she laughed out loud clamping here chest.

After that, she smiled and looked at me. She stretched her hand towards me.

“My name’s Claire. Claire Benwood.”

“..Claire Benwood”, I whispered.

I shook her large hand. It was surprisingly soft. It was like a temper pedic hand glove.

“Well see you later then, Claire Benwood”.

“Yeah, James Hollen”.

We both went are separate ways.

I never felt so confident in myself for some reason, but that all got thrown out when I dealt with the next professor in class.

“Oh my boy, you shouldn’t be here. Don’t worry I’ll see if I could find your parents.”

Seriously, teachers know nothing about their students.

PART 2 Coming soon..


I just want to tell you this story is completely fictional. I just love to write stories that’s all.

If I become an author of a real book, this is something I would introduce myself with.

An individual's greatest attribute is his/her greed. Their will to have something is what sets them apart from other people. So if I had to name my greed it would be a story. The perfect story. So if I must continue to dream I will do so, until I can finally obtain it.

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