There are those who step into your life uncalled for, desperately, and armed with no superior motive than to save you. Then there are those that should be credited, because they didn’t try to. Those are the ones that intelligently made it so that it was myself that stumbled into their life in which stirred and found something brilliant, so much that it made myself want to be a better being.
Connor was a boy in my math class. On the first day, by luck and awareness, I had found a seat next to him. I had had another options class with him last year, but I didn’t expect acknowledgement because he was a boy in which one could forgive mistakes. He was happy, fun, and good looking enough that one shouldn’t expect him to follow through natural expectations one would with other, regular, people. I wasn’t anticipating much, in fact I was quite proud I wasn’t surrounded by the usual drabble of bland beings that spoke in foreign tongues because math is, universal. Connor’s head was down, when I first looked closely at him, clearly uninterested, and slightly angry that no one he knew was in this class. But he got over it soon enough, and so did I. Class proceeded accordingly, the only of interest occurred, during one of those filling in about yourself questionnaires teachers favoured to pass time with and showed us they really cared. With only a stack of misshaped papers, Connor had clearly lost his writing utensil during his adventurous first period. Looking at the questionnaire with nothing in his hand, he look dumbfounded as if he was encountering world hunger in print. Being as observant as I could only help to be, I gave him my pen. My only pen, which resulted in myself filling in the answers with a highlighter, which my teacher only took as creativeness, and hidden angst. That didn’t matter of course, as he looked at me, and said thank you.
Apparently, his lost pencil was never found, because for the next hundred classes, he would start off the period by turning to me, and I would reflexively give him the same pen he used on the first day. Because of this pen incident, and his dependency of my sure knowledge of what ever we were supposed to be doing at the time, we grew close. What started off as “What was she talking about?” and “Can I see your worksheet?” lead quickly to “So, what are you listening to?” and “The Faint, it’s amazing. Here, put this in your ear.” As our conversation lead astray to drugs he was taking, boys I thought were hot, and nirvana, my math skills went down, his went up, and we levelled.
As time passed, I slowly realized I was smitten. Although he was lewd, slightly slow, and shallow enough to be a part of the distinctive group he was in, I tapped into something pure. A comfortable honesty and god-given joy bestowed to him, something I’d always found myself lacking. By the slight accented syllable of my first name, to sharing an exact moment of music, I was hooked and driven about something so minute, it was almost shameful.
I didn’t fall in love in that class, nor did much occur after the semester was over other than brief hellos in the halls which faded completely a month or so after. The slightly brutal but dealt with reality was glum but my attitudes toward what I had experienced wasn’t as fickle. My admiration of him, and the aura he lived in made me want to smile a little. Although I taught him almost nothing about linear equations, he taught me to think less. Our relationship was natural, friendly, and nothing more or less than what we talked about and when we laughed. When it was all over, I have to admit I wanted more, but not just from him, from everyone else. This novelty was nice, and I didn’t want to live as dull as I did with the knowledge that I had something better. So on the first day of my photography class, I brought extra pencils, and sat next to a boy name Stuart.