My first class, Psychology, dampens any bit of enthusiam I have left in me when I realize that Marty has dropped it.
"It's a scheduling thing. If I don't take another english credit, Ray, I won't graduate." Marty says while emptying her backpack into our locker. I keep everything in my backpack. My life is in there. I take my time gathering my class materials and then we begin walking down the hall. I stare into space while Marty continues her schedule bantoring.
"Ray, it'll be okay. I heard that it's a huge class anyway, so maybe the teacher won't even notice you're there." Marty assures me with a hand on my shoulder. I crack open a smile.
"I know. I'm still just realizing this whole 'being a senior' thing. This is it, Marty. Then we're supposed to be adults. I don't know if I can believe that." I say stopping in front of my classroom. Marty smiles.
"I understand. Me too, but let's just get through today first okay? I'll meet you in Chemistry." She grins as she takes off down the hallway, her long, frizzy blonde hair bouncing behind her. Sighing heavily, I turn in toward the room. Blinded by the end-of-summer sun washing through the window, I stumble a little taking my seat toward the back of the room. Unloading my books onto my desk, I wait in anxiety for the bell to ring. And then it smacked me right square in the forehead. Directly at the sound of the bell, the door to the teacher's office opened and out strode a man I couldn't have possibly believe to have existed on the earth. My Psychology teacher. My legs tightened underneath my chair as I slouched down so he wouldn't see me stare. As he writes his name on the board, I begin to notice every feature on his body. He has wavy blonde hair that is combed back nicely - nice enough for work - and it hangs slightly in his face, like he's from southern California. His shoulders are extra broad underneath his white button-up dress shirt and his tan Docker's are just slightly too baggy. His dark green tie makes his dark eyes pop out from underneath his hair. He finally swings around to introduce himself. I suck my lip underneath my top teeth as he speaks.
"Well, everyone, welcome to AP Psychology. Don't all cheer at once. My name is Shawn Craig. I'm new here, so give me a break on learning names at first." He says smoothly, as I digest every sound coming from his lips. Oh dear God, please don't tell me this is really my Psychology teacher. Please, someone come in the room and tell Shawn Craig that he's supposed to be teaching scuba diving to Alaskan tourists down at Kessler Beach and not supplying 18 year olds with Sigmund Freud's great brain discoveries. He begins reading off of the list. Thank God I'm a W. I'll have time to think of some non-spastic way of telling him, 'no, my name isn't Desiree Walsh. Call my Ray, sweet cheeks.' Shaking my brain from fantasy land, I listen carefully for my name.
"Desiree Walsh?" He asks, scanning the class for my ugly mug. Timidly raising my hand, his eyes lock with mine and I feel every single word in my vocabulary slip out from under me.
"Ray." I stammer out, lingering too long on the "R" sound. My face heats up immediately.
"Is that you're nickname?" He says coyly. I nod. That's right, I nod. Then I die. I probably looked like I have a serious brain malfunction. He just smiles and continues on. While he finishes with Stephanie Zanner, I think to myself 'it's time to get ahold of yourself Ray. This man is probably 25 years old, engadged to some gorgeous brunette from Palo Alto and has no interest in an angry punk rock star wannabe.' This is my teacher. My Psychology teacher, which only doubles the fact that he probably thinks twice as logically as the rest of the world. The rest of the hour I stare at the floor. At least it doesn't make me feel like I am about to turn into mush.