Of all the students in the world, I met Alex on my first day in grade 10

I never ever bring people home to meet my parents, because, well, all teenagers think they have weird parents, but I know. They never fit the normal ideas, never thought like the rest of the world. It took me fifteen years to convince them to let me go to public school, then I spent all summer studying what the girls wore, acceptable dresses, acceptable makeup styles, and how to act around boys. My parents always encouraged me to meet others, but deathly shy, homeschooled by strange parents, and hating physical activity of any kind, I never had the opportunity. The ones that hung in packs at the mall and corner store scared me. Totally unapproachable by a shy girl like me.

My first day, in a cute tartan green-blue-red skirt, navy sweat top with the cool Florida Panthers logo on it. The one with the cat jumping out, all claws and teeth, like how I needed to feel today. I did my hair into twin braids and weaved in a navy blue ribbon. Glasses, light makeup, knee-high white socks, and navy blue sneakers completed my first day schoolgirl look.

I slipped past a group of students, boys and girls, some of whom vaped, but most just talked too loudly, and none noticed me. I rushed down the hallway to the office to find out what I needed to do. They had sent a letter, but other than a room number, it didn’t tell me anything.

The secretary smiled at me, big, with white teeth, about my older Mom’s age, and asked how she could help me. My heart, in my ears, I managed to convey, mainly with my hands and the information letter, which contained no real information, what I needed, or rather, the fact that I didn’t know what I needed, where to go, or even what time.

She escorted me to the classroom filled with other grade 10s, English, and introduced me to the male teacher, my first male teacher, who gestured to sit in an empty seat. A few others sat in clusters of two or three and talked about their summer. The girls looked like me, but with different clothes and makeup. I hadn’t completely screwed up my outfit. The boys all had jeans and a T-shirt on, with various designs on the front. They all ignored me as I chose a seat at the very back, in the right-hand corner, as far away as possible, to hide and just observe, like a behaviorist studying a new group of primates. That thought helped calm my nerves.

Two boys, in front of me, with an empty row between us, huddled over a phone, too concerned with hiding it from the teacher to notice me and the unobstructed view of the screen, which had two females on it, and by the caption, a mother, with big breasts, and a daughter, petite, lithe body, in a sixty-nine. The boys laughed, and the perfectly-haired boy talked about how hot the scene looked, how the mother looked like the baseball-capped boy’s mom, and how the girl looked like his sister.

The baseball-capped boy flicked the screen to a femboy, with their dick inside an older man. The baseball-capped boy laughed and said that he did that to the perfectly haired boy’s dad all summer long. The other boy laughed and rubbed his friend’s crotch, who hit him on the shoulder, hard, but also laughed. They hid the phone under the desk as two girls, who eyed the boys, obviously thought them attractive, sat in front of them.

I doodled in my book while the classroom filled up, and a boy, shaggy hair, biggish, bigger than me or my mom’s anyway, with dirt on the back of his hands, jeans with a rip in the right knee, sat down beside me. He didn’t talk. I didn’t speak, but I knew every move he made as he shifted in his seat. He smelled of summer, dirt, flowers, and spice. The classroom caused sweat to roll down my back, and I cursed the heavy sweater that I wore.

The bell rang. The teacher talked, and talked, and talked, about nothing, his summer, maybe. I zoned out and doodled and paid attention to the cute boy beside me. He drummed his index fingers on the desk. Dirt under the nails. He leaned his head backward and stared at the ceiling, drumming with all his fingers to the tune of Moby Dick by John Bonham. He missed a few beats, but not horrible.

The teacher paused, his bearded chin thrust out, as if to deliver bad news, which he did, the worst. I instantly regretted going to public school. We had to pick a partner and tell them what we did this summer.

I ducked my head and stared at the cut on the desk, deep, with black pen inside and a red pen outline, two semi-circles, more parabolas, with a blue dot on one end, like a clit, the drawing of a cunt, and I had spent the last thirty seconds tracing the outline, over, and around. Shit, I hoped the boy didn’t notice. But he did, worse, he turned to me, smiled, leaned over, introduced himself as Alex, and he also liked to touch pussy. Crude, but funny in his delivery, and I grinned, and remembered to tell him my name, Sam.

With a loud, deafening screech, he moved his desk next to mine, his scent strong, his body heat warm, and his dirty hand on my desk, inches from my hand, which still rested on the drawn cunt. I glanced around the room to avoid his gaze. Others had paired up, mostly boy-boy, girl-girl, only one other girl-boy like us. The teacher sat under a poster of Shakespeare while he wrote in a notebook. His silver pen flashed in the sunlight from the spotted outside windows with rusty diamond grates.

Alex spoke. I listened. Gardening all summer with his mother. Tomatoes, cucumbers, squash, pumpkins, one grew as big as our desk, tulips, and roses, which he quoted Shakespeare, wrong, What’s in a name? A rose would smell as sweet by any other name. But I agreed with the sentiment. I didn’t like my name and wanted to change it to what my mothers called me, Starchild, but I knew that public school teenagers wouldn’t accept a name like that. Florida teenagers do not have strange names like in Cali, at least not in my neighborhood.

I mumbled something made up, about long hikes, and music concerts, because how do you tell a cute boy that you studied teenage dress and mating habits? He listened. Patient. I fumbled my words, but he never jumped in, never tried to rush me. He asked real questions, as if to get to know me, which I didn’t like because I had to make up more stuff. I only saw one concert, on the computer, not live as I claimed, and I only walked to the river nearby, five minutes if I walked slow, so no glorious hikes.

I screwed up my courage and asked about his family, mainly to divert his attention, but I also wanted to know. Divorced, his dad had a boyfriend, but Alex lived with his mother. He didn’t sound disgusted or upset that his dad liked men, so maybe he wouldn’t freak out that I had two moms. His parents still talked and even did things together, though his dad’s boyfriend usually didn’t tag along.