“Hi this is Mrs. Edmonds from Johnson Elementary School calling in regards to your son Billy. There is no reason for alarm, but I would appreciate if we could discuss Billy’s behavior in the classroom. You can reach me at 203 655 2549. I look forward to meeting with you.” Was what the answering machine said as I lay on my belly drawing on the cold wooden floor in my kitchen. I liked the mixed smell of lacquer and the toxic from my fat sharpie marker. I began tracing the dark lines of the wood’s grain, and then peeled off them creating something of my own.
My teacher thinks I’m a troublemaker. I’m not. My teacher thinks I’m dumb. I don’t think I am. I just don’t like talking. I don’t like writing either, there are better things to do with a pen and paper than make the same stupid letters over and over again. Words never surprise me, they never turn into something completely unexpected and excite me to create a new narrative, a new world never been discovered.
I like drawing. I used to draw every moment of the day. My desk would be filled with stories of pirates surfing on dolphins into underwater caves to protect their booty from the sonic space monkeys. That one took me three recesses to clean. The next only took one because Mrs. Edmonds took away my markers after the first time. Now if I draw I get sent to the principal’s office. Except in art. You can sometimes draw in art. But usually we make stupid pencil holders out of Popsicle sticks or origami swans.
So in class I don’t do anything. I sit. I squeal. I stare. I make faces. I dream. I wait. I grunt. I hate. I don’t do anything. Absolutely nothing all day long. Until I go home and open up my markers.
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