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The Blue Room by TuesdayGirl I lean my chair back until it’s pressed against the windowsill with its two front legs high in the air. Two markers sit on my desk, one pink, one blue, atop a reading anthology. He reaches over and takes the pink marker from my desk without bothering to ask if he can borrow it. I don’t really mind, but I pretend to be mad. The room is blue. I’m waiting impatiently to be called for recess, but I’m happy that at least I get to wait somewhere where the walls are a drowsy blue. I rest my head on my desk, close my eyes, and picture the playground in my mind. I can clearly imagine the cool metal of the monkey bars, the way it feels to sit squished between two of my classmates when we play lemon on the slide. Anticipation makes my fingertips tingle. I wonder if today I’ll make the brave step of deciding to join the boys for their annual soccer game. I’m scared of the soccer ball, but I want to play anyway. The teacher calls out that it’s time for recess, and suddenly, I’ve forgotten all about the marker incident, I’ve laid my daydreams to rest, and I’m sprinting to my cubby and sliding my reading anthology into it. Then, I’m lining up for recess with the rest of the class. I’m standing next to my friend, a girl with long black hair and a square face. The marker-stealing boy stands at least ten people behind me in line. Nevertheless, if I concentrate, I’m sure I can feel his eyes on my back. I give my hair an extra toss for his benefit before I exit our classroom and look up with wonder at the bright blue sky. ~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~ I don’t have a cubby anymore. Instead, I have a tall and skinny gray metallic locker. There are no blue classrooms in the new building. The walls are painted white and the floors are lined with gray tiles. I think the school resembles a mental ward. No one takes the time to disagree with me. There’s no windowsill behind me to tip my chair back onto so I leave it in the upright position. Instead of a reading anthology I carry thick books in my backpack. Most of them have bright colored pictures on the front but none have pictures on the inside. My teachers say not to judge a book by its cover. I think they’re right. Instead, judge the book by the pictures on the inside. He’s not in my class, but I see him walking down the halls between classes. I still feel his eyes on me, but now I’m certain I’m imagining the sensation. He doesn’t borrow markers from me. I wonder, sometimes, if he borrows them from another girl. I don’t think so, but I can’t be sure. The teacher doesn’t call us outside for recess. We spend the days inside. By the time school ends and I finally go outside I’m always surprised by the brightness of the sky. I put my hand over my eyes to shade them from the light. Return to:
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