Passin Time at West Side High Page 5
Three Asian students, two girls and a boy, positioned near the ISS teacher’s desk were ignoring all the insanity and doing their work as if nothing unusual was going on. It’s funny how people can perpetuate some stereotypes by just by minding their own business and doing what they are supposed to do.
The ISS teacher was an obese middle aged, masculine-looking woman with thinning long grey hair and an untended five o’clock shadow growing in numerous patches around her face. Her calico print thrift shop dress looks as though it’s seen better days, during in the early 1970’s.
She was sitting at her desk, with her nose in a book titled The Secret by Rhonda Byrne. The lady looked up and took notes periodically. She talked to no one.
I tried speaking to her a few times last year after learning her husband abandoned her three months after they immigrated to America, leaving her and her elderly mother solely responsible for their six young children. She is a very private person and did not reveal a whole lot about her-self other than her first name, Marilina, and that she was originally from Romania.
To be honest the lady kind of pissed me off. She got mean and defensive even when I asked common courtesy type questions like, “How are you doing?”
She was clearly not interested in mine or anyone else’s help. She even registered an official complaint against me with the district and claimed I that was harassing her (which thankfully went nowhere).
I am not sure if it’s just a language barrier or paranoia from growing up under a communist regime. Regardless, I just avoid interacting with her now when I’m asked to help in the ISS room. It’s easier than being nice to her.
A white girl with a coat hanger body and a haggled head of blue hair, resembling a large clump of steel wool scraped off the bottom of an old toolbox, is sucking her thumb and coloring contentedly with some crayons. She is wearing tight fitting dirty clothes and smells like she needs a lesson in feminine hygiene. The people sitting around her notice and make blunt comments about being nauseated by the smell of ‘stale pussy’ or move away.
Molly Hunter was gang raped when she was eleven. The innocent child was lured into a drug house on her way home from school by someone from her neighborhood.
She refuses to wash herself properly now because she decided that smelling offensive was a practical way to protect herself from being hurt that way again. A lot of staff has discussed the matter directly with her and her parents but nothing ever seems to come of it.
On the opposite side of the room from the novice gangbangers, an ominous looking quiet young man is seated. He’s surrounded by six equally subdued peers who are wearing yellow t-shirts under their black uniforms. They all appear to be Mexican; probably Latin Kings, from the crown tattoos on their arms and necks, but they may just be a local thing. Their leader is clearly observing or gauging people.
His name Jesus Lopez, but most people refer to him as Anticristo. He’s easily eighteen or nineteen years old and a known gangster that no one wants to mess with. The man is a senior, has been in and out of jail. He hardly ever goes to classes, unless he wants to sell stuff or scare someone.
He’s been directed to meet with me numerous times by his parole officer and administrators over the years, but he’s never showed up once.
The only time I ever talked to him was by chance in line at a nearby Dunkin Donuts one morning. He recognized me from school, politely greeted me then bought me a coffee. I think he wanted to talk, but before I could suggest we sit down at a table he abruptly excused himself and left. I never talked to him again.
A tall half-wit that everyone calls Special Ed (his real name is Edwin White) is standing on a wobbly student desk. He’s wearing a snug undersized bright yellow windbreaker, loose fitting khakis and untied hiking boots. The hood of the North Face jacket is pulled over his head and tethered so that only his face is showing.
Gravity is in the process of introducing the juvenile’s waistband to his ankles. His Dockers are hanging by a thread down by his knees. There is a gap of skin between the brown leather belt and the red and black tartan patterned boxer shorts.