Steak, Chicken, and Turkey (continued)

Somewhere else, Dylan woke up, three minutes before he would officially be late, again. He was terrible at being punctual. He was terrible at turning in assignments, paying attention in class, keeping anything in order, anything that involved doing what other people expected him to do. Dylan thought that so many of these things just weren’t important enough to require any of his effort-or even his contemplation. He was interested in people, making an attempt at understanding why they do the things they do. He got dressed in clothes from the other day which he also wore yesterday. He yelled bye to his mom passed out on the couch, left the house, and made his way to school. Dylan’s mom was still a riddle. She worked as a waitress at a diner three counties away and she never seemed to be around. She was always either sleeping or working. What a life. Why would she choose such a life? This was the question that would plague Dylan until he found the answer, an event that never seemed likely. He lived exactly a block and a half away from school. In his pocket today he found a frosted strawberry pop tart. He popped it in his mouth. He walked into the classroom, fifteen minutes late, made a face at all of his staring classmates and sat down. Thirty seconds later he put his head down and went to sleep.



When Dylan woke up, an hour or so later, he noticed a girl, Cynthia, staring at him. It wasn’t in an endearing-you’re-cute kind of way though, it was a more what-is-wrong-with-you kind of way. They had been in the same class for six months yet they had never made eye contact, let alone talked. She thought he was the most revolting and disgusting being on the planet. He always smelled terribly, like a combination of cigarette smoke, perspiration, and moldy strawberries. Dylan knew more or less how he smelled. He showered every three days and changed clothes every week. Dylan also knew that most of his classmates didn’t think too highly of him. He truly didn’t care though. If my classmates don’t want to talk to me because I smell bad, then honestly I don’t want to talk to them either. The people I want to be friends with won’t care about stuff like that so, in a way, I’m glad I smell bad. I am a filter. He would sit with Luke everyday at lunch. Luke was his best friend and neighbor since kindergarten. Luke was in the eighth grade. They could eat chicken and talk about life. They could regard or disregard the world while they silently chewed.