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"Sometimes," I itched my wrist in distraction; staring at everyone in the room around me, "sometimes, I feel alone; ya know?"
Heads nodded in unison, but you could tell half of the people in there could care less and just wanted out of the small room. The room wasn't really all that bad. Its the reason that everyone was in it that was the bad thing.
You see, this room is a therapy room for teens with problems that range from cutting to binge drinking. Why was I in there?
I'm diagnosed with depression by my family, friends, etc.
Jeez, I wouldn't even be here if I hadn't put away my diary containing my secret thoughts and s**t like that.
One of the kids beside me hands me a note. He looks like he came strait out of a rap music video. I secretly unfolded the note, and read.
hey u look like u need a lite.
I looked to him, then the note. I scribbled a note back, agreeing with his analysis. I didn't smoke too much, just if someone offered me one. And honestly, I really haven't gotten hooked.
I discreetly handed the note back, and he smiled at me. I flushed and looked down in my lap, playing with the edge of the journal our counselor had given all of us the first day. You know, the ones where you have to 'communicate your feelings before the self distructive behavior'? Yeah. All I did was doodle in it. I'm pretty sure everyone here could care less about it. I mean, the counselor even said herself she wouldn't read it unless you would want to. Which nobody ever did. I grabbed my pen and started to draw swirls and flowers on the cover, pressing hard so it would make a hole.
I felt a tap on my thigh, and saw a familiar piece of paper. I unfolded it, and smiled at the response.
Cool. ill give u 1 wen we're outta dis hell hole. ; )
I nodded discreetly at him, and he gave a thumbs up.
"Alright guys, great session today! Especially you; May. You're one step closer to recovering from your anorexia!" Our overly enthusiastic counselor; Mrs. Whay crowed in happiness. I inwardly cringed, watching as the stick-like girl nodded with her head down. *Poor girl...* I thought. She must've been embarrassed by the praise, I mean; you could see it on her face. I felt a hand on my shoulder, as gangster-boy (I don't know his name yet; give me a break!) smiled at me. I turned around.
"Yo." His voice actually didn't sound thick with the gangster-like tone.
"Hi." I said quietly, tucking a stray lock of dirty blonde hair behind my ear. I clutched my notebook to my flat chest, and offered a small smile to him.
"You wanted a cig?" He said, and flicked one out from his jean pocket.
I got wide-eyed, and quickly looked at the counselor. She didn't seem to notice, let alone care. She was too busy checking her emails on the chunky dell computer on the small desk.
I nodded, and took it from him. "Lets go outside." I said quietly, clutching the cigarette and walking out of the room. He tailed not too far behind, taking long strides with his long legs.
We finally got outside, and leaned against the office building's stucco wall. He flipped out a silver zippo and lit up his own cigarette. He held the lighter out to me, and I tipped my cigarette to the flame. It lit up, and I watched as he snapped the lighter shut and slip it back into his jean pocket. I sucked hard on the filter, and blew out the smoke, watching it curl into the evening sky.
"So how'd you get to be here?" I asked, striking up conversation.
"Got caught doing weed. You?" He said cooly, as if it were a question always asked to him. I grinned and laughed a little.
"My parents think I'm a suicidal maniac." I said, and watched the ash from my cigarette drop onto the concrete.
"Huh. Couldn't tell from looking at you." He stated, tapping his cigarette on the ground and inhaled more.
I shrugged. "Alot of people say that." I said quietly, and stuck the cigarette in my mouth, chewing lightly on the filter. I heard a small chuckle.
"I'm not suprised. But with me, its different. People expect it." He said, and looked at me. "But then again, I'm not suprised by that either." He flicked the butt of his cigarette on the ground, and grinded it out with the toe with his Puma brand sneaker. I watched as the embers died down to black ash underneath his toe.
"So what is your name, anyways?" I asked, repeating the same action with my sandal clad toe. He smirked.
"Andrew Baker. Just call me Andy." He said nonchalantly, and looked up at me, shoving his hands in his pocket and leaning against the wall of the building again.
"Melissa Han." I stuck out my hand, and his larger hand grasped mine; shaking it. "Cool. Maybe we could hang out sometime?" He asked. Was that his way of asking me out? Eh, who cares.
"Ok. You have a cell?" I flipped out my own, and he nodded. His was a razor black, definitely pwning my outdated phone. I mean, mine didn't even have a camera in it! He looked up at me, and smiled. "You like it? Just got it from my 'rents." He showed the phone to me, and I nodded. "Yeah, yeah I do. Better than mine, thats for sure." I stared down at my own. It was a hand-me-down from my dad. I had painted it cherry red with some nail polish I had. I flicked the antennae up and grinned. "Its like; from the 80's." I chuckled softly and then looked back up at him. "So whats your number?" He gave it to me, and I gave him mine.
"So text me whenever, its always on." I told him. He nodded, and looked up at a black hummer that was riding up near the curb of the sidewalk. It boomed out rap music, and I looked at him. "Your ride?" I teased, fully knowing of the answer. He rolled his eyes and grinned. "My bro, he loves his rap." He smiled as he walked away. "So I'll see you soon?"
I nodded. "Duh."
He grinned, and waved. "Later." He called over his shoulder as he opened the hummer's car door with ease, and slipped in gracefully.
"Bye, Andy." I mouthed as his car sped past me. I waved.
I watched as the car passed and went into the main road, then looked down at his tossed cigarette. I sat down on the curb, just staring at the butt. I flicked it with my toe, and grinned to myself. *Andrew Baker. Caught smoking weed.* I shook my head, and laughed a little. *Has an LCD black razor phone, and Puma sneakers. Looks like a strait up ganster from the hood.* I nodded to myself, and adjusted my purse on my shoulder. *...Melissa Han. Diagnosed with depression. Has a crappy 80's or 90's phone with cheap paint job, and a knock-off Coach bag. Looks like a nerdy strait A student from Beverly hills.* I sighed, and looked at an ant that passed by my feet. "What a pair." I thought aloud, and sighed again in frustration. I pushed up my glasses with my pinky finger and looked back at my phone. His number was still on the screen, and I looked at it. *...Yeah, this'll be one helluva friendship.* I thought sarcastically. But oh, how right I was...Oh, how right.