I have been adaptive.

Dynamic.

Robust.

During Biology Labs, this week, for the sake of the group, I have sacrificed myself to volunteer for Mrs. Muhr's dissection of fish flanges and respiratory system.

I could taste the formalin in mum's trial of Fettuccini salad when I was having dinner with my parents, at home.

I have changed skin when it came to keeping a social stature in school. Reputation is something that can slip through your fingers like a butterball pastry.

We engaged in teasing Kenny, since he was the one who was always emotionally stable but academically limp. Mrs. Yang's instructions included Exercise 6 to 9, the ones that are comparatively doable.

It was my idea that was being executed when we changed the chapters to Advanced Trigonometry, marking his book from 1 to 11 and everything in between that was scratched with difficult symbols and angles. We didn't have to please ourselves by imagining Kenny's facial expression since he waddled in half an hour later and screeched out in agony from seeing the markings.

Harvey has adjusted his act and I was astonished to see his character in progress when he handed me the pack of cigs behind the Cafeteria's dump bins and told me to throw them away. The gold linings on the border of the packet informed me about the price of them, increasing is value especially since Harvey nicked it from his father's smoking cabinet.

I asked, "Why?"

He answered that Amelia wasn't so appreciable towards the whole smoking, polluting his lungs at such a young age. He added with a cuss and a smile, "If it's in my pocket, I'm gonna smoke one. I wouldn't care whatever the fuck she would think."

I am impressed by Harvey's attention to maturity, to grow.

I am suspicious of Amelia, whose personality is fishy; for a girl who does not exchange a word in class but cordial enough to take lead on Chemistry's labs.

My mother's typewriter has been sent on a short vacation since Dad is home and the dual voices read out their priced possession through evenings and mornings, like a TV show that had no pause button or couldn't be turned off.

The past Frey Newell would have been annoyed by this prospect.

The present Frey Newell appreciates their togetherness and when he thinks about any bitter things to say, he recalls the state of Jackie's parents.

I would lose the bet with myself if the divorce does not take place by this year but I couldn't ask Jackie if their parents are still sharing one bed or torn down their house in two unequal halves.

The question seemed insensitive.

The brand new Frey Newell cannot allow himself to be indifferent.

But at this exact moment, the Brand new, adaptive and diverse Frey Newell is stuck in a 'Planner Huddle 6 Single Student desk.'

At Blue Ridge.

The piece of paper gives me the look of a responsibility as the clock ticks louder than usual to add more strain to my thoughts.

The crumpled up, blue slip holds a line that is making my brain fire one neuron at a minute.

'In two pages, describe a memory with your grandparents that you cherish and love.'

I fumble around in the chair and exchange pathetic views to the Chair Company sticker that is stuck to the side of the table, being no help whatsoever.

There's an unused Olive oil vile in my jeans pocket, forming the shape of a really blunt dagger or an impractically large tip of an arrow. When mum went shopping with dad this Sunday, I asked her if she could pick up some Olive oil for me, if that's possible.

Mum's serotonin level was higher than Sputnik-1. In other times, she would ask why I would use it for or order me to search for it in the pantry. But she didn't perform any suggestions than nod and agree.

That night, mum came back with the Olive Oil vile, in its missile like shape and giddily passed the information that, the olive oil is a healthy choice for personal beautification because it serves both purpose of skin as well as hair.

I feel the sides of the vile around for any suggestions.

I am trying not to think of any euphemism that involves male genitalia when describing the shape of the bottle.

There's a brief twang of a rubber band, hitting the lining of someone's wrist.

Ms. Eden's posture is placed at the side of the window, near my seat where the light has busted in through the glass then deflected away from her blue sweater. Creating a one color display of blue shade on the nearby wall.

The rubber band on her hand slaps down onto her wrist, once again which pokes me into spotting the red line of punished skin on the crease of her left wrist.

The band twangs again as her face shows no invitation of pain.

"Grandfather, um . . okay."

Noah Garner Newell is the only Newell in mum's family tree line who is old enough to convey as a grandparent because he is over 70 and occasionally sends a letter each year, preferably near Christmas. Mum utilizes this occasion to establish the need of communication of our family, all the distant uncles, aunts, cousins and what not, when she cuts through the strongly glued paper seal and read the letter out.

The jumbled handwriting will present unrecognizable Qs, Ss and an array of words that can only my mother decipher with a spy like potential. The insignificance of the letter rests since Noah Garner Newell escaped the pathetic cliché of retirement homes and ran away to the border of the country where he spent a portion of his savings into a lamb farm.

Mum asked Noah, her dad, to come down and live with us as Dad nodded unconvincingly. Except for Mum, the both of us couldn't understand what the actual excuse was because the northern accent of Noah Garner was too hard to broadcast by the telephone's loudspeaker.

For Mum's final trick of manipulating my grandfather to spending at least two weeks with us contained verbal direction as Julia pressed the metal handle on her cheek till he picked up on the other side.

According to Noah, phone calls are a luxury in Garner's Farm because the telephone lines do not stretch as far as the mountain side, so he has to drive to the nearest post office and pick his messages.

Mum addressed this as a clever line.

"You could visit us for one week, Gramps." This was the time I talked with him, maybe for the first time in a long while, from my birth.

"I dun think su'," He paused for a second, as if he could not believe that this was Gotfrey Newell, Julia Newell's spawn of 16 years.

"Oh." I sighed with no emotional value.

"You should come down here, Gotfri. The season's perfect, the lamb's out for shearing and if we're lucky 'nough, we can even take the boat out for a ride."

That call ended with no success for the Newell family, except for Noah. When we all sat down for dinner, I asked mum about Gramps's. If we were alone, then the inquiry would spell emotional danger which would include Mum not talking to anyone for 3 days and punishing the typewriter more than necessary.

To my advantage, Dad was present.

One of my mother's key factors of telling the truth is, she cannot completely lie or avoid the question when Dad is there. I don't know the actual reason behind this but accountability and family moral are two things she always promotes.

I asked mum, why Gramps was like this. I thought Mum was evading the question at first as her stew floated around aimlessly in her bowl.

"He loves you, Frey. He loves all of us. He's just shy. You know, the hermit kind."

I didn't let Noah Garner Newell stay in my mind then, because he and I were both absent from each other's life and the mutual happiness as well as normality were resting easily.

I read the blue slip again, absurdly hoping that it has changed to a topic I can write about.

'In two pages, describe a memory with your grandparents that you cherish and love.'

"Gracie's up! Give us your draft."

Her legs carry her carriage till she reaches Ms. Eden's desk where her hip leans back on the wooden border of the table.

Her dark brown skirt reaches down to her knees but does not reveal the cups of her bones.

Lighting the fuse of temptation without displaying any form of nudity.

I can easily say that Gracie is the type of girl who lives in the mind of most of the boys that she meets with.

"The secrets of San Francisco." Gracie's smile only latches onto the title but disappears before the prologue catches on.

"I always thought Washington seemed too busy. Too occupied with thoughts and restless enough to make me anxious about everything. The passing cars, the men in the business suits even the couples sitting on the park's benches looked like they were trying too hard to enjoy themselves."

She halts to throw a look around the room as her gaze ends in Ms. Eden when mine begins.

I free the 2B pencil from my hand and let it roll away to its freedom onto the edge of the seat as I fumble with my paper. It is mostly blank except for 3 obscure lines of 'Sheep Shearing' techniques and description which was 'borrowed' from Gramps's letters.

I should feel the heat of plagiarism but I only shriek from imagining what Ms. Eden would think about me when I have to walk up to the desk and read aloud the facts that older sheep and lambs are suitable for skinning less when younger lambs can provide more wool in shortage of times.

The picture isn't pretty because when I finish my description of a lamb farm, everyone will make the international face of confusion and disapproval whilst they try to guess who I am writing about. And then Ms. Eden would clearly understand that I am better in pen and paper when it comes to social crimes and divorces.

"So, when I travelled up far East and ended up in New York, I was a bit relieved. There was a bursting scent of brotherhood in the streets, people calling out to each other like they were old friends even though they had just met. And that gave me a bit of hope in humanity to spend the rest of the vacation."

Bishop's head lulls from side to side as he settles his head on his hands on the desk.

Austin lazily fixes the back of her shirt, unintentionally displaying her bony back before she tries to look concentrated enough.

I try to channel my inner Darwin as the mopey voice of Melanie fizzes out in my ear. After that day in lunch, she did not attend school for 2 days straight and on the third, handed in her application note with her mother's approved statement that, she, Melanie has been feeling really unwell.

If Giraffes can stretch their necks, through decades and generations, to fill their necessary consumption of food, I can scribble graphite over two pages about the selfish grandfather that I never met.

This is not entirely true, since I had met him once, when I was 3 and the proof lies on the picture which is in my parent's bedroom. An elderly man's hands holding a baby like an assault rifle in a long wooden chair which is similar to our back porch.

He was looking shell shocked by the loose dribbles of saliva from my face as my mother's smiling disposition enters in the background.

"I was not longing to get my legs trotting over the fiery grounds of Florida. She was not hated by me but not loved either since the weather was too warm, the air was too free and too outgoing which collided with my idea of a vacation. But the wheels of fate travelled across the states, under the same sun in different trajectories, I ended up on the side of a swimming pool where the P.O box ended in Florida's address."

Gracie's eyes does not break the momentum with her notebook as she continues to carry on. So Ms. Eden turns her head slightly to meet with my gaze.

Her tongue slightly slips through her mouth and wets the top of her bottom lip before her amused eyes bounces around the room and back to Gracie.

I feel the firm grip of my hands on my personality, that is loosening by each passing second.

'The hermit kind.' I write.

I can imagine what our relationship would be, Ms. Eden's and mine, after today.

After today, when I will try to chase her down at the parking lot to exchange some uncommon conversation, she would not wait for me with the courtesy light of her wrecked car on full beam.

She will understand that I am nothing special than anyone else, especially to her since my base running skill and homerun statistics will not impress her a bit.

She'll be indifferent to me, like Jackie, Clay and Rommery have become ignorant to me.

She'll lose the telepathic mutual belief that we are appropriate for keeping a friendship that is only exclusive for us and not for anyone else.

She'll disregard the emotion that, I assume her as a care giver, a mentor, someone who is holding the torch for me in the darkest hours without knowing the reason or without asking for the cause.

No amount of F. Scott. Fitzgerald will be enough to compensate for my literary shortcoming.

"But I said goodbye to West Virginia. I wished Mountain Mama would understand when I told her that it has been great but I have to run back now. I didn't stop at Maryland, or New Mexico, couldn't bathe in the golden sun of Texas or feel the breeze of the beautiful parts of Arkansas.

There were lot of emotions that were acting as my accomplice when I crawled into my house. Bruised knees, unfed and beat up by the road and mother nature herself.

But when I saw them, all in open arms, I could relive all the emotions that I felt.

On the road."

"Whoa." Bishop mumbles.

"That's just two pages, eh?" Austin perfects her stink eye as she finds a new thing to poke at.

"Yes, it is." Chris hisses from the side.

My mind cannot spare an aggressive retort to throw at Chris.

It is too busy, looking for safety, hatching a plan, losing buoyancy.

One of my favorite childhood memories involve and revolve around my parents and peer pressure. Bryant and Todd were next door neighbors and had hobbies like being part time child wrestlers in their house.

On my 5th Birthday, it was Mum's idea to gift me a bicycle, without the comfort and the insurance of balancing wheels.

I can vividly recall mum, standing beside the post office, in her overcoat and spitting orders and instructions to follow. According to her, it was important that I took interest in usual childhood activities. That I was in par with the other boys whose bicycle's screech annoyed my mother more than me.

Dad was holding on to the back of the frame, keeping me afloat without moving. In the afternoon light, he was giving more effort in hiding the First Aid Kit under his long navy coat, rather than anything.

The sound of my slow body skidding across the snow cushioned pavement sounded like 'Perfect Childhood memories' to my mother, felt like 'An yelp for help' to dad.

"It's definitely about your family, isn't it?"

"Um . . yes . It kinda is."

"Come on, show them the script." I hear Ms. Eden's voice. Adorned with affection and love.

Gracie's silhouette's fishes in the front pocket of her skirt before a blue slip dulls in my vision.

'Write about traveling and home.' is written in Ms. Eden's rough handwriting.

Fear and Social Stratification cannot let me taste Temptation when her skirt riddles in her steps as she settles herself down in her seat.

"Alright, since Frey is new to our whole segment, why don't one of you again explain the whole thing to him? " Ms. Eden's voice trails on and off, like an untuned guitar in the hands of a novice.

I grant myself the permission to have one last look of Ms. Eden before the inevitable happens.

A thin vine of redness allows itself to climb throughout the bridge of her nose, a pencil sticks itself on the cusp of her ear, the rubbery butt of 2B pokes out from the cover of her brown hair.

She looks distracted as she bites her lip and nooks her head down to the papers on the table.

"You'll read out a two page draft or story or . . . your work about the topic you had. And we have to guess who or what you were writing about. So you have to be subtle. . . It's a show and not tell exercise, you see."

I swallow a gulp of saliva as a reply.

"Well, then . . yeah . . take it away, I guess."

The desk is the execution block.

Dana is the friendly announcer.

I catch a 'twang' of Ms. Eden's rubber band hitting her wrist.

I angle my stance so that the view of Ms. Eden's sweater's neck and the rest of the class both stay in my periphery.

Her lips turn to a thin Cherry Red but not from any soda since the heavy droplet of thick blood lulls on endless creases of her bottom flanges before she transforms it on her index finger.

I try to fix my act, of what I should read out now.

My brain is full of useless information and memories.

Of that time, when Clay and his mum visited our house for the first time. We were both 9 and it had to be the worst birthday because Dad's slow lob of baseball left me with a swollen chin.

Mum had probably met Clay's mother in the Mall and even though I do not remember whose idea was it to visit us but they did anyway.

It's hard to imagine younger versions of us since on that day, both of us sat on my desk that overlooked the back porch and onto Mrs. Bonneville whilst sharing a generous bowl of pudding. Courtesy of dad to cover up his crime.

If the 9 year old Frey Newell and Clarance saw us now, would they disapprove of us? Would they hate us or just become faintly upset?

"I always liked how his . . . wrinkled skin and pepper . . . white hair looked through the window. I do not know the actual reason behind this but . . . it . . it has something to do with the fact that, he looked like a ghost in a movie."

Dana loses her act of the executioner as her chapped lips curve to smile.

"She looks like a ghost." These were the exact words of Clay as he tried to balance the cherry of the pudding on his spoon when he spotted Mrs. Bonneville's silhouette. Her unparalleled neck craning out from the second story bedroom window to see our mothers walking across the back porch.

I feel a faint direction of what I need to say to ensure my place in her life.

A dim suggestion of a lighthouse.

The flickering safety of a torch in the darkness of mysterious woods.

I search through the sea of useless information, of all the possible interaction that could work as a floating life raft at this very moment.

I put my father in the position of my grandfather to steal any possibly entertaining events but the aggravated mind shows zero results.

"I was worried about him." I pause to establish suspense or to buy myself some time.

"A few winters ago, the contents of his truck were him, me, a pair of hunting rifle and other necessary accessories for hunting big game. This would be one of my most favorite, fond . . and cherished memories of him. Because, on that night, all of us sat down for dinner to help ourselves to some quails and grouses that we shot."

Harvey's grandfather usually forgets his age. Mostly, because his body was in such a good shape that only a mirror could remind him that he were 72. But his self-esteem was strong enough to manhandle any idea of feeling old out of the window because Harvey invited all of us to his house. On the occasion that, his grandfather was in town and already taken on the responsibility to control rabbit's numbers in the locality.

"We said a prayer to the Gods of humor and children entertainment, so that he could forgive us for killing Bugs Bunny."

There's a simmer of smirks that ripple through Dana, Bishop, Gracie, Arch and onto the side.

I wait to hear the 'twang' of a rubber band, punishing an innocent lining of skin, but there's no sound of any abuse.

"I'm not much of a literary person. Mainly because school has ruined it for me with all the open ended questions that leave me flabbergasted and anxious. But in our family, alongside my mum, he was the only person who was always there as a beacon of philosophy."

This time, I am not mimicking a single person in the imaginary place of my grandfather. It's a series of people. All of their personalities are mushed, cramped and stuffed together in one single package.

Like the Dwarve's "Scrap Special" which is Kenny's guilty pleasure that they serve only one Wednesdays when all the leftover burgers, buns, French fries, potato mash, sandwich feeling, ham stripes are stuck into one brisket.

"I have him to thank for passing the recent geography tests."

The crash course book a.k.a "Geography 101" is the magazine sized book that I bought from mum's newsstand guy.

"And my interest in Sociology has been the fruit of the books and articles that he reads everyday."

Now, I'm thinking of Jan, from News House who sends mum the fat bellied parcel of "People's Opinion" every Monday.

Mum's upper body strength is impressive, even for a woman of her age and occupation. But carrying the fat folder from the post box to her cave has become a workout.

Jan's also an inducer of physiotherapy.

"I often try not to think of how much time we have left on this earth. Him and I. Like he told me, morbid is something that we shouldn't be while our hands are holding, lungs are breathing, hearts are ticking and legs are kicking. Our life is the most valuable gift, he said.

But I can't stop worrying about him. Because sheep are creatures who cannot fathom the idea of taking care of their owner, their Shepard and even though it's not my duty to be so hung up on one thing alone, I cannot help it, sometimes."

Once, I thought what it would be like, if my parents died.

The provider of the idea was our religious teacher who brought the topic of heaven and the mysterious afterlife, onto earth, without asking.

Everyone in class, sat mopey faced, their disposition turned the dial of empathy on high and sadness to Max and wondered the day all of their loved ones left the earth.

The teacher didn't say tragic but to paint the picture of the day when someone will lose somebody whom they are close and near to.

Harvey retorted, being juvenile and snarled, "Why?"

His calm face just pushed the words out of his lips, under a sadistic mustache and replied, "Some day, we will all return to God."

Harvey's face made a silent cry for help, from the horror of his parents vanishing and returning to the creator.

I thought of the near future then, not about my parents, but about Noah Garner Newell. One of these coming days, there will be a phone call and the voice from the other side would not be Noah's but of one of his mates, who would inform that, Noah has passed away.

I have heard of my mother squeal out in pain which resemblances the sound a puppy makes when it is being run over.

According to probability, the chances of Dad's presence on a random day of Noah's death are slim. So mum will have to subside to my shoulder, ruffling my hair and advising me that "Everything's gonna be fine." which is aimed at her.

I will try to make myself sad. Blue beyond expectation. But the funeral would be like any other funeral I have gone to, because of supporting mum.

In the coming days, the phone will fizz out with the news of Noah Garner Newell's death and I will not be depressed, mournful, dismal or heartbroken.

I will not try to break down all the choices of my life to mark myself as a good man or a bad person.

Because I don't know a Noah Garner Newell, other than his name and the general techniques of lamb skinning in winter.

"But I promised him I wouldn't worry and call him from time to time. Even if he's 75."

I wait for a familiar 'twang' of the rubber band but the sound camouflages itself behind the series of small scale hoots from the classmates.

'Twang'!

***

"No offense, but at first I thought, it was about your dad " The light grin sparks on from Dana's mouth, then passes up to Austin as their laugh rides down the empty stillness of the corridor.

"No, it's fine." My legs are being pierced by the pokes of my mind's anxiety.

"But, I like it. The slip said to write a memory that you cherish. You kinda said a lot."

"Hey, it's fine, Aus. It's his first, alright? Not everyone is an emotional blob like you."

"Shut up, Dana!"

My shoes squeal in anticipation.

I am looking for the person, whom I lied for. But Ms. Eden's shadow strolled down the hall till she became invisible.

"Hello there, Frey. Come here for a minute?"

I notice the red swirl of bobs of sticky hair first, then the leftover of her forehead assures me that she is a human being as Mrs. Jordi's strange lips express a familiar sentence.

My hand fizzle out, imitating the violent breaking waves of a Tsunami as I clutch the clipboard from the top of the desk.

I focus on the form and try my best to blur out the image of Mrs. Jordi, in the background.

My mind is already anxious and calculating consequences at its top speed.

I cannot afford to be horrified by someone's terrible fashion senses now.

"You need to fill in the form. For this semester. Don't leave anything blank, okay?"

I swivel to face the teacher's lounge, to spot anyone in a blue sweater and a strawberry red right wrist.

"So, Literature and Free Hand Writing, huh?"

"Yes." My anxiety is shunning the daily topic of usual social interaction.

"Gonna be a poet, huh?"

I stop scribbling mum's maiden name to examine Mrs. Jordi's tone, as well as her facial disposition to differ humor from insult.

Her upper lips swell and rests in a pouting posture. Like a goldfish.

"If professional baseball player does not work out--"

I saunter carelessly, when it comes to Dad's identity. The two 'r's of Jerry Newell are leaning on each other like sick peasants.

"Are you going to take Mrs. Gideon's class-"

"Did Ms. Eden leave already?"

My question is answered by the sight of a red van which doesn't slow to cross the hurdle of the gate, flapping the remaining of the plastic back bumper as its groan passes through the hall.

I side step, abandon the desk, across the steps and onto the lonely tarmac where the glimpse of the red vehicle teases through an open fence before it does a full turn and disappears towards South.

To Summertown.

The clipped pages flip for the presence of a gust, flapping their wings like faceless birds. And the assistance of Mrs. Jordi's call, which is borderline terrifying automates my body back under the tubed halogen setting of the reception desk.

It has started.

There is no call, no glances and lastly, no parking lot conversations.

These are the times that I hate to be right.