Chapter Nine: I May Be an Idiot, But I’m Not Stupid

They said that insanity was the act of doing something over and over again and expecting a different outcome. The legendary Albert Einstein was the one to make that assertion. The man himself was brilliant, but not as much from a literary standpoint (as some misperceived me to be at times), but rather from a math and science perspective—much like this kid, Luke Daniels. By Einstein’s standards (and most likely by Luke’s, as well), I most certainly was insane.

      Currently, I was seated on a beanbag chair, in the back of the library with my notebook on my lap and Luke Daniels by my side as Brenda practiced her wide range of limited skills that were included among the job description that was a librarian (namely, napping). There was a pencil in my hand, but not even the faintest idea as to what to write in my mind. I had been staring at the same phrase for about an hour now, writing it and then erasing it, only to rewrite it a few seconds later. Presently, I undeniably fit under the category of Albert Einstein’s version of insanity.

      “So, what do you have now?” Luke questioned with an annoyed sigh.

      “The same exact thing that I had the last time that you asked: ‘When thinking about the ordeals faced by teens today, multiple notions of specificity surface,’” I reread the silver words that were scribbled over the smudged area across where an eraser had formerly grazed. “It still sounds like bullshit to me, but I like it!”

      “I don’t really ‘do’ English, but it sounds like you’re trying to be a pompous ass and trying to impress the teacher or whatever. Why not just say what you really mean?” Luke suggested, proving to me that he was, indeed, similar to that of Albert Einstein.

      People always carelessly threw around the expression “so-and-so is no Einstein!” as if it was a form of degradation. Honestly, though, he was a physicist. He was capable in other fields, though preferred the unlimited scope of the sciences. Technically, aside from being completely correct, for there was only one Albert Einstein and no one could ever truly replicate him, the simple saying was almost a compliment, in a way. Einstein didn’t excel in school as some thought him to, for he preferred to work and learn alone.

      Though it was a beyond unlikely comparison, from what I had learned of Luke in the incredibly short span of time that I had known him, like Einstein, he wasn’t into school, but was able to somehow shine in the subjects of mathematics and science. Aside from the way their brains worked, however, Albert Einstein and Luke Daniels couldn’t have been farther apart. One was a deceased German of a secular Jewish faith, while the other was a privileged American who liked to pretend he was rebellious.

      “Say what I really mean?” I said skeptically, expunging the tangible words once more with the pink back of my pencil. “What the hell are you talking about? This is exactly what I mean!”

      “Yeah, but couldn’t you just say something like, ‘Teens have a hard life,’ or something like that?” Luke quirked one of his dark eyebrows as he brought a bottle of water that he had been nursing up to his lips. With a tilt of his head, he allowed the clear liquid to travel down his throat, his Adams apple visibly bobbing as he swallowed. He winced slightly as he set the bottle down beside him as a question surfaced in my mind.

      “That’s water, right?” I asked aloud, pointing to the bottle that he had placed on the floor, next to where he was sitting. I chose to overlook his grammatical blunder.

      “I don’t know,” he shrugged, “why don’t you try it and find out for yourself?” With a smirk, he held up the bottle, offering it to me.

      Hesitantly, I accepted the ordinary-looking container of a cylindrical shape that had a thick stripe of paper surrounding it. My fingers clasped around the bottle as I unscrewed the cap with my free hand. I brought the object containing an unknown liquid up to my nose to smell it, and instantly knew that it was most certainly not water. It had a pungently strong scent that I couldn’t entirely place, for I wasn’t exactly a bloodhound. I did, however, know that the content of the plastic wasn’t the purest element of them all.

      “It’s not water,” I deduced verbally.

      “No, it’s not,” Luke confirmed, eyeing me in amusement.

      “What is it?” I demanded.

      “I told this already, but try it,” he urged.

      I briefly contemplated the other options that I had in the situation, one being to pour the fluid on Luke’s head, another to act passive and not do anything, and a third to give into the pressure of a peer and drink whatever it was. I opted for the third, despite the existence of probably over twelve other viable choices I hadn’t even begun to explore. Gradually, I lifted the bottle to my mouth, pausing before I allowed my palate to taste the sharpness.

      “Do you have mono?” I addressed Luke.

      He looked at me as if I had just dipped my hand into a vat of poison ivy and asked if I would get a rash. “No,” his lips closed around the two-lettered word, his tone rhetorical.

      I nodded, continuing the solution’s journey to my mouth. Lightly, I closed my lips around the opening of the bottle, tipping it back marginally so that my taste buds could take in the powerful flavor. Well, this particular instance proved the adage “looks can be deceiving” to be overly accurate. Despite appearing to be H2O, this substance was more along the lines of C2H5OH—aka, alcohol.

      “This is alcohol,” I determined orally.

      “Yes,” he said plainly.

      “Vodka?” I guessed, mindlessly taking another sip of it to try and discern the variety, and also just because I liked it.

      When it came to underage drinking, I didn’t really have a solid viewpoint on it. I was educated enough to know that it wasn’t the best thing for my developing brain cells, but I liked alcohol, and it acted, at times, as a means of escape for me. I rarely drank, for I wasn’t the type to party with private school princes and princesses. From time to time, though, I had a tendency to sneak a beer or three into my room from the fridge and leisurely drink them with the door locked without parental knowledge. When it came to how I thought about drinking, my positions were a little murky, for I knew it was bad, yet I was okay with it.

      “Nice guess, Ross,” Luke confirmed once more.

      “My name’s Olivia,” I grumbled, taking yet another mouthful of the almost acidic liquor, “and why the hell would you risk bringing alcohol onto the school’s campus? I’ve done some pretty stupid shit here over the years, but if an administrator found out, that’s grounds for freaking expulsion, Luke!”

      “You thought it was water,” he pointed out, snatching the bottle from my hand only to take another gulp from the place both my and his mouths were just moments before, “so how in hell’s name would the dopey administration find out? I may be an idiot, but I’m not stupid.” He folded his arms behind his head, leaning back against the eggshell wall. “Besides, despite how badass it would look on my record to get kicked out of yet another school, this place can’t throw me out.”

      “Oh? And why not?” I inquired, glancing back to my notebook where the failed foundation of my assignment was resting lifelessly.

      “Can I tell you story?” he questioned, bringing the vodka up to his lips again.

      “Even if I said no would that stop you?” I huffed, my skull falling against the squishiness of the article on which I was settled.

      “Touché, Olivia Ross, touché,” he laughed. “Once upon a time—”

      “Shit,” I interjected, probably using all my complaints up too soon, “this isn’t going to be one of those stories, is it?”

      “Do I look like the type of guy who would tell some B.S. story about fairies, princesses, and all that crap?” he asked pretentiously. I remained quiet, for he had a point, and any words would only act as irrelevant. “That’s what I thought,” he used my silence as a means to continue. “Anyways, as I was saying, once upon a freaking time, there was this dude. Let’s call him ‘Teddy,’ just for the hell of it. Now, Teddy was the type of person that practically pooped money, he was rolling in so much of it. He owned some fancy business or whatever—”

      “What type of business?” the extraneous question slipped from my mind into the greatness that was the world.

      “By saying ‘or whatever,’ I’m pretty damn sure that it doesn’t matter or that I have no freaking clue,” Luke rolled his eyes at me. “Can I continue, or are you planning on interrupting again?”

      “No, you can go on,” I assured him.

      “So, basically, Teddy started this school for rich kids, married this chick named Mary, and they had five kids. Their youngest son, Robert, was a bit of a troublemaker, and was disowned from the family by the time he was twenty for a shit ton of reasons,” Luke paused to make sure that I was still attentive, and hadn’t turned to my notebook as a distraction. “Rob was still technically part of the family, but, at the same time, he wasn’t. He went on to marry this lady named Cora, and they had three kids. Their youngest daughter, Angela, followed in her father’s footsteps, and detached herself completely from the family. She married a bastard and then they had two kids. One was just ‘eh,’ while the other was g-d’s gift to women. The end.”

      “That’s not the end,” I determined.

      “Oh? And who’s to say it’s not?” Luke fired back.

      “Well, firstly, it has absolutely nothing to do with your drinking or not getting expelled,” I said.

      “What if I told you it was a true story and that ‘Teddy’ was really Theodore Hendricks Freaking Elks, and that that hot kid that Angela had was me?” he offered up a smug grin.

      “No way,” I shook my head. “There is no freaking way that you’re a descendant of Theodore Hendricks Freaking Elks.”

      “Well, I am, and you can either choose to believe it or not. Why else wouldn’t they have kicked me out yet?” he tried to reason.

      “Okay, fine,” I went along with it, “maybe you are related to THE, but that totally proves my assertion that you’re a poser,” I smirked, confident that I had nailed him.

      “Ah, but it doesn’t, Livy,” he smirked right back. “See, when my grandpa, Rob, was disowned, he didn’t get any of his daddy’s money, so had to start from scratch, and become a blue-collar citizen like everybody else.” I listened as he spoke, trying to make sense of his family tree. “My mom grew up in a working class family, and then landed herself into some deep shit that I’ll probably end up telling you about later when I feel vulnerable and am high or drunk enough to tell that type of crap. I’m not a poser. Nope, I’m the real deal, babe.”

      “Don’t call me ‘babe,’” I said after a few seconds of thinking up a response. “You are probably the most arrogant person I have ever met in my entire life, Luke Daniels,” I breathed a laugh. “You are aware of that, right?”

      “I am now!”

      “Well, answer me this, Luke Daniels,” I began, glancing over to the analogue clock with a black rim in the distance, “why on Earth, or even on Jupiter, for that matter, would anyone drink before eleven o’clock?”

      “Do I look like the type of guy who would face this shithole sober?” he deadpanned, making a great deal of logic.

      “So, you bring a bottle of vodka on campus and hope they don’t catch you?” I assessed.

      “I also skip class to waste time with some junior who likes to draw and wear black named Olivia Ross,” his gray eyes connected with my own, “they can’t do anything to me.” He blinked first, breaking the incorporeal contact. “Now, you, on the other hand, they can kick out of here in the snap of a finger.”

      “No, they can’t,” I refuted.

      “Oh? Are you also a secret member of Teddy’s family cult, as well?”

      “They threw my cousin out a few years ago,” I told him, the memory surfacing in my thoughts like a ghost, “and let’s just say it didn’t end well. My mommy and daddy have a lot of money. This school isn’t big on kicking out large benefactors’ kids. It doesn’t really ‘bode well’ with the Board of Trustees.”

      “Who’s your cousin, and what do you think it would take to get you kicked out?” Luke questioned, stretching his legs, vodka in hand, as he stood up fully, towering above me.

      “Liam Ross,” I said, aware that his name held a great deal of weight in certain circles, “and I’d probably have to murder someone or something like that.”

      “You’re related to Liam, huh?” Luke smiled.

      “Yeah,” I shrugged, “do you know him?”

      “Not personally, but I’ve definitely heard of him.”

      “Why did you want to know what it would take to get me expelled?” I inquired, continuing the tedious banter.

      “Well, I was going to offer to test it, but murder is bad, so we won’t be exploring that option,” he said with a devious grin. “Now, shouldn’t you get back to your paper?”

      “I guess,” I sighed, looking down at the words my hand had unconsciously written once again: When thinking about the ordeals faced by teens today, multiple notions of specificity surface. It was impossible.

      I had already finished my paper about my personal dystopia, in which I described a place where there was no choice. Everything was preplanned and the simple notion of option that was taken so frivolously was snatched right up. It was a place of black and white, no gray to blur the lines, nor color. Creativity was also nonexistent, which went hand-in-hand with the aspect of not being able to make decisions. Knowing my teacher and how he esteemed my writing, I was confident that I would be receiving a fairly positive grade on the paper.

      The funny thing about being suspended was that class moved on without you. Everything didn’t just pause, waiting like an army wife for your valiant return. No, things progressed and more material was learnt. Another downside to the whole “suspension” thing was that you were still responsible for the work allocated that you missed, meaning that there was an expectation to do everything the class did, without so much as even an explanation from an educator. It was pretty absurd, if one were to ask me.

      Alas, I wasn’t in charge of reforming the school system, so was required to complete tasks like the rest of my cohorts. In time that I had been gone, my English class had, apparently, moved onto another scope of writing, which included a thesis paper on our personal views of the hardest parts about being a teenager. I was stuck on my thesis statement that I wasn’t even sure about. Overall, I knew the basic concepts I wanted to investigate, for they were rather simplistic and related to my teenaged life fairly well: pressure, conformity, and individualism.

      All three words were so much more than being larger than eight letters. They meant something to me, and I knew that I had the ability to expand upon and bullshit them into a neatly written paper. It was one of my few talents. I wrote well, and I knew it. The only issue here was that I was, evidently, insane, and suffering a severe case of what some referred to as a the elusive “writer’s block.” I couldn’t write anything. It was a writer’s worst nightmare, and genuinely one of the scariest things to encounter.

      All I needed was another sentence and then I could go on from there. I knew it had to relate to the three ideas I had in mind, and then it would all be easy. Unfortunately, for the life of me, I couldn’t think up a feasible way to continue. It was like the library and Brenda (who was still sleeping) were working together to drain all my inspiration out of me.

      Shakily, I lifted my pencil and propped it against the paper, scribbling swirls and lines that somehow molded together to form a language. I wasn’t entirely sure what I was writing, but that was when the best writing always happened. After a few seconds and feeling myself dot the sentence with a concluding period, I glanced down at what I had created, somewhat satisfied: Adolescents encounter so many various obstacles among the likes of pressure, conformity, and retaining their own individualism, and yet are still expected to act in such a way that touches upon exceedingly high standards that are near impossible. It wasn’t perfect, but it was good enough.

      “I see someone has written another sentence,” Luke mused, glancing over my shoulder as I wondered how he had relocated his position so speedily.

      “Maybe,” I murmured, more words flowing from the tube of yellow-painted wood and graphite. All I needed was one or two more sentences and I could qualify that to be my opening paragraph.

      The thing about writing thesis papers versus the writing I did for “personal growth” (as one could call it) was structure. There was a set form in which a thesis paper had to be written. With my writing, there were no rules. If I wanted to write a run on sentence that made absolutely no sense and went on and on and on, pondering utterly nothing, I could, because it was my writing and I had the ability to write however I wanted and there was no one to tell me otherwise, and so I could do as I pleased. In that way, writing was much like drawing. Sure, there were basic rules, but, when it came down to it, both were overall abstract methods of expression that allowed the creator to travel down whatever path they chose. That was why I liked writing and drawing: when you got to a point that you were good enough, no one could tell you what to do.

      “So, how many pages does this thing have to be?” Luke questioned.

      “Three, but my teacher prefers quality over quantity, and, knowing me, I’ll probably end up writing close to seven pages,” I gauged, my hand gliding about the page.

      “You don’t strike me as an overachiever,” he commented, quickly adding, “no offense.”

      “None taken, and I’m not,” I said. “I just like to write.”