Welcome to Westwood High

2. Welcome to Westwood High

After Bobby left I sat on my bed for what seemed like hours, watching shows about animal instincts on the Discovery channel. Lions pissing on trees to mark their territory. Female praying mantises biting their mate’s head off after fucking with it. It was all very primitive, yet understandable. It was in their nature.
This was their life, and it was normal. Monkeys were throwing their shit around to protect their females and I was going to a Westwood High Halloween dance. I bet it was just more definitive, pissing everywhere, saying what’s what. I couldn’t imagine myself doing that. I couldn’t imagine myself walking into the gymnasium and throwing shit at people, screaming at them, protecting what was mine. Not because it was completely uncivilized, but because I didn’t have anything to protect.
If it was Bobby, he’d probably be pissing all over the place. Although, he would be decapitated.
I laughed to myself.
It was natural, to read through layers and layers of personality disorders to pick and choose who belonged where. To realize who you were and where everyone else that was like you stood. To piss a perimeter around you and your circle. It was survival.
I turned off the T.V. and slipped under the covers. So I’d close my eyes and just wait for tomorrow, then. Wait for Val, for Angie, for Lauren, for Jill, for Bobby’s followers…for Bobby. Wait for eight hours and then sit in an institution for seven hours until the day was over.
All I could do was wait, while all around me the shit hit the fan.

Days at Westwood High were like sitting through an excruciatingly boring movie with your entire family. Everyone showed up, but no one really wanted to be there. The characters were monotonous. The plot was going nowhere. There was no twist. No humor. And by the end of it, you wanted your money back. Go Wildcats!
As soon as I sauntered through the double doors I saw familiar crowds. I nodded accordingly to those who I passed by, making sure they knew I was there and I was not going to threaten the pride. Hello Valerie and fellow wenches, nod. Hello Jill and new mate making out in the corner, nod…and maybe flinch. Hello muscled predator stuffing his prey into a locker, walk faster. Hello...goodbye Angie Teresio.
And then I’d see Bobby, waiting by my locker and we’d talk to his followers. He’d offer them rides after school or some lunch money if they forgot their own for the day. They would almost chant “What a martyr, what a guy!”. And I would wait until class started. And then I’d wait until the next class started. And then I’d sit with the followers at lunch, and Bobby would share stories, and his lunch, and he’d give a wink here and there. What a martyr, what a guy! And then I’d wait for the end of the day. And then I would go home to my own family. And then I couldn’t wait to see Bobby again because family was harder to deal with than his followers.
But let’s not get into that yet.
So, you could understand why, by Wednesday, I was already yearning for the weekend to arrive. But then I remembered Bobby’s party and the fact that I’d have to endure it in order to immerse in the following days of freedom. The party was in two days, and I didn't know how to get out of it.
I weighed the two hells in my head during AP English while Ms. McCarthy read a passage from Hamlet.
“How stand I then,/That have a father kill'd, a mother stain'd,/Excitements of my reason and my blood,/And let all sleep? while, to my shame, I see/The imminent death of twenty thousand men,/That, for a fantasy and trick of fame,/Go to their graves like beds, fight for a plot/Whereon the numbers cannot try the cause,/Which is not tomb enough and continent /To hide the slain?—O, from this time forth,/My thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth!” She sighed.
I felt bad for Ms. McCarthy. Reading poetry written by a dead Englishman was her only peace. You could tell by how passionately she spoke that 3rd period was the only time of the day she could let everything go and just enjoy stories that she lived vicariously through. I didn’t mind though. I loved Shakespeare. He was kind of twisted.
“So, you can see that Hamlet thought himself a….wuss, as you guys would say.” She joked. No one laughed. After an awkward pause, she continued.
“Um, can anyone tell me why he says um… ‘my thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth’?” She looked down at the book, than hopelessly stared at us. I rolled my eyes and raised my hand. If my class was throwing eggs at my teacher’s passion, then I just dove in front of her solace to save it from dissolving away. I couldn’t let the woman loose enjoyment in the one thing that kept her from going mad.
“Yes, Sam.” She pointed at me in satisfying assertion. I hesitated at first. "Go on, what do you think? There is no wrong answer.”
Not exactly. There is always a wrong answer. "Because the rabbit was pink and the frog was purple" is a wrong answer.
“Hamlet says this because he thinks he needs to man up and take charge of what’s going on in his life. He has to stand up for what is right and chastise his uncle for killing his father. So, he has to be violent or nothing will happen in his favor.”
Ms. McCarthy smiled for longer than necessary, then said well done. She proceeded to read passages as my entire class rotted in their seats.
And then, all of the sudden, Angie Teresio's voice piped up from the back of the room, and those ill-fated eggs flew at me instead of McCarthy’s reason for existence.
“I don’t get it. Why does it have to be so violent?” She said, in her “innocent” tone. I hated Angie’s hippie front. I never really understood why she had to go against everything I said either. She always wanted to seem like the peace loving victim. Like nothing was ever her fault. And I was always wrong. I was evil.
“Why is he so obsessed with killing his uncle? Why doesn’t he go after Ophelia and love her? I mean I think it’s kind of silly that he’s sitting there thinking about how to kill his uncle and then after Ophelia dies, he admits that he loves her.”
I could almost feel Ms. McCarthy rolling her eyes at Angie. After all, she did disgrace everything Hamlet represented. I couldn’t hold in my shot at her idiotic vulnerability.
“What? Ophelia is not even a major character in the play! Who cares about her? And of course Hamlet wants to kill his uncle, the bastard killed his father…and then married his mother! I’d be a little pissed too.” I turned, glared at her, and watched her icy eyes stare blankly back at me.
“W-well…that’s just like you! To look past people’s feelings a-and just get all angry! What about m…Ophelia? What about her love?” she stuttered.
Ms. McCarthy’s eyes were wide with the shock of people actually taking interest in her love of the play.
I could feel my forehead burn hot with rage. Love? Really? Love is what she stood for? And then I thought about that house party Bobby, Angie, and I went to on the last day of Sophomore year. The party that made her Mary Magdalene.

The noise of people having small talk, the exceptionally loud music, the continuous goading to chug bottles of beer at a time; all of these noises echoed in my ears. I remembered wandering through corridors, tripping along the way due to how intoxicated I was. With the overbearing smell of alcohol, piss, and cigarette smoke following me, I tiptoed around two passed out freshmen, and went up the discolored stairs. I passed about six people making out and screamed for the absent Bobby, asking him if he knew where my sunglasses were.
And then, while gripping the edge of my desk, all I saw was hazy flashes. Angie was moving towards Bobby slowly and putting her hand on his chest. He was leaning on the wall in the far corner beside a lamp. His eyes were half shut. She draped her arms around his neck and whispered something in his ear. His head dropped and he slurred some words. She lifted his chin. She kissed him. She let her right hand drift towards his belt buckle. And he jolted. He pushed her off of him.
Angie stared at him with flooded eyes. I stood in silence until then. “What the hell are you doing?” I garbled. Angie gazed at me, shocked. “Sam. It’s not what you think it-” she began, until Bobby interrupted her. “Let’s go” was all he said. He clutched my arm and we passed the people making out. We tiptoed around the passed out freshmen, who had rolled onto their stomachs since I'd last seen them.
Bobby then stopped abruptly and held my shoulders. Looking straight into my glazed eyes he told me never to talk to Angie again because she was a liar. All I did was nod. We found someone to take us to my house. I never found my sunglasses.

I glowered at Angie as she squirmed in her seat. I felt my stomach churn thinking about the three months of my life that I wasted with her. Part of me really wanted to say "How do you know what love is?" but instead:
“You have totally disregarded the entire purpose of this play. Ophelia was a crazy, unimportant burden. Hamlet had better things to do. Like fulfill his destiny! He had to stand up for what he thought was right! He had to kill his rotten uncle and forget about Ophelia, who drowned herself in a lake for Christ’s sakes! At the end of the play, he had to stop focusing on her and he had to get on with his life. He had to be more like Prince Fortinbras and get the job done!”
From the look on Ms. McCarthy’s face, she wasn’t sure if we were actually interested in 17th century tragedies, or, just jaded, angry teenagers.
Angie scoffed, but I could see her lower lip starting to tremble in her dejection. Looking back at it now, I think she knew the whole time that she wasn't going to win that argument. I was Bobby’s best friend. She should’ve known better.
Ms. McCarthy was about to say something when suddenly the bell gave a shrill yell and a herd of students stampeded out of the classroom.