There’s a girl who’s in my English class. She sits in the middle, not a suck up in the front, nor back here with us. You wouldn’t think she’d stand out.
But she does.
She’s the girl with the curled hair and the rainbow socks. Creativity is her nature, as breathing is mine. She’s the one who’s failing for all the wrong reasons. I’d glance over to her tests to a marked “F” in her exam, then back to mine with a big fat A.
I followed instructions, I learnt them off, I reproduced it, I passed the test, and I forget.
But I’ve seen her work. Online; I found her blog. But I’ve never told anyone. Not even the closest people who sit next to me in English. I just check it daily to see her steadily increasing followers. Over a thousand now, I think.
I remember the first day of that class. She had raised her hand many times; to ask questions, to get feedback, or argue an opinion. I just went along with the crowd and mocked her behind her back with the others, all for just having an interest in something.
Stupid, I know.
It’s the curls and the rainbow socks that made us aware, but we looked at all the wrong way.
Slowly, I see her smile fade. I see the socks toning down, and sometimes matching.
It’s realisation. She’s never passed Ms. Murphy’s class, and she never will.
She’s change the socks, and she’s changed her hair, but she never changed her writing. She writes from her heart and knows what she feels, and knows what she feels is right.
Yet I’m the one with the A.