The one thing I hate the most about school is socialising. Whilst everyone else has a big group of friends and spends their free time shopping and spending hours chatting, I'd rather spend my time alone and in peace - with a few sarcastic remarks every now and again of course.
People just simply get on my nerves. The way they judge you instantly and expect you to be a certain way. The way they categorise you as if you can only be one type of person. And how boring is that? I hate knowing that to other people I am defined with one single word, as if that's all I am. But all of us are more than one word, more than one stereotype, and I just don't understand people's reasoning.
Now, I stare into space, daydreaming. My maths teacher stands at the front of the class, wavering at the blackboard filled with scribbles. Scribbles. That's all they are to me. The letters and the numbers make no sense in my brain, they're just jumbled up amongst my inner thoughts, probing me to figure out the unresolved question. But how can I answer the unknown?
It's only a matter of minutes before we're given textbooks and told to flip to page 165 and answer the algebraic questions. I turn to the girl next to me, whose highlights are basically white and whose eyebrows look like they've been painted on by a child.
"What?" She spits, noticing my glare.
'Oh, it's just that you have granny streaks amidst your blonde hair and your 'flushed' cheeks look like you've been slapped. Other than that, nothing at all.' I think to myself.
Instead I say, "Nothing", turning back to my book and attempting the first question. One day, I will let my remarks insult people. But I guess not today.
Once I've finally been let free from maths, an hour later, I make my way down the hallway to the far door, which leads to the school field. Plopping myself under one of the many trees, I fish for my notebook in my bag before opening it up in front of me. Flicking through pages of pointless drawings and homework's, I eventually reach the page I've been working on. Faint lines mark the page from where I'd attempted to begin my plan in form time this morning, but I'm not even close to finishing my masterpiece.
Ever since this morning I've been thinking more than usual. Particularly about the attempts to get over the wall. I've always been interested in the news stories, but I've never took action on them, and that's when this plan comes in.
Staring down at a newspaper article my form tutor gave me earlier (which I requested off her when I saw her reading it), I mumble the sentences to myself. Somehow, I haven't done this before. But it's a great idea.
I keep reading. Word after word. Sentence after sentence. Paragraph after paragraph. Until I realise that it's quite addictive getting to know people's ways of struggling to get over. So by the time I've got home from school, I've got a few newspapers lying in my arms, and I find myself asking Mum if she has any too.
"What do you need newspaper's for?" She asks, oblivious to the pile already in my hand.
"Have you ever thought that reading might be an option?" I reply, rolling my eyes and heading upstairs to my room. Does she really think I hate reading that much? It's probably because she knows I'd rather live an adventurous life myself instead of read about someone else's. Which is true, but this is non-fiction and it's going to help whatever I'm planning to do.
So slumping onto my bed, I consider my options. Is this really what I what to do? Change the world for the better, but by risking my whole life? And amidst the dreaded thoughts of what could happen to me, and what my Mother and Michael would think of me, my mind is still begging me to do this. And why not? It's the only thing that's interested me.
So I slip my pencil between my fingers and start to draw the shaded rectangles, the bricks lined side by side. They begin to build, faster and faster, until I have a massive rectangle, filled with tiny ones, lurking in the distance of the page. Murky grass stands in front of it - uncut, over-grown - and at the front lies a wire fence, my pencil moving swiftly across the page, drawing criss-cross after criss-cross.
If they can't make it to the other side, I will. I may be a lefty, one of the huge human race left to figure out the rest of our society, but there's no time to 'figure out'.