eyes pass no judgment . ele

Brennan Fitzgerald


They told us to dress nice today for the field trip down to the orchestra's performance. Of course, the moment I told Mom and Dad about this, they were the ones rummaging through my dresser drawers trying to pick out some of my fanciest attire. My eyes roll and arms cross whenever they look away from me after pulling a shirt out and showing it to me. I am seventeen years old, can't they trust me to pick out my own fucking clothes? They talk about their only way 'do overs' in life come from living vicariously through their children. But they only see one story, the illuminated part of the moon and all its craters. They struggle, though, to see the dark side of my life, chill to the bone and deliberately hidden away because it would hurt them too much to know the whole truth.

Mom ties my tie for me, saying that if I did it on my own, it would look messy and lopsided. But by the time I step out the door, I loosen the chokehold and throw it into the bushes in the sidewalk and trade it out for just a plain dress shirt with the top button left unbuttoned. I already gasp for a breath of life and humanity wherever I go, I don't need polyester wrapping around my throat as well.

Most kids at school seem to hate the idea of going to sit in front of an orchestra and listen to music for a few hours. To them, it is a waste of time when they could be doing more practical things that will prepare them for the workforce in a couple of years. And for others, they despise it because they'll be yelled at for talking or disrupting the performance in any way. I'm not sure I mind it, though. Dimming lights, soothing sounds, and most importantly, the only rumors floating through the air are sounds of violins gossiping through their strings as they try to upstage the first chair.

By the time our class makes it to the orchestra, we're instructed to sit wherever we would like, so long as we won't be tempted to cause a ruckus with those around us. I take a seat furthest down in the row. I wait patiently as everyone goes to sit down. One by one, the seats fill, two rows down, about five seats over, and a few kids make their way as far from the stage as possible. The closest person to me, though, is at least two seats away in any direction. Nerves perspire on my forehead. Nobody wants to be that kid, who sits alone for two hours. Even if we weren't supposed to talk (that rule has been broken a million times already,) having the aura of humanity by my side would at least be nice.

A few more minutes pass before one of the seats beside me creaks open and a person takes its place. I'm hesitant to say anything. It's not someone that I know, and barely anyone knows me. Somehow, someone sitting beside me forces the sweat on my forehead to grow. I'm such a fucking hypocrite. Anxious when people reject me, anxious when people get within inches of me. Which one is it, Brennan? Do you want social interaction, or do you just want more reasons to feel poorly about yourself?

"Hey," my words are barely a whisper. I typically follow the rules, so whenever I don't follow them, people tend to notice more than the regular rulebreakers. Instantly, though, I feel regret in saying anything at all. Maybe he just won't hear me, then I can turn my head and listen to the performance, falling into the background once again.