Damning the Rules

just a small, anecdotal description. I am working on a novel and plan to use bits and pieces of these short stories and prose descriptions in them.

If you ask me, it’s not so bad wearing a uniform. Aside from the fact that my skirt just barely clings to my hips and occasionally falls the ground to reveal a pair of basketball shorts�"which, for the record, has only happened once, it’s actually quite comfortable. It’s roomy, homey, and… mine. It may sport a variety of stains, from sharpie marker to acrylic paint and white gesso; tools of the trade for a child of the art room, but those are the things that tell you who I am. They are marks that reveal me through tangible, visible evidence. Just look around and you’ll find these spots; you’ll find torn fabric and replaced buttons, and I guess you could consider them a map of some sort, like if you connect the dots you might just get a clue about who I am.

My best friend Kathryn absolutely despises it, which I guess would segue nicely into my most honest way of describing the girl: a giant bag of paradoxes, walking on its hind legs and disguised by bright colors, worn-out combat boots, and witty comebacks. Every day she strides through the doors in her pristinely kept skirt, white socks, and school approved sweatshirt. As she walks you can hear her mumbling, ranting to me about the robbing of individuality and itchy sweaters on formal days. On the outside, I guess, Kathryn seems like a fairly normal girl. She’s a math geek and she actually enjoys history class and she can be just about as stubborn as a rock; there is no swaying her opinion once she has decided upon it. But once you get inside that pretty little brain of hers, you’re lost in a black sea of complexities and passive-aggressive anger.
The bell rings for lunch and there is commotion in the hallway. No one in my art class even attempts to move, considering we generally live there. On occasion the room fills with underclassmen looking for brownie points but for the most part, the art room is a pretty chill place to be. Today, Kathryn walks in complaining of hunger and the fact that it is not legal to eat in the art room. In times like these, it is important for me to choose my words correctly. The truth is that nobody really gives a flying s**t whether or not we eat in the art room. I survey my options.
“Well, you could go downstairs and eat. I’m sure Emily and Elizabeth have an open seat,” I‘ll say,
“Yeah but I don’t want to leave you here all alone!” And with puppy dog eyes she’ll look at me, concern creasing her brow,
“I’m fine, really. Or if you want you could eat here. I promise you won’t get in trouble,” For a second she would reflect on this,
“But I don’t want to distract you; maybe I should go downstairs,” she’ll finally say while probing me with an expectant look, and I will scramble for a vague and accepting answer, trying not to let the stress show as we dance our daily dance.
“Whatever your heart desires, dear,” I will reply with a winning smile. Soon she will give me a look of utter confusion, unsure of what it is I want her to do. The reality with this stupid situation is that I want her to do whatever she wants to do. It sounds cliché, but it’s true. I don’t want her to feel obligated to stay or leave. I just don’t know how to tell her that.
“Oh, screw it,” she says, interrupting my train of thought, “I’m eating here. Rules be damned!” Just at that moment our teacher walks in, carrying an apple and a cup of soup.
“Huzzah!” She shouts, “Damn the rules!”