"Is he married?"

I used to think the girl, W, who sat across from me in my late afternoon writing class was just another Jewess with genetic neurotic tendencies. I marked her off as harmless, and in an extreme lack of judgment, sweet. I told myself that she tapped her pencil because she was a frustrated writer! She always looked like a five year old dressed her because that’s just how she rolls! And ain’t it cute and artsy? Reminds me of my five days at Hebrew High or a Sarah Silverman movie. “We Jews gotta stick together!” I told myself, because man, if we don’t, who will?

This was until she brought in a five page “fictional” account of a girl’s mental breakdown chock full of Lohan drama, medical jargon I couldn’t even produce (and I watch enough Grey’s Anatomy to know the basics) and the defensive techniques of the Pittsburgh Steelers. (I’m so adorable, using sports analogies. I don’t even know if that worked. Tee-hee.)

After reading her short story, things began to fall into place. The day I met her she had walked into the classroom wearing a Michigan State sweatshirt explaining she was “back home to work out some things” before later admitting her mother was her shrink and pulled her out of school. I was almost jealous that her life was closer to Garden State than mine. “She was worried I was overworking myself,” W shrugged. I was only half listening. Oh sure, I nodded and “yeah”ed in all the right places, but I was far too interested in what was happening with her hair. The thick strands –naturally curly, I’m sure, and blow dried straight- looked as though they hadn’t been combed out for days and that a family of badgers had taken up residence at the crown of her head. I began to question whether or not she had lice and if I could get it simply by sitting next to her. Did lice jump? If so, how far?

The story W brought in was intense and about five pages too long. Our class pulled it apart and finally my professor asked gently, “This was fiction, right?”
“OK, fine!” W threw up her hands, exasperated. “I was in a hospital, all right?” While she says this, I do not even look up from the text message I’m sending, mostly because I’m too scared. “It wasn’t like I wanted to be there!” W continues, “My parents just thought I needed it! It’s not like I’m crazy! I’m not!”
M, the boy who sits next to me but hasn’t the guts to ask me out says, “Isn’t that what the character in your story said?” as he points to a passage. W blushes and begins to rummage in her backpack to pull out...
What I thought for sure was gonna be a sawed off shotgun, but it turned out just to be Chapstick. I really thought I was going to die. I think we're all going to sleep through the lectures with one eye open since now we know there’s a crazy loose in the class.

Quote of the day:
"My parents said they'd kick me out of the house if I got anything pierced when I turned eighteen, so I got a tattoo instead. Wanna see?"
- Some girl in my English class