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This writing was accepted for publication in the 84 page perfect-bound issue... Down in the Dirt magazine (v120) (the November / December 2013 Issue) You can also order this 5.5" x 8.5" issue as an ISSN# paperback book:

Order this writing in the book Drowning (a Down in the Dirt collection book)		get the 297 page July - Dec. 2013 Down in the Dirt magazine issue collection 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

Randall

Graeme Scallion

    I trade my math textbook for my lunchbox and slam my locker shut. As I seal the lock, Randall materializes in the reflection of the neighbouring locker. I turn and smile. A seventh grade girl rarely strays into the ninth grade hallway, but Randall ignores the glares and catcalls. Her blonde bob and square-framed glasses emphasize nervous blue eyes. She looks in every direction but mine.
    “Hi Graeme.” Her voice shakes, and she clutches a Tupperware container against her white tank top. Randall seldom roams the halls alone. She usually exists as a three-headed being with Selena and Brea Lynn, two eight-graders with a penchant for anime. Without them, Randall looks unnatural.
    “Hey Randall, what’s up?” I watch Randall’s teeth dig into her lower lip. The upper half of her body twitches intermittently as if prompting her legs to run, but her feet root her to the linoleum. Finally, Randall thrusts the container forward and looks away, her eyes glued to some distant scene.
    “Here.” The word catapults from her mouth. I hesitate before I accept the offering.
    “For me? What is it?”
    “It’s – open it.” I slide my books onto the floor and pry the red plastic lid from its station. The aroma of cinnamon immediately overtakes my palate. A cinnamon roll glistens beneath robes of gooey cream-cheese icing.
    I raise my head to thank Randall, but she has vanished. I shove my head around the corner in time to see the back of her head dwindle from view until, finally, the crowd engulfs her.
    “Weird chick.”
    A note clings to the inside of the lid. I peel the note off and study it.
    Graeme,
    I think you’re a really nice boy and I might have some feelings for you and I don’t know if you feel the same way but if you do that would be great.
    Love, Randall.
    Jessie Shackleton and the other intramural enthusiasts bump me as they pass. I calcify, reading the note again and again. I like Randall a lot, but not in ‘that way’ – I can’t like her in ‘that way’. I hide the cinnamon bun behind my back as my math teacher, Mr. Belyk, strolls past on his way to the staff room. The provocative scent of his aftershave tickles my nose and I clutch my stomach between my knees. My eyes follow him down the hall.
    The next morning I pilot my green, rubber-soled sneakers through an ocean of greying snow. After two months of Albertan winter mornings, I’ve carved a shallow groove across the field between the bus loop and the front doors of the junior high school. Randall’s empty container, washed and stowed in my backpack, rattles against my notebooks with every step. The sound strengthens my resolve to confess to Randall, or at least to return her Tupperware. I owe her an explanation after scarfing down every bite of the cinnamon bun.
    I see Randall dismount a bus on the other side of the loop. A candy-striped scarf masks most of her face, but I recognize the way her arms cleave to her sides as she shuffles down the sidewalk. I swallow and push myself through the virgin snow.
    “Randall!” Only her eyes are visible, but when she turns they widen until she looks like an anime character. Her pace quickens. Before I can trudge another step, Randall is halfway down the main path. A cloud of snow topples from the front door’s overhang as she disappears into the school.
    A week passes without another encounter. At the end of Social Studies class, the lunch bell rings. As I jam my textbooks into my backpack, Coral Routledge thunders in. I know Coral from drama club; she’s in the seventh grade, one of Randall’s classmates. Her face wears a sinister grin as she grabs my arm with Olympian strength and tows me into the hallway.
    “Come on! It’s time to finish this!” Coral’s long dark hair gags and blindfolds me. When we stop and I can see again, Randall stands in front of me. Her face mirrors my surprise. As I arrive, Selena and Brea Lynn break from Randall’s side and step back. Coral grins as she takes her place in the audience.
    “Go on,” she hisses. Randall chains her fingers through her belt loops and bites her lip. The hallway swells with eighth-graders fresh from gym class. They stampede around us, shoving and mooing and preventing either of us from running. Randall glares at Coral, takes a deep breath and pushes her glasses up.
    “Yes, I like you! Is that okay?”
    Coral settles into her imaginary chair and eats imaginary popcorn. I need to tell Randall how much I like her but I can’t articulate why I can’t go out with her. Everybody watches us. The scent of drama attracts mutual friends and casual onlookers, and the audience swells by the second. The noise overwhelms me. I know that only Randall would understand what I can’t say.
    I turn and force my way through the crowd. I don’t stop until the bathroom door locks behind me. I breathe in silence.

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