I remember the platinum blonde streaks; one of her most memorable qualities by far. I remember out of rows of seats, she would always—without fail— pick one at the very back, trying her best to remain unnoticed. She would slink down in her chair a bit, just enough for the desk to hide her petite frame. Whenever the teacher turned to face the girl’s direction, she would bow her head and allow clumps of stringy highlighted hair to fall and curtain her sharp features from my view. I don’t think anyone else in the whole school would be able tell you how many times she cracked each set of knuckles within the span of one class. Thirty-seven, the answer is thirty-seven. I knew because I watched her. Not in an illegal kind of way, but I made a point of always sitting two seats to her right, so she would just make it into my peripheral vision. And I couldn’t look away. I used to watch her hair sway back and forth every time she readjusted her position. It wasn’t easy to sit still on chairs that weren’t much more than chunks of frail plastic. The rhythmic swinging of her hair and the subtle creaking the chair made every time she fidgeted were some of the few memories I still have of her in high school.
I’ve been hearing around town that the girl with the platinum streaks was hit by a bus yesterday; right in front of the town square. I could tell by the way people said it that they were unsure whether or not it was an accident. I didn’t even know her name, and now I guess I never will.
Sorting through my memories like an old high school yearbook, I try once again to recall her sharp features. They blur together in my mind, mixing with the other countless faces I’ve seen since then. One day I’ll forget her completely, not even leaving a smudge of familiarity behind. It’s funny how someone you barely knew could accidently become a part of you.
I crack my knuckles. Thirty-seven times to be exact.