It’s a Wednesday. That means that, for some non-descript reason they decide to keep from the student body, school starts an entire hour later. So I’m hanging out in the courtyard, taking full advantage of the opportunity to scarf a biscuit down for some “hey-let’s-show-how-awesome-we-are-and-have-this-breakfast-and-a-band-thing.” I wasn’t expecting to stick around for the band—from what I saw, it was just a couple upperclassmen preparing to plink out some measly blues and jazz on instruments designed for a different genre entirely.

I spy, with my superb peripheral vision (20/15 vision, like a hawk!), one of my friends sitting by herself on a bench, quietly nibbling on a stale muffin. She is dressed all in yellow—didn’t anyone tell her that we no longer have “color” days like in kindergarten?—and looks distinctly like a sun. I saunter over, trying to spread pre-packaged jelly over the rocky terrain of my biscuit. Mostly the strawberry substance remains caked in the center of my pastry; frustrating.


We s*** around, ripping on the over-privileged rich kids who slide past us in packs, shiningly straightened hair and blindingly white teeth flashing. The crowd around us thickens, and I suspect they are here for the breakfast only, as I am. Senior guys grab as many as they can, shove their mouths full, then reach for more. The girls stand around, openly contemplating reaching for a calorie-stuffed meal option. Which has fewer calories, a bagel or a biscuit?

I stand, ready to finally pay attention to the Geometry paper (question: what are we doing writing words in a class about numbers?), when the band cheers. Looking up to see what they were celebrating over, I am stopped dead in my tracks by an all-too-familiar face. Strutting in at the last second, guitar slung over his shoulder with a carelessness that only comes with private school kids, was him.

You may be asking yourself: “who on this dear earth is him? Whoever could this obviously female narrator be speaking of?” To which I say, stop asking yourself things, you’ll start to look like a crackhead. So I sit back down, because anywhere with Michael Germany is definitely worth a mediocre grade. He sets up with the other guys, and starts strumming on his guitar. The music is not the best, but I am unable to tear my eyes from the sight that lay in front of me.

Crazy skinny, unable to dress formally, huge glasses that look vaguely hipster-ish, messy hair cut short after they tightened the dress code to include boys’ lock length, and olive-toned skin yet unmarred by acne. This, in all its glory, is Michael Germany, who is now singing into the microphone I had not previously noticed. His voice is interesting, not good but definitely not bad, either. I find myself, as I always do around anyone remotely attractive, entranced.

I know he may not sound very attractive to you, but I like the obscure appearance, the one that leaves you wondering what they think about. And he, donning a tie and skinny jeans, is the poster child of obscurity (at least in my opinion, and isn’t that what you came for? My opinion?). And this being a sort of concert, I now have an excuse to gaze dreamily at his face, noticing contours and crevices that I had never acknowledged before.


Although every girl can dream, he is in fact a senior, and I a lowly froshy. Besides it probably being illegal (I think he’s eighteen, but I’m not sure…), it is also a three year difference, which I have to admit is a bit too much as this level of maturity. So I must be content with being friends with him on Facebook, and recognizing that that is probably the closest we’ll ever be (actually Facebook is the only reason I know his name—seniors don’t mingle with freshmen).

“Here’s a cover, called Island, and it’s about cannibalism. Enough said.” He’s saying into the microphone, trying to yell over the feedback screeching from the amp. I listen in, because songs about cannibalism only prove to further my point about his being interesting. As he sings this last song, his eyes get that far-away look, and he bites his lower lip in a determined guitar-face (when you see someone play live, look hard at their facial expressions. It can be pretty funny.). I have to wonder (although I instantly attempt to silence the spirit-crushing thought); do his eyes look like that when he’s playing alone?