Cliché - Lisa Perron
The first day of school always stunk. The perpetual listing of rules and expectations from each teacher droned on and on. It didn’t help that the kid behind him kept kicking his chair. “Oops. Sorry,” the kid said. Only, he knew that the boy wasn’t sorry at all.
He usually sat in the back row to avoid his classmates’ complaining about not being able to see over him. But the two desks he’d tried had uneven legs, and he knew that the constant tipping would have driven him crazy. However, it would have been better than sitting in front of this kid. He felt like a giraffe crammed into a tiny desk doing his best to look average size.
His pencil moved continuously giving the appearance that he took vigorous notes. Instead, he doodled. He always doodled. He found that if he kept his hand busy, he could listen easier. He didn’t have to waste all of his energy focusing on sitting still and looking at the teacher when he mindlessly scribbled. The muscles in his back tightened as each kick from the boy behind him landed noisily on his chair. Heat crawled up the back of his neck. He curled in on himself, shielding his paper from view as insignificant shapes morphed into the club he wanted to use on the kid. Fury crept down his arm, causing him to increase the pressure on his pencil. Snap. He set his broken pencil aside and grabbed one of the four others lined up on his desk. He was always prepared for situations like this.
He seethed. The lump of unsaid words collected in his throat, preparing to explode at the kid, if only he could remember his name. There was a time when he would have shrieked at the boy, but he was in high school now and much too old for outbursts.
Fifth period ended—two more to go. Students clamored out of the classroom, several deliberately banging his desk. Bulls. He covered his belongings with both arms to keep his stuff from falling.
“Hi,” he heard someone say. The words couldn’t be meant for him. No one talked to him at school, at least not without taunting him. Ever.
“Hi,” she said again. “I’m Ruby.”
A girl stood next to his desk waiting. He glanced at her and realized that she was talking to him. He nearly knocked his chair over when he stood. He tried to look at her face like Aunt Cara always told him to do when he was addressed, but his eyes stuck on the huge port wine stain covering the bottom half of her right cheek spilling onto her neck. Who would name a child with a huge red birthmark on her face Ruby?
“What’s your name?” she asked.
Stop looking at her birthmark. Stop looking at her birthmark. Stop looking at her birthmark. He raised his gaze to her eyes, something he never did, in order to stop staring at the blob on her face. Green. He almost looked away but told himself that green was okay. It was blue eyes he avoided. Blue eyes reminded him of . . .
“So,” she said. “What’s your name?”
He was so befuddled about this girl talking to him that he had to force himself to answer her. He swallowed. “Um, people call me Cliché.”
“I know that. That’s just your nickname. What’s your real name?”
He stared. He’d never been asked that before. He’d been called Cliché for so long that he figured that no one knew he even had a real name.
He had always had trouble understanding people. People hardly ever said what they meant. They used expressions and figures of speech instead of speaking plain. When he was little, his mother bought a dictionary of clichés that she read to him every night before bed to help him understand. Most kids liked bedtime stories, but not him. The dictionary of clichés fascinated him. In an attempt to talk like everyone else, he ended up inadvertently overusing the very clichés he was obsessed with. Strangers used to refer to him as that cliché kid. At family gatherings, people would stop conversations and say to him, “Cliché?” He would answer them with the first cliché that came to mind that had to do with whatever they talked about. Eventually, people stopped calling him by his actual name. He was just Cliché.
At first, he felt rather clever when he was put on the spot like that. Eventually, he realized that others didn’t think he was clever, only odd. Now he did everything possible to avoid using clichés. In fact, he tried his best to keep from talking at all. He just wanted to be invisible so the ridicule would stop. However, it was impossible to be invisible when he towered over everyone.
“Surely Cliché isn’t the name on your birth certificate.” Ruby’s smile confused Cliché. It wasn’t mocking like most people’s—at least he didn’t think so.
Cliché busied himself with collecting his belongings. “Arthur.” Arthur Paul MacKenna, after his great-grandfather.
“Arthur.” The pleasure in her voice made him look at her again. This time he didn’t stop at her birthmark. “That’s a nice name.”
Cliché gaped. He felt like he had just let out a huge secret that he’d been keeping and he didn’t know how he felt about it. His name had died a long time ago, along with his mother.
“Arthur,” Ruby said again. “Can I call you Artie?”
“No.”
The voice of Aunt Cara echoed in his head saying one of the five things she told him at least once every day.
“My mother called me Artie,” he murmured.
Ruby’s smile faded for a moment, and her eyebrows angled up into a point. She knew he had lost his mother. Everyone did. It was like there was a sign on his forehead labeling him an orphan.
Her smile returned. “Well, can I call you Arthur then?”
Warmness spread in Cliché’s chest and his scalp started to tingle from the idea of Ruby calling him by his real name. He allowed the corners of his mouth to rise slightly and said, “Yes.”
“Great,” Ruby said. “Goodbye, Arthur. See you tomorrow.”
Tomorrow. For the first time ever Cliché looked forward to tomorrow. He was so happy that he forgot answer her. He just stared after her.
“You’re in my desk, Cliché,” a boy said. “Don’t you have another class?”
As he walked through the halls to his next class, Cliché replayed the whole exchange with Ruby. The third person he bumped into said, “Looks like Cliché is out of it. What’s the matter? You got your head in the clouds?”
It usually bothered him when people threw clichés at him, but he didn’t react. Instead, he thought about clouds. In particular, cloud nine. What was the scale that was used to determine the value of cloud nine? If it was a scale between one and a hundred, cloud nine wasn’t that impressive. However, if it was rated between one and ten, a nine was pretty good. If that was the case, Cliché was sure that’s where he was—on cloud nine.
He usually sat in the back row to avoid his classmates’ complaining about not being able to see over him. But the two desks he’d tried had uneven legs, and he knew that the constant tipping would have driven him crazy. However, it would have been better than sitting in front of this kid. He felt like a giraffe crammed into a tiny desk doing his best to look average size.
His pencil moved continuously giving the appearance that he took vigorous notes. Instead, he doodled. He always doodled. He found that if he kept his hand busy, he could listen easier. He didn’t have to waste all of his energy focusing on sitting still and looking at the teacher when he mindlessly scribbled. The muscles in his back tightened as each kick from the boy behind him landed noisily on his chair. Heat crawled up the back of his neck. He curled in on himself, shielding his paper from view as insignificant shapes morphed into the club he wanted to use on the kid. Fury crept down his arm, causing him to increase the pressure on his pencil. Snap. He set his broken pencil aside and grabbed one of the four others lined up on his desk. He was always prepared for situations like this.
He seethed. The lump of unsaid words collected in his throat, preparing to explode at the kid, if only he could remember his name. There was a time when he would have shrieked at the boy, but he was in high school now and much too old for outbursts.
Fifth period ended—two more to go. Students clamored out of the classroom, several deliberately banging his desk. Bulls. He covered his belongings with both arms to keep his stuff from falling.
“Hi,” he heard someone say. The words couldn’t be meant for him. No one talked to him at school, at least not without taunting him. Ever.
“Hi,” she said again. “I’m Ruby.”
A girl stood next to his desk waiting. He glanced at her and realized that she was talking to him. He nearly knocked his chair over when he stood. He tried to look at her face like Aunt Cara always told him to do when he was addressed, but his eyes stuck on the huge port wine stain covering the bottom half of her right cheek spilling onto her neck. Who would name a child with a huge red birthmark on her face Ruby?
“What’s your name?” she asked.
Stop looking at her birthmark. Stop looking at her birthmark. Stop looking at her birthmark. He raised his gaze to her eyes, something he never did, in order to stop staring at the blob on her face. Green. He almost looked away but told himself that green was okay. It was blue eyes he avoided. Blue eyes reminded him of . . .
“So,” she said. “What’s your name?”
He was so befuddled about this girl talking to him that he had to force himself to answer her. He swallowed. “Um, people call me Cliché.”
“I know that. That’s just your nickname. What’s your real name?”
He stared. He’d never been asked that before. He’d been called Cliché for so long that he figured that no one knew he even had a real name.
He had always had trouble understanding people. People hardly ever said what they meant. They used expressions and figures of speech instead of speaking plain. When he was little, his mother bought a dictionary of clichés that she read to him every night before bed to help him understand. Most kids liked bedtime stories, but not him. The dictionary of clichés fascinated him. In an attempt to talk like everyone else, he ended up inadvertently overusing the very clichés he was obsessed with. Strangers used to refer to him as that cliché kid. At family gatherings, people would stop conversations and say to him, “Cliché?” He would answer them with the first cliché that came to mind that had to do with whatever they talked about. Eventually, people stopped calling him by his actual name. He was just Cliché.
At first, he felt rather clever when he was put on the spot like that. Eventually, he realized that others didn’t think he was clever, only odd. Now he did everything possible to avoid using clichés. In fact, he tried his best to keep from talking at all. He just wanted to be invisible so the ridicule would stop. However, it was impossible to be invisible when he towered over everyone.
“Surely Cliché isn’t the name on your birth certificate.” Ruby’s smile confused Cliché. It wasn’t mocking like most people’s—at least he didn’t think so.
Cliché busied himself with collecting his belongings. “Arthur.” Arthur Paul MacKenna, after his great-grandfather.
“Arthur.” The pleasure in her voice made him look at her again. This time he didn’t stop at her birthmark. “That’s a nice name.”
Cliché gaped. He felt like he had just let out a huge secret that he’d been keeping and he didn’t know how he felt about it. His name had died a long time ago, along with his mother.
“Arthur,” Ruby said again. “Can I call you Artie?”
“No.”
The voice of Aunt Cara echoed in his head saying one of the five things she told him at least once every day.
- “Stop slouching. You’re so much more handsome when you stand tall.”
- “Look at me, please.”
- “Speak clearly. I can’t understand you when you mumble.”
- “Is there anything I can do for you today?”
“My mother called me Artie,” he murmured.
Ruby’s smile faded for a moment, and her eyebrows angled up into a point. She knew he had lost his mother. Everyone did. It was like there was a sign on his forehead labeling him an orphan.
Her smile returned. “Well, can I call you Arthur then?”
Warmness spread in Cliché’s chest and his scalp started to tingle from the idea of Ruby calling him by his real name. He allowed the corners of his mouth to rise slightly and said, “Yes.”
“Great,” Ruby said. “Goodbye, Arthur. See you tomorrow.”
Tomorrow. For the first time ever Cliché looked forward to tomorrow. He was so happy that he forgot answer her. He just stared after her.
“You’re in my desk, Cliché,” a boy said. “Don’t you have another class?”
As he walked through the halls to his next class, Cliché replayed the whole exchange with Ruby. The third person he bumped into said, “Looks like Cliché is out of it. What’s the matter? You got your head in the clouds?”
It usually bothered him when people threw clichés at him, but he didn’t react. Instead, he thought about clouds. In particular, cloud nine. What was the scale that was used to determine the value of cloud nine? If it was a scale between one and a hundred, cloud nine wasn’t that impressive. However, if it was rated between one and ten, a nine was pretty good. If that was the case, Cliché was sure that’s where he was—on cloud nine.
