So on the way back from my dad's for spring break, I saw this kid on the plane and... well just read on(:
We sit on the plane in the very back next to a kid probably 12 or 13 years old. I think nothing of him as my sister and I shuffle into the small airplane seats. About halfway through the flight, the boy, who has been staring out of the window this whole time, rushes a black binder out of his backpack with a picture of a grinning him and two, -I'm guessing- friends, slid into the clear front pocket and whips it open to a blank page of notebook paper. All of the sudden an overwhelming sense of curiosity grips me about what this unknown boy will do on the empty page. Draw the crop circles far below? Write some kind of poetic story about being high in the clouds? The longing to see his work, and the anticipation of what it will be, is intensely overpowering, and incredibly unexplainable. I take myself by surprise, but I can't help it. I didn't peg him as a poet- or for that matter a sketch artist either, with his skater shoes with no laces, cargo shorts, and baggy sweatshirt. But I almost want him to be one of these things, if just to prove me wrong. I can almost feel my eyes sparkling with excitement, and if you looked at me right now, I'm sure they would be. The suddenly mysterious kid stares intently out of the window with pencil in hand as I sneak a glance over his binder. I notice some papers labeled "Vocabulary" and after seeing that it says 7th grade, feel almost boastful at my good guess at age. I look away for just a second- why, I can't recall now- and when I look back the boy is just finishing writing no more than a sentence. His hand blocks the writing and I just catch a glimpse of his neat scrawl, without making out any words, before he closes the binder and shoves it back in his bag, leaving me dissapointed that the chance has left.