There’s a courtyard near where I live, made up of all different types of white stone with potted shrubs in the corners and benches scattered about the edges. Near the front of it, there’s a great metal statue of some dead president, pointing into the square as if he has something important to say. But all that greets him is the cold, pale pattern of rock on the ground and a few empty stone benches. Occasionally there’s a crow, a dark flutter of wings in the blinding whiteness. People always rush past this empty courtyard, hurrying to get to somewhere important. The crows are that statue’s only audience.
I find that my mind likes to wander to this courtyard, likes to turn me to metal next to the president as if I, too, have something to say and no one will listen. I’m the girl who always gets talked over. Whose ideas aren’t acknowledged. Whose directions aren’t followed.
I, too, have an audience of nothing but my imagined crows.

Right now, I’m standing in one of those all-too-familiar circles of people who are talking. Just talking. Not about anything important, but simply because there’s nothing else to do in our few precious minutes before class starts. They’re talking about the new movie that just came out. I’ve seen the movie. I have opinions about the movie.
I voice them, but no one hears me. Inside my head, a single crow lands at the edge of the courtyard and croaks at me, mocking the emptiness.
They’ve moved on to a different subject. The crow flies away.

Class has begun, and I’m immersed into an endless drone of lecture and note-taking. Everyone’s courtyard is empty by now, except for the teacher’s. And we’ve only come to his because it’s a class requirement. I don’t feel quite so lonely anymore, now that I’m not the only ignored statue in the room.
Crows slowly fill my head as my mind wanders away from the lecture. A crow that squawks at me about homework. One that cackles that I should really call my sister. Yet another that caws insults about paying attention in class.
My eyes drift from the chalkboard to the boy in front of me, slouched over a sketchbook, pencil working furiously. More crows in my courtyard, but I don’t notice them. I’m strolling through the boy’s courtyard, admiring the brightly colored stones that surpass the pale stones in my square. His statue is painted marble, a beautiful depiction with orange hair and warm blue eyes, a smile that could almost rob a bank, it’s so mischievous. A bluejay lands on the ground at my feet and looks up at me, surprised.
The artist boy shifts in his seat.
Then the bluejay flies off and he goes back to drawing.
I return to my own courtyard, only to find it void of everything but my crows.

After class, the circle again. The talking. Now, it’s about the teacher and his way of slurring consonants and stumbling through the sentences. He pauses at times that don’t need it at all and rushes through commas and periods.
I say this, finding it funny, but no one laughs. No one hears me at all, and I can feel the emptiness of the white stones in my courtyard.
They move on to what classes we have next, who thinks what teachers are the best, the worst.
“I have history next.” The sound of my voice rings out loud and clear in my courtyard, startling quite a few crows off of the benches, but the noise drowns in everyone’s talking. Then artist boy walks up.
“What’d you say?”
I look at my feet as a whole murder of crows flies past my statue’s head. “I have history.”
“I do, too. What do you think of the teacher?”
“I think he’s…” Metal me would be gaping in awe if she weren’t a statue, because somebody just walked into her courtyard.