Studs in the Mirror

“Studs Lonigan, on the verge of fifteen, and wearing his first suit of long trousers, stood in the bathroom with a Sweet Caporal pasted on his mug. His hands were jammed in his trouser pockets, and he sneered. He puffed, drew the fag out of his mouth, inhaled and said to himself: Well, I’m kissin’ the old dump goodbye tonight.” So begins Young Lonigan, the first installment of James T. Farrell’s Studs Lonigan trilogy, as well as begins today’s prompt. 

Young Lonigan, Farell, and our prompt continue:

Studs was a small, broad-shouldered lad. His face was wide and planed; his hair was light brown. His long nose was too large for his other features; almost a sheeny’s nose. His lips were thick and wide, and they did not seem at home on his otherwise frank and boyish face. He was always twisting them into his familir tough-guy sneers. He had blue eyes; his mother rightly called them baby-blue eyes.

He took another drag and repeated to himself:

Well, I’m kissin’ the old dump goodbye.

The old dump was St. Patrick’s grammar school; and St. Patrick’s meant a number of things to Studs. It meant school, and school was a jailhouse that might just as well have had barred windows. It meant the long, wide chalk-smelling room of the seventh- and eighth-grade boys, with its forty or fifty squirming kids. It meant the second floor of the tan brick, undistinguished parish building on Sixty-first Street that had swallowed so much of Studs’ life for the past eight years. It meant the black-garbed Sisters of Providence, with their rattling beads, their swishing strides, and the funny-looking wooden clappers they used, which made a dry snapping sound and which hurt like anything when a guy got hit over the head with one.

St. Patrick’s also meant quite a bit more to Studs.

In any case, the end of the prompt, after reading an excerpt of the beginning of Farrell’s Studs, is this: write a piece of prose or poem that begins with a character looking into a mirror.