Page 13 of The Tenth Circle
Shit, if more attention is what the bitch wants, I’d be happy to offer it with the back of my hand.
Later, obvs, since I’m trying to shake the old man.
“Sure, I guess,” I respond with a shrug.
“Well, get to it then.” He squints through his glasses. “And next time you walk into my class, Hendrix Montgomery, do it without the bright red lips.”
I sink into my seat, wishing more than anything it was the earth instead. Shoving my sketchpad into my bag, I pull out actual schoolbooks and begrudgingly flip one open.
As the class returns to normal, I pretend to ignore the conversation taking place next to me with my name as the epicenter of every insult. Mostly from redhead because Letterman seems too focused on his cell phone to give a shit.
Shaking the cruel words, I inhale a deep breath to cleanse my mind, remembering I’m better than every asshole in this room.
The teacher I still don’t know the name of goes on with his lesson, and I pretend to jot shit down while drawing horns over three inch thick bifocals.
The moment passed between Letterman and me, and he’s gone back to getting groped under the desk by the friendly redhead. Talk about trends, the girls here sure seem to be following the same one.
It pisses me off that I no longer have his attention, and I can pretend I don’t know why, but what’s the point?
I’m not kidding anyone but myself.
Given Letterman’s social etiquette, it’s safe to say there’s a good chance he’s just another fuck boy in this school.
I mean, after a while, they all look and sound the same.
Although, it’s complete horseshit that I caught slack for drawing but the guy next to me gets nothing for receiving a dry hand job.
Stupid sexist egotistical jerks.
Stupid womanizers.
Stupid freaking Algebra II.
In the midst of my inner tantrum I drop one of my books on the floor, but before I can lean down to pick it up someone does it for me.
“Here you go.” A sweet, nearly seven decade younger version of the dorky old man hands the book over.
“Thanks.” I smile and take it.
He looks down, adjusting the glasses taking over his reddened face. “Oh, it’s nothing.”
Kid’s wrong. It’s actually refreshing to spot a typical teenage boy amongst the abnormal sizes of these royal assholes. Which I guess should be expected given we’re sitting in the second largest castle in Manhattan.
But still. Dickwad-shit-fuckers.
“Hey. What’s your name?” I lean closer but the guy still won’t face me.
“Preston Philips.”
“Well, Preston Philips.” He finally looks my way when I squeeze his knee. “It’s somethin’, trust me.”
In an attempt to keep the poor guy from throwing up, I turn in my seat and go back to pretending to pay attention.
I do this the rest of the class with silence coming from the walking chiseled marble to my left. I’ve backpedaled almost completely with my suspicions, coughing it up to paranoia getting the best of me.
Who knows? Maybe my Crazyman from the closet doesn’t even go here…maybe he was the rebellious son of a faculty member who escaped obedience school. Or prison.
It’s a shot in the dark, but then again…so was he.
