Page 13 of The Tattered Gloves
She looked at the door that led into the classroom, spotting the teacher at the desk, and frowned. “Try not to fall asleep. He’s a bore. What other classes do you have?”
Before I could even answer, she snatched up the schedule I’d had clutched in my hand and was skimming through each period. Her face changed from happy to sad, like one of those clowns who moved his hand up and down his face as he changes emotions.
“We have third and seventh together! Yay!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands together, before adding, “I’m Allison Greer, by the way. It’s nice to meet you, Willow Fairchild! See you later.”
She skipped off before I could say anything more. Looking down the hall, I watched her greet and hug several people before disappearing.
What’d just happened? And how did she known my name?
Looking down at my schedule that she’d handed back to me, it dawned on me.
She’d read it.
Sneaky little—
Wait, had she looked at my gloves? Even once?
The warning bell rang, telling students they had two minutes to get to class. Suddenly, the hallways were a flurry of energy. Boyfriends and girlfriends hugged, and friends said good-bye as I made my way to my first class at Sugar Tree High School.
THIS WAS THE part I had been dreading. Well, the part I was dreading the most.
The walking-into-class part.
Will everyone stare? Will the teacher make me talk about myself, like they do in movies? Or will I simply be able to sit down and disappear?
Hoping for the latter, I quickly walked to the slightly overweight man behind the desk in the front of the room. He had a large coffee stain on his white shirt, and it looked like he’d used several of the term papers around him to mop it up.
Awesome.
Hoping I could get by with as little talking as possible, I made myself as visible as possible, standing right in his line of vision. It didn’t take long for him to notice the awkward-looking girl in front of him.
“Ah, yes… you must be Willow,” he said with a gentle smile.
Letting out a sigh of relief, I nodded.
“Good, good. Well, let’s get you a seat then. I do assigned seating in my class. Helps me learn names quicker in the beginning of the year. Although, by junior year, I tend to know half of these kids anyway. Why don’t we sit you here?” he suggested as I followed him down a row, toward the back.
“Okay,” I said quietly as other kids looked on with mild curiosity.
“Great. I’ll get you a textbook and a syllabus, and you’ll be on your way,” he said cheerfully, making his way back toward the front. He stopped a few times to give warnings on cell-phone use in the classroom.
By the time the bell rang, I had one used standard English textbook and a copy of the semester’s syllabus on my desk.
I tried not to notice the eight people around me, staring.
As soon as the bell rang, it happened.
The barrage of questions.
“Where are you from?”
“What’s with the gloves?”
“Are you deformed?” one guy asked.
The girl next to him playfully slapped him. They laughed quietly between each other.
I didn’t bother answering any of their questions. I was used to kids like this — the bullies and the ignorant ones.
