All classes, in my opinion, are terrible. The subject matter isn't what makes them one of the most awful things to ever exist, too. I have a very good grade average. The problem is simply the people within the classrooms.
I find that in every single one, there is another student sent out to ruin me. I haven't done anything to them. They just seem to muster ways to make my life miserable and to leave me despondent. In efforts to make things right, at the beginning, I tried talking to them. I said things I thought they would appreciate. I failed immensely.
"H-hey, Bryce!" I had said to one of the jocks at my school one morning. "You played amazingly at your football game yesterday. I couldn't make it because I had an AP US History test the next day, but I heard you rocked it!"
I got the memo that he did not admire my words when, afterwards, he shoved me into his locker and told me to screw off. Even though it hurt, physically and emotionally, I forgave him silently. I forgave him just as I forgive everyone who does ill to me.
Mum tells me that I should have a stronger barrier. She tells me that I shouldn't let my peers walk all over me, and that I should stand up for myself. What she doesn't understand is that if I stand up against any one of them, I will end up face down in a trashcan by the end of the day.
I wish I didn't have to wake up scared every morning because of the fear of not being accepted for who I am.
.................................................................................................................................................................
I have confidence in the thought that there is one thing worse than Mike Tyron and Taylor Bridges, and that thing is Physical Education class.
In P.E., there are not written tests that test my intelligence. The tests are physical. I don't find this fair for people like me who get their weight training from lifting extbooks from class to class. Push ups and sit ups are fancy words for a painful debacle.
"Styles! What the hell are you doing!" my coach yells towards me.
I look up from my planking position and push my glasses up the bridge of my nose. "I'm doing push ups, sir."
"Those aren't push ups, son! Put your goddamn butt down!"
I sigh and look back down, my glasses sliding my nose again. I lower my butt and already feel the aching burn of my nonexistence abdomen muscles. I crash onto the floor before I lower myself a mere centimeter.
Coach Smith, my P.E. teacher, sighs so loudly that everyone in the entirety of the gym can hear him. He gives me the look he always does when I can't do an exercise efficiently. It's a look filled with expectancy and disappointment.
He puts a hand on my shoulder. "You know I can't pass you if you can do a push up, Styles."
"Yes, sir."
"Do you realize you'll have to run two miles to make up the grade?"
"Yes, sir."
"So, which is it? Do you want to retry the push ups, or do you want to run?"
I take the running without hesitation. Running two miles is rough, but doing push ups is another kind of tough. It's practically a sin.
Running the two miles takes a little over twenty minutes. The first one wasn't too hard, but by the time I was on my second lap of the second mile I was practically dead. My feet swelled in there shoes, my shirt was sticking to my chest and back due to sweat, and my curls were slowly uncurling themselves and becoming wet. The ringlets covered my eyes.
Heaving for air is all I can think about when I finish. More air, more air, more air. Air for my lungs to take in.
"Nice timing there, Styles!" Coach yells. "You're dismissed, all of you. Get your asses out of here."
I slump back to the changing room, quickly taking ownership of the cleaning shower available. I strip and go into the shower. It isn't long until I'm up and back into the scheme of things, dressed in dry clothes and going to my next hour class.
In the hallway, I notice the same things I always do. Normal people walking to classrooms, teachers changing shifts, and that girl sitting next to the lockers, reading. No one really knows much about her. Her name is Amity Heatherton, I know that much. She has dark brown hair with an auburn hue, and super dark black eyes. Her skin is white as white can be, but it's always without blemishes. She's a pretty girl. She simply never talks much.
"Harry?" I hear her say in her quiet voice. I turn to her and smile gently.
"Hey, Amity."
"Can you tell Mr. Maserati that I won't be able to make next hour today."
As usual. "Y-yeah, of course."
I went to class and told that she would be late. And, out of the corner of my eye, I see her run out the front doors of the school.
It's a typical Amity thing to do.
