The Player's Game

Chapter 1 - I Was Falsely Accused By an Angel-Faced Devil

I'll give you three good reasons why being late for class, sucks:

First of all, when you enter the room-especially when your teacher is halfway through class-all eyes are focused on you. Some are amused, some irritated and some glad (probably for saving them from more boredom).

Secondly, the teacher's attention is all on to you, giving you icy glares for disrupting their oh-so-special class and shooting you questions like a shotgun on why you were late.

And lastly, the teacher is free to humiliate you in front of the whole class by giving a smart comeback on your reasons.

And that's exactly what happened to me, Sam Reynolds, a nobody at Berkley High.

As I turned the knob, I felt like I was back in fourth grade where I stood paralyzed in front of a hundred crowd, and boy was it terrifying. Anyways, thirty pairs of eyes met my gaze when I entered the room. All my classmates' eyes on me. Check.

I bit my lip unconsciously. "Um, hi. I'm so, so sorry I'm late, Ms. Brown," I apologized.

Ms. Brown stopped writing and dropped her white chalk. Her red ponytail flipped as she spun around to face me. She was a small, petite woman. But don't underestimate her, she can be a monster when she's mad, just like now. She's pretty well-known here as 'the monster mentor'. They said that a freshman from two years ago transferred because of her. And trust me, I don't want to end up like that.

She shook her head and looked at me, brown eyes holding my gaze firmly. "Why are you late, Ms. Reynolds? Class started half an hour ago. You do know I hate tardy students." Ms. Brown's attention, check.

I swallowed hard, pushing my square-rimmed glasses at the bridge of my nose. "I-I was at the library and I haven't heard the bell."

She leaned beside the table. "And how come you did not hear it?"

"I had my iPod on and-," I said, feeling my face flush. I looked down at my shoes, they suddenly seem interesting.

"Well," she cut off, "since you have more interest in music than my class, would you like me to write a note to Mr. Simmons, telling him that you could transfer to his class? Because I'd be very pleased to do so just so that I won't see your late face." These earned a few snickers from the class, making my face turn red. I just kept my head down and kept quiet.

Humiliation? Check.

Did I mention that she hates me? No? Well, she does. She hates me very, very much. I don't know what I did to deserve her wrath.

I really have been super and extra nice to her since day one. When I have a B on a test, she'll let me do extra homework. I don't know why she does it because I always got an A on every single test— and no, I am most definitely not a nerd. I just learn fast, nothing else. And besides, two B's are nothing compared to the other students who got a big fat F. Maybe she just hates my guts. Yeah, that might be it because—

"Ms. Reynolds," Ms. Brown called out, snapping me from my train of thoughts. "Are you going to stand there and drool all day? Because if you are, you can go out because I still have class," she cocked an eyebrow at me. I mumbled a quick 'sorry' and took my seat in the middle.

She resumed her class, talking about grammatical errors and blah, blah, blah. Five minutes later after discussing, she surprised everyone by saying, "Okay everyone, keep your books and ready your pens. Let's have a quiz." Which earned groans from students.

We were halfway through our test when I felt someone tap my shoulder. I craned my neck a little so that I could see who was disturbing me—which is rare because no one really notices me—while hissing in a low voice, "What?"