Night Drifters: The Knight

Chapter 1: Clementine

Chapter 1

I rolled my pencil up and down my desk too many times too count. I stared at the clock desperately wanting the bell to ring. Is there nothing ever new around here? I sighed, possibly when pigs fly. Then again we did get the swine flu shot so that might be preventable. Everything is just so predictable. Everything. I mean just look at my routine in the morning. Wake up at six, get dressed, eat breakfast and drive to school. Then there is the after school schedule. The tutor arrives, violin lessons, eat dinner and go to bed.

I barely have time for my homework let alone these stupid essays that I have to write for English every five minutes. There is no time for me to do anything I want to do. Then comes the weekend and there are fundraisers for my dad’s company while mom trails along acting all prim and proper. No time for me. I never see them. Never. If I do it’s a quick kiss out the door. My parents may not be divorced or have died in a car accident years ago, but it sure seems like it.

Clapping interrupted my daze. I looked up to see Michael Geekingston bowing after his ever so scientific speech. I clapped despite not hearing one word of it. Mom says it’s only respectful. I get that to a point.

“Danielle Porter.” Miss Little called from the front of the class. I was up to make my speech. Which was terrible. I just wrote it this morning while eating breakfast. I didn’t even proof read it. Who knows what I’ve written on it. I stared at it blankly. Words were misspelled too.

This is going to be interesting.

“Miss Porter, I’m growing impatient. Did you or did you not finish your speech?” Her stern voice seemed to sting my ears.

“Yes, I have it, Miss Little. It’s right here.” I held it up.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” I swallowed hard. I’m just shooting myself in the foot by doing this, but here it goes. I walked to the front of the class, not knowing what to expect.

After the first two paragraphs, stopping continuously, trying to make since of my messy handwriting and repeating the same sentences over and over again, she stopped me. “Miss Porter? It seems to me that you either,” she counted off a finger, “Put no thought or effort into this paper,” counting off another, “Or someone else has written it for you. Either way this essay is alien to you, me and your classmates.” Her voice cold and frown full of disappointment. I felt my cheeks flush with anxiety as I gaped at thirty different faces. None of which could careless if I aced my paper or failed it.

I wanted so much to bury my face in the scribbled mess I held in my hands. A second later the bell rang and everyone was trampling one and another out the door. I grabbed my stuff and sulked behind, trying to hide in the crowd when Miss Little’s voice chimed at her desk. “Oh, Miss Porter, can I speak with you for a moment, please?”

“Of course.” I said uneasy.

Miss Little is a short, plump red head, which wears the most obnoxious, circular glasses, and old lady housecoats. She is not that old. If anything maybe fifties. And if you really were old enough to wear them, why when you are working?

I felt awkward being alone with her. All around were posters with famous quotes and Shakespeare, plastered to the white walls. Bookcases filled with large, big, and boring books. On her desk were even little antiques like glass books or teddy bears holding books. I mean I like reading too, but not to the point of insanity.

She was seated behind her desk and seemed to be grading essays. Without looking up at me she said, “You realize I had to give you, yet another F, don’t you?”

I think we established that when you embarrassed me in front of the entire class. I looked down at my new, white tennis shoes, stomach turning in pain. “I know.”