La Resistance Lives on!

1: A Mormon and Also a God-Hating French Kid Who Are Somehow Friends.

'Goddamn, this hall's crowded.'

    I squeeze past a group of girls chatting in the middle of the hallway, and one of them gives me a dirty look. I ignore it and continue to read the locker numbers, looking for locker 413. I groan when I can't find it and tap the shoulder of the closest person to me. He turns to me.

    "Uh- hey. Could I have some help? I can't find my locker."

    The boy blinks and nods. "Sure. What's its number?"

    "413," I say.

    He hums. "413... I think I know where that is. Follow me." The boy starts weaving through the hall and I struggle to keep up with him. He leads me to the 400s and stops in front of locker 413. "Here we are. I'm Gary, by the way. I'm guessing you're new?"

    I nod and take my glove off, looking at the code I wrote on my hand and copying it on the lock, which opens after two tries. "Yeah. I'm (Y/N.)"

    "Cool. We don't get many fresh faces here."

    I take my scarf and backpack off and stuff them into the locker. I take out my pencil pouch, calculator, and notebook, and then close the locker. I'm a bit confused as Gary still doesn't leave. The blond finally speaks again.

    "Do you need help finding your first class?"

    "Probably. You know where a Mr. Garrison is?"

    He sighs and gives an expression of pity. "Oh, you got him? Yeah, I know where he is. Just... I'll tell you while we walk."

    I trail after him once more. "What's wrong?" I ask.

    "Mr. Garrison is... interesting," he continues. "He's not very nice. Let's leave it at that. His class is also where the troublemakers are, mainly. Good luck, man. You're gonna need it."

    "Are you in his class?"

    "Nope, but I was for my first week."

    "Huh."

    We arrive at Mr. Garrison's class. Gary pats my shoulder and gives an encouraging smile. "Good luck again." With that, he walks away. I look back to the door.

    "You gonna move or just stand there?" a nasally voice asks from behind me. I blink and snap out of my thoughts. I mumble an apology and walk in, taking an empty seat in the back.

    Class sucked. What a shock! After the soul-sucking two-hour rant (lucky me had him for first and second hour) Mr. Garrison gave us on whatever the fuck Khloe Kardashian's doing now, we're released for our next classes. I have French for third period, so that's where I head to next.

    The French teacher is a strict old lady named Ms. Saylop. She seems to believe in assigned seating, and as soon as I walk in, she has me sit next to this guy who looks like he never showers. When I sit, I'm overwhelmed by the scent of Axe Body Spray. My eyes sting.

    'He's one of those guys who thinks Axebombing himself is the equivalent of a shower...' I think to myself and groan. Class begins, and the teacher starts by passing out a worksheet.

    "This will be group work, class. Understand? Travail de groupe," Ms. Saylop says, enunciating her French. "I will pick one of you at random to answer a question, and the rest of the class will write it onto their papers."

    The class groans, and a girl near the front raises her hand. "Um, Madame Salope?"

    "Saylop," Ms. Saylop corrects with a tired tone.