Mr. Superficial (BWWM)

Chapter 41

Landon's P.O.V

Have you ever experienced that feeling? The one where your heart starts beating randomly and everything in your head finally makes sense? When you feel happier than ever and more determined to reclaim your life after it had fallen into the hands of the terrible thieves of your mind?

I was feeling that right now.

I watch the clock anxiously as it takes an exponentially long time to make a full rotation. I swear I saw it rewind at least twice, for I hadn't known minutes taking so long to elapse like this before.

But still, I watch and wait, the small smile on my face growing larger and wider with each striking second. I was closer to the victory, and that feeling was only fueling me with additional anticipation.

And as if by some phenomenal feat, the bell finally struck. It rang slowly but surely and for the first time in an hour, I could finally breathe. Until a dreadful time next week, I won't have to be restricted in the confines of this classroom. The intelligence of the other members of the lesson won't unintentionally chip away at my own competence. I won't be reminded of my astonishing failure.

For at least another few days.

This Calculus class is over, and I may now retrieve my rights as a free citizen. My books that had been arranged and stacked long before the bell had sounded acquire a position in my hands before I bolt for the door.

I ignore the fervent brainiacs who are still occupied in their seats, eyes darting from the board to their notebooks and longing to condense any remnants of stray information into their already full minds. A part of me wanted to shout at them, to lecture them about their liberty and inform them of a distant world lacking in mind-corrupting theorems and thriving in relevance.

But of course, I didn't. Because I don't give a shit.

As my hand connects with the cool metal knob that separates my imprisonment from my freedom, all plans and prospects of escape trample away.

'Landon, a word before you leave, please,' Mr. Harris speaks from his desk at the center of the room. He doesn't look up from his laptop to address me and I gulp in slight fear.

As the room of future astrophysicists eventually leave the room, mumbling to each other about how simple the impossible question fifteen was or bragging about their scores in another related, equally unachievable subject, I discreetly shuffle over to Mr. Harris.

I impatiently wait for him as he takes his time doing whatever it is on his laptop, hating that this conversation could quite possibly dig into my lunch hour. However relaxed in his actions, my teacher eventually turns to look at me with a hard frown on his face.

'You're a smart boy, Landon,' he starts slowly. Mr. Harris clasps his hairy hands together as his brown eyes study my face carefully.

I'm shocked at his words. A genius of his caliber had no right to say that to a struggling student like me. I knew for a fact, discarding all modesty, that I was a lot of things, but smart was not one of them. I struggled to maintain a B average in most of my subjects, but Calculus was definitely not a favorable branch of mine.

I hated it, and it detested me. It was a lose-lose situation, and with each test and announced topic, I grew more content with that realization.

I scoff at him and fold my arms across my chest. I knew teachers to be great liars- perfecting the art by giving kids whispers of false hope and willing them to try when it was quite evident they'd be making a career at Sunnydale Chicken Factories. But I was good; I can see into their well-structured deceptions.