Mess

Chapter One Part 1/3

Teachers.

They are boring. Very boring. So profoundly uninteresting and it amazes me and the inexplicability of it all displeases me and never ceases to make me feel discomposed and uneasy, as well as discouraged to learn...which is not good at all.

It wasn’t always like this though—in middle school and freshman year I had an appealing combination of attractive, friendly and funny teachers. However, evidently, the universe just sort of decided that no, miraculous perks such as this were simply not to happen this time round. This year, this shitty sophomore year at Pasadena High School all I have are dull, pretentious teachers.

And not to sound whiny, but it’s totally not fair.

Anyway, I occasionally tend to ponder about a teacher’s personal life. Like, do they have a partner? Do they have an active social life? Do they own any cats? (In this case, they are probably single.) The perpetual resonance of this topic weirdly intrigues me, I just always want to know more, you know? All I’ve ever seen them do is grade work, drink coffee and yell. God, they’re annoying. But that doesn't stop my mind from wanting to explore every inch or their bearing.

The subject of teachers is one of many distracting, and somewhat consuming thoughts I have during class. I don’t feel as though I should pay attention to the lesson anyway: my grades are—and I quote my father directly here—‘unacceptable’ at the moment. I might as well just drop out of school and become a stripper. Who cares? Who actually gives a damn about school when it only subjects us to the elements of a systematic society?

I slightly jump in my butt-numbing seat when I notice the repetitive tick tock sound of the class clock, suddenly sharpening as I step out of my endless brooding.

School’s over in eight minutes. You think I’d be happy about that but I’m the irretrievable opposite. In fact, I’m scared—insanely scared. Petrified, even. This is because of the unsettling conversation I had with my boyfriend at lunch in which he stated the words, “we need to talk” and those words are never good.

Ever since, I’ve been feeling more nauseous than even the revolting cafeteria meatloaf could make me feel. Feeling bewildered, I can’t help but wonder if there’s something wrong with him, or something wrong with me. Me. It has to be me, it always is.

My thoughts abscond wildly against my will, thinking of every possible answer to my dispiriting questions.

Honestly? The only thing that seems desirable to me at the moment is to block everything out. All of it. I want to sit here, close my eyes and slowly vanish into nothingness—because I simply don’t feel like existing anymore, and being sad is boring, like teachers, and because this cruel world does not deserve my unwarranted consciousness and full attention.

But unfortunately, every time I open my eyes I return back to this abominable reality that is my life, wherein the majority of my thoughts revolve around Dylan. I mean, do I even love him? I question this because I don’t know, the only thing I do know is that I don’t want things to change, which is a considerably irrational desire as things haven’t quite been the same between us since my world fell apart three months ago.

Butterflies cease to discontinue their efforts in putting me even further on edge, and I feel a rather uncomfortable lump begin to form in the back of my throat.

I miss her.

“Brodie.” Mrs. Peabody, also known as Bitch-a-saurus, snaps at me with raised eyebrows, dismissing me from my encompassing bubble. “Perhaps you’d care to share your clearly distracting thoughts on Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet with the rest of the class?” I roll my eyes at her aloof expression and sluggishly slide out of my chair, making my way to the front of the classroom, bleak visage and all so I look badass. I’m not in the mood for this. I clear my throat.

“Well, Miss, I believe William Shakespeare is a moron. Why? Because I disbelieve in the notion that two people can fall in love the instant they set eyes on each other. So, alas, this is why my thoughts were, as you said, striking my unhinged attention.” I exaggerate my whole speech which earns me a continuous death-glare from Bitch, and I finish with a courtesy, highlighting my sarcasm. My friend Scott nods approvingly in my direction as I stalk back to my seat and I sheepishly return the gesture, feeling suddenly unconfident. He and I have something of a history, so things are slightly...well, undefinable.

I slump down in my seat and watch as Mrs. Peabody’s lifeless face inhibits a look of displeasure. About two thirds of the class are still sniggering and I can’t help but crack a small coy smile.

For what seems like centuries, Bitch-a-saurus stays still and silent until I’m momentarily convinced that she has died but her body just hasn’t reacted yet, but then until unexpectedly, she deeply inhales and exhales, about to speak. What a shame, I couldn't say I’d mind in her sudden death as much I would try to convince myself.

“Skyla,” I shudder at the sound of my full name, “You have an hour’s detention with me after school on Wednesday. Don’t forget.” She finalises, and right on queue, as if the universe is actually within my favour, the bell rings. She gives me an intense stare, narrowing her piercing brown eyes at me before dismissing class, despite the fact that everyone has already started packing up. Great, I think as I haul my heavy books into my school bag. Another packet of stress added to my fully-loaded shopping basket.