Secrets

What have you done?

  "Attar, what's that you're doing on the desk?" Asked Mrs. Tightass- er, Smith. The whole class turned to stare at the offender, who merely pressed his palm down over top of his pencil on his desk and stared blankly at Mrs. Smith's feet. "Kyle? I'm waiting for your answer."

Kyle sucked in air, and felt the stupid sputter in his throat as a grunt tumbled down his chin and landed splat on his desk in front of him, useless. Now Mrs. Smite was getting impatient, and you could tell from how high her eyebrow was going and the severeness of the wrinkles around her grimace. Her nostrils appeared more..."flarey" than usual. Everyone in class was quickly getting bored of Kyle be an ass again and mumbling began to egg on Mrs. Teacher even more.

"I expect a response or I'll have to give you a referral." Strangely Kyle took this moment to contemplate how in fact the word 'referral' in of itself was not necessarily negative sounding. In fact, it almost seemed like a good thing, as in, 'I referred you to so and so.' But in this case, he already knew all too well that it was not the case, and Mrs. Shitty was making a serious threat to the probability of Kyle passing his junior year.

"I-I..." Kyle chocked out, only having so much trouble because he was put on the spot, and his anxiety was pinching his tongue with it's sharp nails and staring him in the eye, daring him to speak up and make an idiot of himself, more so than already, or usual.

"Fucking tard." Some guy in the back muttered, received by an orchestra of, fairly unnecessary, thank you very much, snickering. Kyle cleared his throat quickly and punched his anxiety in the proverbial gut, accumulating his 'whatever' face.

"I was just marking something randomly on the desk, just because I was distracted and I absently did it, not on purpose, of course, but because I need to do something with my hands, and I just did that, stupidly, but whatever." Kyle pulled off, perfectly, in his opinion, a very satisfactory performance which he was sure would distract everyone in the classroom from his initial freeze and definitely cover up and preconceived ideas of his character or behavior, in Mrs. Smuths case.

Mrs. Smoten gestured for him to move his hand and reveal his creation. He did so with a look of very-well-hidden reproach, and shocked the world with it's quality. It was, in fact, one of Kyle's iconic depictions of a classic wood elf, complete with pointy ears, eyes, chin and nose. It was not a very good drawing. In fact, it was hardly distinguishable, and up-side down, Mrs. Smitties perceived that it was only a set of lines sometimes intersecting, and did not realize, in fact, that this awfully drawn creature was the "tag" that was completely and irrefutably, Kyle's.

So, she scolds him only and tells him to clean it off with a cleanex, followed by a far-too-long speech about keeping desks clean of pencil markings or carvings, and then going on yet another rant about how a previous, unnamed, of course, student of hers had once had the gall to carve his entire desk with a pocket knife, and the ensuing discourse of the whole situation.The woman tortures the class with her complaining until at very, thankfully, last, the bell wrung, and all the pimple-studded and hormone-ridden children rose in unison and trampled out of the room into the throe of other grouchy, mostly bitchy, teens running back and forth in a menacing Highway.

Kyle, who was much more a thoughtful thinker, and also cared so little about the instated system that he never, ever, rushed out the room, slowly assembled his things to put them away in his bag, radiating, he hoped, an aura of disinterest, so that he would, hopefully, not be approached by the horrid Mrs. Smut, who very much resembled a Popsicle stick with hair, a dress, and a past with cupcakes, that resulted in most of her skin hanging off her bones. When he was finished he captured his signature pose, shoving his hands in his pants pockets and demonstrating a perfect use of bad posture, while grimacing at the world for being unjust and, obviously, way too cruel to him. He made his way through the giraffes and mice of his peers to his cold, metal cell which he often stored things in. He cracked his knuckles, in preparation, but then also cracked his neck and back, because everyone knows once you start doing that, it is almost irresistible to stop. Finished punishing his skeleton, he rolled the lock around in his delicate fingers, which were recently manicured, and painted, rather well inside the lines, he thought, a charming shade of black.