The Popularity Game

{ e l e v e n } Agents Detained

The silence seemed to radiate within the room, it was the kind of silence that pressed against your ears until a high-pitched ringing sound clouded your sense of hearing.

I hated it.

It was bad enough that I had to endure a tortuous hour inside a classroom with nothing to do; but I had to endure said hour with the devil himself.

Detention was a horrible idea in its self, detention with Jason Matthews however, took hell to a whole new meaning.

I muttered profanities at the person who invented detention under my breath as I watched the figure on the other side of the classroom. His feet were propped on the chair in front of him, and he was leaning so far down his chair that the curvature of his spine was alarmingly concerning. His eyes were closed, but I could tell that he was awake from the slight flutter of his eyelids, even from where I was sitting.

The fact that he hadn't said a word to me all week made me want to tear my hair out. It was the third detention of the week, and he hasn't so much as looked at me.

It made me want to tear his hair out.

I cleared my throat, hoping to get some sort of reaction from him, but he continued on as if I wasn't within ten feet of him.

I internally groaned in frustration; I could see my headstone now:

Erin Sanders, death by boredom.

I needed help.

After five more grueling minutes (which took forever, by the way), I couldn't take it anymore; I had to say something. The events of the party kept replaying in my head, and no matter how hard I tried, I just couldn't piece it together, and Chloe had only shrugged and gave me a quick 'ask Jason' answer when I asked her.

And the fact that she was still sort of, maybe—okay, really angry at me for daring her to kiss Kent in front of the entire Senior class certainly wasn't helping.

"Matthews."

No answer.

"Matthews."

Radio silence.

"Maaaaa—"

I was cut off by something hard hitting my temple, causing me to wobble in my seat. I rubbed my head in annoyance, picking up the object that had collided with my head. "Did you just throw your shoe at me?!"

He was still in the same hunched position, but the tiny vibration on his chest that he was clearly trying to suppress was the clear indication that he found my pain amusing.

That little b—

"Ms. Sanders, Mr. Matthews, is there a problem?" The door burst open, and the wrinkled face of the old grouchy woman who probably owned a million cats and was in charge of our detention, Mrs. Prewtinkle, came into view. "I thought I made it clear that no speaking meant no speaking."

I was about to open my mouth in response, and from the corner of my eye, I could see Jason doing the same when she cut us off.

"To make things clearer, that means no gossiping, no whispering, no yelling, no laughing, no chuckling, no snickering, no bickering, and most importantly, no yodeling." She finishes in a sharp tone and walks out the door in a huff so quickly that it takes a second for us to register what she just said.

And then we both burst into laughter.

And okay, it was more like muffled snickering, but it was the most interaction that we'd had in a week, so to say that I was grateful for Mrs. Prewtinkle's idiocy about different noises that teenagers could make was an understatement.