The Absence of Truth | S. Stilinski

III. | detention

III. | detention

                    UNSURPRISINGLY, MR. HARRIS was still an ass. In my past experiences with detention, the teacher who was usually rude and disrespectful became more understanding with one hour of detention, but this man was anything but understanding as I fiddled with a scrap piece of paper while watching the clock.

"Ms. Holmes, what do you think you're doing?" He asked in that fake posh voice.

I cocked my head and held the paper between two fingers. "I'm trying to pass the time, Mr. Harris. What are you doing?" He was grading papers obviously, but I couldn't help throwing his words back at him. Teachers hated that.

He put his red pen down on his desk and looked at me almost calculatingly. "Detention is meant for you to think about what you've done. You don't pass time. Put the paper away."

The clock was almost at four, so I tucked the paper into my backpack. Stilinski was sitting next to me, but he ignored the entire exchange, watching the clock in jittery silence like he had been since three fourty-five. I'd noticed that he seemed to never relax, and the closer we got to leaving, the more that became clear. His leg was shaking and he had his hands clutched onto his backpack, eyes set on the ticking hands above Harris's head.

As the second hand ticked, time felt like it slowed down. This always happened in the last few minutes of detention. There was something about forcing yourself to sit silently for an hour that was so underwhelming it was nearly painful. My leg started to shake in time with Stilinski's, and the time clicked by ever so slowly until the minute hand hit, and it was officially four o'clock. Moving as fast as humanly possible, I stood and made a beeline for the door, refusing to spend anymore time with Harris. Stilinski was right behind me, but as soon as I reached the door and got one foot out, we were stopped by a lazy, uninterested drawl.

"Where do you think you're going?" Harris asked, keeping his eyes on the papers in front of him.

I pointed at the clock. "It's been an hour."

"My detention is an hour and a half," he said immediately. Those beady eyes trailed over to where Stilinski and I were standing. "Sit back down."

Like a wounded puppy, I shuffled back to my seat and plopped down, dropping my backpack under the desk to where it had previously been. Stilinski was still standing by the door, looking at the clock with a face of resentment. He opened his mouth, and I knew what was going to happen. When we were younger, Presley had the same issue with talking back. It was never anything harmful, but it would definitely get him on the bad side of whoever he was sassing. Knowing Mr. Harris, it was obvious that Stilinski was in for a world of trouble.

Ignoring my 'don't you dare do it' face, Stilinski let out a hurt, "You can't do that!"

I dropped my head into my hands as Harris took a deep breath and opened his mouth to retaliate. "Oh ... but I can. You see, Stiles, since your father was so judicious in his dealings with me, I've decided to make you my personal project for the rest of the semester. You are going to benefit from all the best that strict discipline has to offer. Now, sit down. Before I decide to keep you two here all night." My head popped up and Harris moved his attention to me. "Ms. Holmes, would you like to add anything?"

My voice was tight. "No."

"Good," he said, going back to grading.

-

"Who's your father?" I asked, jogging behind Stilinski - no - Stiles to keep up with his long strides. "And what kind of name is Stiles, anyway? Oh yeah, and what were you and your friends doing in the woods last night?"