ethereal ➻ newtmas

one ; B A S K E T C A S E

He hates school. He's a social, nervous wreck at some stages and it's no wonder he lashes out. Detention is his second home and suspension is to be expected at this point - but he simply can't find it in himself to give a shit.

His parents don't care, either. His dad has fucked off to god knows where and his mom is busy living her sky-high life with her well paying job and beauty pageant daughter. Thomas is just, there. Existing. Barely - but he's there.

He doesn't have any friends. He doesn't like anybody. Maybe the owner of the 'Wallflower Diner' but that's pretty much it. Girls? Bitches. Guys? Dickheads. Family? Non-existent. Like him.

He's just floating around. No purpose. No future. No meaning. He just doesn't see the point. Can you blame him? Everyone else can.

"You're late."

Thomas whips his head around so fast his vision is blurry for a second. Face to face with his history teacher, Mr Hartman, Thomas rolls his eyes with a playful smirk.

"Yeah, I can read the time, you know."

"Great," Mr Hartman quips, unfazed by Thomas' smartness. "Surely you'll know what time school starts at, then?"

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes again, Thomas lets out an irritated huff. "I know I'm late. Not that big of a deal."

Mr Hartman snorts a little. He has a humorous personality, sarcastic and playful. He's a good teacher, who's always willing to help out his students and he's understanding of them. He's easy, but not a pushover. Thomas is lying if he says Mr Hartman isn't one of his favourites.

However, as funny as he can be, Mr Hartman always has his moments. Not so fun, moments.

Stern enough, with a slight frown on his face, the history teacher gestures Thomas to follow him. "Come with me. You're lucky I haven't even given you detention for the cheek."

"You wouldn't dare," Thomas grins, following him without a moment of hesitation. The two glide down the hallways, in a silence that Thomas can't tell between awkward or peaceful.

Once they reach Thomas' history classroom, the man unlocks the door and nods his head for Thomas to walk inside. It's unusual, really. Thomas should probably be drooling in class right now, but here he is. In his empty history room with his goofball teacher.

"What am I here for?" He ends up saying, walking around the room. He hears the door close behind him and he turns around to face Mr Hartman plopping comfortably on his desk chair.

"I just wanted to have a chat," he says, with a kind smile. He has kind eyes, too. Green and bright. He has a snouty nose and slightly crooked teeth that give him a youthful appearance, but his brown beard and forehead wrinkles say otherwise.

Thomas watches him cautiously, carefully striding to next to him only to flop down onto a desk, propping his feet up on the chair. Raising his brows, Mr Hartman ignores Thomas' skeptical attitude and carries on with his intentions.

"How've you been, Thomas?"

Thomas almost laughs.

"Fine. You?"

The history teacher unleashes an attempted hidden grin. "Not the answer I'm looking for, kiddo."

Thomas swallows, looking away. He hates this. He hates teachers pretending to be concerned about him. Acting like they care about his wellbeing. It's not real. They're phoney's. All of them.