Love the Quiet Ones

໒ཏศ♇₮ཛཞ 1 ~ ๖ศ໒K ๑f ₮ཏཛ ໒ʆศຮຮཞ๑๑ฅ

:|:๖ศ໒K ๑f ₮ཏཛ ໒ʆศຮຮཞ๑๑ฅ:|:

:|:໒ཏศ♇₮ཛཞ 1:|:

Adam

~ Before I could hide my face, he was right there. I inwardly groaned. The classroom silent as he walked towards me, a smirk on his face. He'd been banished to the back of the classroom for disrupting class. Everyone sat silently, waiting for the tension to release from the room. It wouldn't though. The teacher was angry. Beyond angry even. More like pissed and sizzling. I tried to look away, willing him not to sit next to me. It was like this more often now. He'd get in trouble, the room quieted, and boom, he was next to me, making my life harder. I wonder why he does this? I won't ask him though. Nope, I've got too much pride for that. Not that I'd ever let him know, I try my best not to talk to him. He's the type of person I can't stand. He squished into the seat in between me and the window. I wanted to mope. I would've too. If he hadn't done that on purpose, if he hadn't been smirking at me.

I don't think I've ever really hated someone before. I think this is the first time I've ever wanted to punch someone just by looking at their face. I guess this is hate. Not that this message ever got across to him. His name was Sam. He was the pretty boy that was surrounded constantly by people. Their mouths never stopping. He made everyone want to talk, so they just talked, and talked, and talked. Making every teacher that had him want to shoot them. I understood the feeling. However much I wished I didn't.

"Hey Adam. What's it like always being in the back of the classroom?" he asked. All eyes turned to me. Exactly where I didn't like them being. I glared at him, trying to tell him to leave me alone through my mind. I hate talking. But he didn't seem to get the message, as always. I grumbled something incoherent to him, looking away from the window to my notebook. Suddenly very interested in writing down anything. Maybe everything. Everyone in the room started their low chattering again, I almost sighed with relief.

I always sat in the back, the teachers usually just forgot to move me, not that I mind. I sometimes wonder how they remember to put my grades in. Though I do find that a lot of the assignments I don't turn in show up with a score. I don't question it though, they're free handouts I'll take. God only knows I won't get them later. I can't actually see the board from back here though. In some classes I wonder why I'm even passing. But I've always maintained a B- to C+ average. Which is normal. Like so normal it's not normal. Easily forgettable normal. Which is exactly what I was. I don't mind. Nobody picks on me. Nobody really talks to me either. That's good. I don't like people. Especially people that flaunt their good looks, never shut up, and are constantly smirking. Sam was one of those people. He talks to me though, and that makes people turn to me. I'm amazed he even remembers my name. Most of my classmates didn't. Not that I minded. How often do I say that?

"What's it like to be an idiot?" I asked quietly. It was so mumbled that even I couldn't make it out. That was another of my problems, I mumbled. Badly. I tend to slur my words and talk majorly quietly. I don't know why, my parents aren't like that. They aren't loud either, just normal. Everything about me or my family is normal. I glanced over at Sam, wondering if he heard my stupid excuse for a comeback. He just looked at me. His light blue eyes staring into mine. His blond hair shining in the sun, covering his hand that his face was resting on. I stared for a moment, before a thudding took my attention and turned it back to reality. Thank you almighty mysterious thudding! Wait, what thudded? looked around the classroom. No sleeping students, no books on the floor. Mr. Johnson stood at the front of the classroom, writing something, that, quite frankly, just looked like a jumbled mess to me, on the board. I used to think I had dyslexia before I started to enjoy books, maybe just glasses.

All throughout the lesson I could feel Sam's eyes on me. I twitched occasionally, feeling my skin begin to itch under his gaze. I scratched my arm absently looking at the doodle that took over my white sheet. It was just a mess of swirls and shapes, it was just what it looked like on the board to me, but it had an oddly childish feel to it. I just stared, wondering what to do next. I chewed the tip of my pen, contemplating what was missing. I scribbled a few circles in the more larger gaps and called it good. Turning the page, I started again, as Mr. Johnson had moved on. Look like you're paying attention and they call it all good.