afflictions

1.

CONNOR'S POV

In your life, you sometimes notice things that you just don't think make sense. For example, why bother adding the "p" or "b" in psychology and bomb? Who thought of this? And to the person who thought of this weird "silent letter" thing, why? It doesn't make sense. I feel like the only point of this is to confuse kindergartners and the foreigners out there trying to learn English. 

So I found it totally understandable when one of my best friends, Jamar Gibson, still didn't understand the concept of trying to figure out the meaning of words by memorizing Greek and Latin and connecting puzzle pieces of random parts of words together or something, because I definitely did not understand this particular English lesson.

"Psst, Connor," Jamar's voice whispered next to me, intermingling with the other whispers throughout the classroom. "I want the answer to number 2. Make it snappy, everyone else is already on question 12."

"Jamar, you shouldn't be asking me. You know I don't understand this as much as you do," I whispered back, hoping to not catch the attention of Mrs. McLeery, the English teacher, because she certainly was the most leery when it came to students sharing answers. Actually, scratch that, what teacher wasn't suspicious of students sharing answers? Mrs. McLeery wouldn't even allow a student to ask for an eraser from someone else. She'd think that they'd be asking to copy the assigned homework from the day before. "Also, speak quieter. McLeery might catch us."

Jamar rolled his eyes, running a dark hand through his afro-like hair. It was a habit of his to do that when he was annoyed. "Connor, Mrs. McLeery is, like, half deaf when she's concentrating on writing emails to parents. I doubt she cares about the group of girls up in the front right now, giggling about Noah and— wait, you?"

What? I sat up straighter, not believing my ears. "Um, did you say girls are talking about me? Are you sure?"

I looked to the front of the classroom where a small group of girls sat together. A girl with blonde hair was looking right at me and winked suggestively. I felt a my cheeks warm slightly as I looked away towards Jamar, who was wiggling his eyebrows.

"Looks like Chelsea likes you," he said, slapping my arm slightly. My cheeks reddened even more.

"Shut up!" I whisper-yelled quietly. "Since when did girls like me?"

Girls whispering about Noah Ackerman was sort of understandable. I suppose he was the "player" of McKinsley high school (and I can grudgingly admit that he also had the muscles and face worthy to be put in the same category of Chris Hemsworth, but I can also say that his personality is comparable to a landfill). He was also the quarterback of our football team, and I guess that's supposed to make him 100x more attractive. But girls giggling about me? The only thing that was deemed worthy to be talked about involving me for them is when Noah beat the shit out of me when we had a little dispute about his trash personality in the cafeteria last year.

"Yes, you," Jamar said pointedly, violently stabbing a finger at me. "I don't know if you'll believe me, but you've had a serious glow up this summer. Look at those arms." He proved his point by poking at my arms multiple times, wolf-whistling in a way that made me slightly uncomfortable. "Damn, look at these things. I'm starting to feel a bit self-conscious." 

I grabbed my friend's fingers and guided his hands to the worksheet we were supposed to be doing in a desperate attempt to change to subject. "Well, don't, because you have nice arms. Also, I'm also on question 2, so go ask Faye or Kaitlyn or someone else. And— what the hell are you doing?"

Jamar had started to get up his chair towards two girls at the back of the classroom, who were whispering to each other and concentrating on their work. I abruptly pulled him back down. "Where the heck are you going?" I hissed, subconsciously turning my eyes to the front of the classroom, where Mrs. McLeery was sitting at her desk and by her laptop, precariously poking at the keyboard, no doubt emailing someone's parents about their child's unacceptable behavior in her classroom. "I was kidding about going to Faye or Kaitlyn. You'll probably land yourself and them in a detention and somehow rope me in with you guys."