Miss Myers face is still flushed with tension as she hands out Anne of Green Gables. She deliberately slams Justin’s copy onto his desk before moving on.
“Thanks, Jen,” he says in a nonchalant way.
I watch her face screw up slightly before she turns towards him once again.
“I don’t want to send you to the office, again,” she warns him, and then sets a book down on my desk before setting one on Arthur’s and James’.
He smiles slyly and leans over, snickering, “She’s getting sour with age.”
I clear my throat and flip through my copy of the book, ignoring him.
Out of nowhere, he snatches the book from my hand and examines it.
Inhaling deeply, I try to find my happy place. “Give me my book back,” I demand, nearly unable to stop it from coming out as a growl.
“I like yours better.” He hands me what was his copy. “You can have mine.”
Shoving his copy away, I reach for mine; however, because he’s decided to make this a game and holds my copy far out of reach, I’m unsuccessful.
“Would you just give it back?” I grumble, about ready to get out of my seat, or slap him-- maybe even both.
“Does it matter what copy you have?” He raises an eyebrow, with a taunting smirk on his face.
I realize I’m being childish and scowl at him before grabbing his copy roughly, and throwing it on my desk in disgust. I can’t believe I have to use something he touched. Gross.
Now that Miss Myers has finished the distributing of books process, she stands at the front of the class. “All right, class, Anne of Green Gables has some very important character development throughout the story that I’d like you to be paying attention to,” Miss Myers begins, and the class hushes to listen.
Well, most of the class.
“Who cares?” Justin bursts out, leaning back in his chair and rolling his eyes. Some of the students snicker in response.
I, however, am completely unimpressed, and let out a groan. I hate people who do this stuff. It’s not funny and only gives the rest of the class more work.
“Another outburst of disrespect from you, Mr. Knight, and you will be down in the office,” Miss Myers yells from across the room.
I rub my temples and close my eyes; this is going to be a long class.
Justin laughs and lifts his legs off his desk to sit like a normal person. He rests his elbows on his desk and hunches over—begging her to continue. And she does.
I listen to her explain the points of the book she wants us to focus on, but get distracted when Justin taps my shoulder. Throwing him a dirty look, I turn my attention back to the front of the classroom.
“Hey, I’ve seen the movie and I was wondering . . .” He reaches over and runs his fingers through my auburn ponytail. “How’s it going, Carrots?” Next thing I know, he’s tugging the end of my hair firmly.
My face turns crimson and I grab his wrist, digging my fingernails into his skin. I hear him laughing, and turn to look at him. From the goofy look on his face, he’s obviously amused.
“I’m not a ginger, you loser,” I mutter, and throw his arm back at him.
“What’s going on back there?” Miss Myers’ tense voice booms across the room, and I know she’s addressing us.
“Nothing,” Justin says automatically, smiling innocently at her.
“Can I be moved?” I ask, my face still hot and, I can only assume, blotchy.
“No,” she says, throwing her arms up in frustration. “Can’t you all just act your age for once?”
I sigh and sink down into my seat. Justin winks at me and copies my movement. My teeth grind and I cross my arms, which again he imitates. After that, I decide to ignore him; I’m not about to be given detention for such a stupid incident.
Class continues at a slow pace, and eventually Justin gets bored with me and decides to leave me alone, but not before calling me a spoil sport. Ugh, whatever.
And to make things worse, as if none of that was enough, he continues being a pain. He continues being annoying. Constantly, he whisper-sings parts of random songs while we discuss the main plot of the story, and drums his fingers on his desk.
My blood pressure increases with each passing second and suddenly I can’t stand it. I feel like I’m going to scream if he doesn’t shut up soon. I mean--does he have ADHD or something? I just wish he would stop.
And just when I think I can’t handle it anymore, the bell rings, and everyone jumps out of their seats, collecting loose papers and packing up supplies before dashing out of the room.
Because I have lunch period next, I take my time.
“Life is a highway; I want to ride it all night long!” Justin sings at the top of his lungs while he paces out of the classroom, giving me a cocky wave on his way out.
After only one day of this nonsense, I’m already well on my way to losing it. How am I supposed to survive the rest of the school year? Grumbling, I stalk off to the art room. As I arrive, the last student from the previous class hurries out.
Slinging my backpack into an empty chair, I go to the back of the classroom to retrieve my canvas, and work on setting it up. I’m busy mixing paint when Mrs. Boots clears her throat from behind her desk, which causes me to look up.
“Are you not eating today? Where’s your lunch?”
“Not hungry, long day,” I reply quickly, and rummage through a collection of paint brushes. After a moment, I pick out a fan brush and start applying a neutral color all over my already prepared canvas.
She laughs. “You’re always having a bad day.” Her chair squeaks when she slides out of it, and stands up to accompany me by the back counter.
Mrs. Boots always warms up to me better during the afternoon, after she’s had time to wake up. Right now she is like a long lost aunt, and I can talk to her about anything. I’m not a class pet and I’m not a favorite. I’m simply really close with a teacher who is putting honest effort in trying to help me create my future, that’s all.
“Well, you kind of crushed my spirits this morning like they were a bug,” I point out, continuing to apply the neutral colored paint to the canvas.
“I was just telling you the facts of the situation. I would love to just give you space in the hallway right now to start a mural, but that’s not up to me.” She shrugs.
“Yeah, well, then some guy helped me cover myself in my own coffee after I left this morning,” I continue, and switch colors to a soft pink, randomly applying it all over the neutral color, and mixing for a rosy, romantic color.
“I thought you had changed clothes.” For a moment, she seems lost in thought. “Second time this week.” She chuckles, “And it’s only Wednesday.”
I smile and laugh a little, but it ends up being short-lived, and my brows furrow in anger when I think about the next horrible thing on my list of complaints.
“And I’m stuck sitting next to Justin Knight in Lit.”
“Justin Knight. . .” She thinks for a few seconds before her face lights up. “That little trouble maker boy in that band . . . oh, what are they called again?”
“The Heartbreakers,” I tell her.
“Ah, yes. His band’s posters are up all over the school.”
“He’s so full of himself, and he makes me want to strangle him!” A frustrated scream-like growl comes out of my mouth, and I flip my bangs out of my face. “He called me Carrots! Carrots! Does this look red to you?”
Mrs. Boots can’t contain herself. She begins laughing so hard her face turns purple. But I’m dead serious; you don’t mess with my hair.
“There is a slight red hue in that brown hair of yours.”
“But it’s not ginger, or carrot colored!”
“No, it’s not,” she reassures me around a giggle.
“I hate him. How dare he use a reference from a book, movie, whatever. . . it’s just not original. And it’s offensive!”
“I agree that he’s kind of a bad egg. He was in my Art Foundations class last year, and he always showed up late or called me by my first name. However, he does do quality work.”
I laugh at this. Quality work? I’ve never seen him hand in homework throughout the entire school year.
“I’m serious,” she insists, “I kept one of his drawings, actually.”
She shuffles over to the cabinet by her desk, and begins to rummage through it. By this time I’m sitting down on the counter, waiting for my paint to dry before I can add the next layer of the picture.
And after a moment of digging, she pulls out sketching paper and brings it over to me. Looking it over, I take in the perfectly sculpted eighth-note outline, filled in with sketches of different kinds of instruments. Wow, for a slacker, he can draw. But I don’t want to admit it. I mean--I hate the guy for goodness sakes.
Giving a half-hearted shrug, I mumble, “It’s decent.”
“Don’t be like that, Reese. I know you hate him and all, but this is actually really good. I would rate his work right up next to yours,” she says, as if it’s matter-of-fact.
Oh, She did not just say that. What have I done? What have I done to deserve this cruel form of an insult? My work is top of the line; I don’t slack off, and I take my time. I do quality work. I don’t know what she’s talking about. A little musical note filled in with various instruments? Psh, I could draw that.
I roll my eyes and cross my arms, swinging my legs.
“Fine,” she says. “I know he’s a real jerk, but he’s got talent.”
“Talent doesn’t make up for being a player, and behaving downright disrespectfully,” I say.
“I agree. But I still think he’s a good artist.”
“Whatever,” I mutter.
Seems like this guy has charmed everyone.Well, good luck Justin Knight, because this girl sees through all that phony charm, and right into your heartless soul.