My paper was trying to fly off my desk, but I caught it with surprising swiftness. Nobody noticed. They were too busy fanning themselves to beat the heat. My teacher Mr. Jackson, a tall, partially graying, mid 40s man, was still etching away on the green chalkboard, particles dancing's through the light of the window.
The curtains from the windows swayed in the wind, almost as if they were inviting me to hop out. The mild breeze felt good, and we took off our shoes to catch any coolness we could get.
Fans whizzing as the lesson drew on and on, half paying attention and almost dozing o...o-off... My head fell and so did my pencil.
I sprung back to consciousness and reached down to grab my Hello Kitty bandaid-wrapped, chewed Ticonderoga. My fingers grazed the pencil when I noticed the ants already in my lunchbox. I shook it down, nearly defeating the little buggers when—
"Miss Young, you're being disruptive..." Mr. Jackson called out in a serious manner.
Everyone turned to look at me, and I scanned their eyes.
I looked back at my teacher: "Sorry, Mr. Jackson... the ants..."
He nodded, half-irritated, but didn't say anything more.
I felt myself flick-off my classmates as soon as Mr. Jackson turned back to the board.
They exchanged dirty looks and harsh whispers.
"'Pspsps...' 'Diane pspsps.' 'Pssssst.' 'Pspsps I hate her...'"
These were just recordings of yesterday, so I didn't give them my reactions.
I spent the next 30 minutes breaking pencils and twiddling with the photo I taped to my bedazzled flip phone.
After an eternity of chalkboard scratching and note taking, the bell rang so crisp, prompting us to escape.
I threw my cheetah print bag over my shoulder and darted for the door, one step closer to freedom—
"Miss Young."
I stopped in my tracks. "Yes?"
"Here's a little something from me to you," he smiled as his chalk-covered hands gave me a piece of cropped printer paper.
My fingers slid along the edge and I opened it. "Detention..."
"After school. My classroom. If you're late, detention for a week. Have a nice afternoon," he finished with a smile.
I shuffled out with less pride than I came in with. At least he didn't call my mom. My eyes played like a movie and I could see her picking up her dingy telephone with her long pink fingernails: "What did Diane do this time?" as if she's a regular.
I made my way down the musty hallway covered in torn club flyers and school spirit banners until I got to my locker.
My eyes scanned the old metal door: chipped green paint, torn glitter stickers, and etched above the handle: "Ride or die."
Ride or die, huh?
This is high school. Not a revolution.
