Escape

- Chapter 9 -

After what I consider the ‘confidential meeting’ with the principle, I hurry myself to my red locker to retrieve my items for the remaining time of Spanish class. Smiling at the pleasant click that the metal block makes once I manipulate the right numbers, I shove my English materials inside while pulling out the Spanish textbook the teacher had handed out yesterday. After all that’s done, I run to the third floor, ignoring the knot tightening like thick laces in my thigh.

I wait outside the door for a few seconds, regaining my breath, wondering why I had run up the stairs when it won’t make a difference if I come to class even five minutes after now. After the annoying pain in my leg fades into a more acceptable feeling, I lead myself inside the classroom once again, feeling all eyes on me.

Mrs. Troche tilts her round head down to glance above her purple-rimmed glasses with her dark brown eyes. “Bueno, hola Darcy,” she greets happily through her slight Spanish accent.  

“Hello,” I say quietly, taking the same seat I had last year, in the back. The fact that I have Mrs. Troche as my Spanish teacher for another year is far from a bother to me. I like her, although she can rant in Spanish about her hometown in Puerto Rico a lot. It’s interesting, of course, to learn about cultures and childhood stories, but I sometimes had wished that she had a mind of setting herself a talking limit. “Mr. Ryan called up and told me where you were, so don’t worry about staying afterschool.” 

I nod. The class reverts to what they had been doing – napping, paying attention, drawing, texting under their desks, flirting – and I space out in my zone, wandering back to Mr. Ryan and my agreement about my whole tutoring thing with Stranger. I try to listen to Mrs. Troche while she’s trying to finish explaining her syllabus from where she had left off yesterday—I don’t know why she’s explaining the syllabus though; every single student in this classroom was that every single student she had last year— but the non-controlling concentration of my own is disrupted by the thought of tutoring again and again and Shawn’s face flashes in my mind every once in a disturbing while. How is this home school thing going to be scheduled? How will I tell my aunt all about this? How do I even feel about this in all?

After what feels one hour but had only been ten minutes, the door opens and in comes the principle along with his son. My hearts drops a bit. The nosy class can’t possibly become quieter as it is right now. I can’t blink, as I’m too intrigued onto whatever reason the pair is here.

“What do we have here, Mr. Ryan?” Mrs. Troche inquires, setting her good-for-nothing syllabus to the side to inspect the young student.

Shawn’s looks around the room, flicking through everyone’s faces boringly. Our eyes meet and for a second, I blank out. Instead of smiling or greeting anything to me, he looks away as if he’s never seen me. Not that I mind that.

Mr. Ryan places a hand on Shawn’s shoulder in assurance, bending down to whisper something before recomposing his professional position. Shawn nods, a frown appearing on his lips.

“This fellow here was put into the advanced class to find out that his Spanish is a bit, or much more off. He actually belongs in this class if I’m correct. Things got mixed up and I hope it’s not a problem,” Mr. Ryan informs straightly. Mrs. Troche shakes her head, breaking the widest smile like she’s delighted to have a new student in this sickening class with the faces she’s seen last year.

“What? He’s the bitchiest guy I’ve ever met in my life.”

“No. Freaking. Way.”

“Does he even talk?”

“Damn, he fine as hell.”

“He looks like River Viiperi, you know, the model.”

“Does anyone know how to spell fourteen in Spanish?”