My Modeltastic Love Story

A Disruption

We sat in class, bored as hell, as Ms. Kale stood at the whiteboard, blabbing on and on about graphs and equations. I watched her closely, zoned out and probably drooling, as she pointed at random, blurry spots on the board where a complex system of variables and integers was written. I couldn't really care less, but I knew that I HAD to pass her class. Or face certain death.

As she finally realized that literally zero people were listening, she stood up and clapped her hands. "That's it," she said, fuming. "I'm tired of you guys just using my class as your nap period. Drop down and give me twenty!"
"I can't!" groaned Chelsea Peters. "I'm wearing a mini skirt!" She tugged at the edge, as if to show Ms. Kale that she really was. "That's not fair!"
The boys sniggered, and one even whistled as Chelsea glared at them.
"And heels!" another girl said desperately. "You can't do exercise in a skirt and heels!"
Ms. Kale smiled evilly. "Oh, yes, you can!" she said gleefully. "Do twenty or I'll lower your grade buy 5% for failed participation and behavioral issues!" She laughed, though to my ears it sounded more like a witch cackle.
As I dropped down and started to pump my arms, I wondered again why I was doing this. I mean, I didn't have to do well in school. My family had enough money for me to have a luxurious life after high school without a job. So why was I wasting my time in class?
The answer was my mother.
"Model," she always said, with that one certain look in her eye. "I care about your education. I don't want you to end up like me."
I'd never really understood what she meant. Why wouldn't I want to end up like a woman who had a famous, rich husband and lived in luxury? It didn't make sense. But then again, nothing about my mother did.
As I finished up my push ups, I realized that everything had gone silent in the room. I popped my head up from its position facing the floor to see what was going on, and gasped.
In the doorway to our classroom stood the principal, Mr. Jones. He wore his normal crisp suit, but his tie was bright and patterned, adding a pop of color to his drab appearance.
"Ms. Kale," he said in his dull, monotonous voice. His words echoed through the classroom as he continued. "What's going on here? This doesn't LOOK like an algebra classroom. Or did I take a wrong turn and land in the gym?"
Ms. Kale blushed, her cheeks flushed red from embarrassment. It didn't help that she was wearing about two inches thick of cheap blush.
"Mr. Jones," she stuttered, her face turning even redder. A few people sniggered, including Chelsea Peters and her gang of boys. "I was just-"
He sighed, not even letting her finish. As he wiped a bit of sweat from his shiny bald spot on the top of his head, his beady eyes roamed the classroom, stopping on Chelsea.
"Ms. Peters," he growled. "If I'm not mistaken, that outfit is against our school dress code, is it not? This is a school for young ladies, not prostitutes in training. And Ms. Prior, unless I'm going blind, those are NOT flats." He glared at the girl who had been complaining about doing her push-ups in heels.
He turned on Ms. Kale. "I should not have been required to come in and tell them this. That was YOUR job. We don't pay you to sit here all day and do nothing."
"Of course, sir," Ms. Kale mumbled, speaking into her chest.
"Look at me when you speak to me, woman!" the principal thundered. He glared at all of us and growled. "I will be speaking to some of your parents about this. This is unacceptable!"
He left, slamming the door. The whole classroom shook from the impact, and a couple of papers flew from Ms Kale's desk, landing on the dirty floor, where most of us were still lying.
I groaned. My arms ached from being in push-up position for so long, and I was starting to get a migraine from Mr. Jones's shouting.
"Can we get up?" someone from the back of the classroom demanded. "My arms hurt."
Ms. Kale looked at us, and did a double take. It was like she didn't even notice we were there while she wallowed in her self pity. I rolled my eyes. I mean, it WAS still technically algebra class, and she was getting paid to come in and teach us.
"Oh- um, yes, of course," she stuttered, looking as though she had just woken up from a dream. "You may all get back into your seats now. I believe we were on page 78?"