Wingspan(Paranormal, Young Adult) MAJOR EDITING**

fourteen

  Although the Headmistress was reasonably approachable she was a strict disciplinarian through and through. Her adamant technique reminded me that of Miss Donovan, only less pragmatic and abundantly thorough in her lectures. However, in spite of the white noise in my head, I was enjoying U.S. World History.

It was one of my favorite classes, which had worked out well considering it didn't involve math or the configuration of chemical compounds, both of which had me feeling hazy like my head was full of dynamite.

The Headmistress held a deck of cards in her hand and read off them, one by one, and then only gave that person a reasonable grade if she was satisfied with the answer.

In no specific order, she skims through her classroom roster and broke down questions that originated from some place inside our textbook. Some of the questions came directly from the assignment we were given the other day. All things taken into consideration, you would think that answering the questions would have been an easy task—but it wasn't. We weren't allowed to look at our notes; instead we had to rely strictly from memory.

I soon come to learn that was how most of the classwork activities were done. It was pass the ball, in a sense, except there was nothing with a three dimensional surface to throw around.

The writing desks were methodically organized to fit a strategic circle to prompt class discussion, instead of being fanned out in columns like most classrooms I'd been to. The headmistress stood in the middle of our circle, eyeing us like she was a deadly, red-tailed hawk that was ready to face off with a rattlesnake.

The headmistress speared one of the snickers with a dirty look before asking an even more obscure question about sir Ponce de Leon. So far he came up twice already.

I prayed that I would get something easy.

Increasingly, I watched as the general atmosphere transgressed into a riot. It didn't help that Darcy jumped at the opportunity to poke fun of the course and its historic legends each time the headmistress switched cards.

With a stern look, the headmistress had managed to gain the concentration of those with short attention spans.

Well, everyone but Darcy. He was pounding aggressively on the desk with the meaty palms of his fists. Every so often, he would tap the edge of the wood like it was a snare drum, creating a rhythm that fell just a couple beats short. You can take instrumentalist off the list of his few possible career choices.

"Yo, prof. You must get paid a lot to babysit. Otherwise why would you be here." Darcy's voice blared in my left ear, making me cringe at the feeling of his nasty breath on me.

Tomorrow I was definitely going to sit somewhere else.

"Why do you let them see you playing sticklers grandma for anyway? That's not a way of life. Its some subservient bull-crap," he continues tauntingly.

I didn't grow up in a picture perfect lifestyle, but I thought someone should at least teach Darcy how to speak properly.

Here and there queries were probed. Not just Darcy this time. Other students were galvanized into the conversation.

"How much do you get paid? I bet a lot, huh?" Brian swiftly adds. "My dad talks all the time about the checks he donates."

"Why would you want to be stuck with us for so many years when you could have three houses and be pampered in a four star resort? Or walking on the pale pink sands of Anse Source d'Argent and swimming in the shallow turquoise ocean of Seychelles?" A pretty girl named Avery jumps in.