What Goes Around

The Tipping Point

I never really understood geometry. Something about areas of triangles and proving that a parallelogram really IS a parallelogram never really appealed to me.

On this particular day, I was focusing less on the lesson about isosceles trapezoids and more on trying to balance my crappy wooden school-issued ruler on the edge of the desk. It teetered and fell onto my lap a few times, but I got closer each time.

I was torn from my balancing by the teacher, who called my name loudly a few times. It was only after the second-or-so time, accompanied by giggles from the class, that I looked up at her. She shook her head at me and motioned for me to look at the board. Meanwhile, I was question the teaching ability of a teacher who’s lesson was less interesting than finding the tipping point of a ruler.

I pretended to pay attention the trapezoids littering the mucky whiteboard, but really, my mind was in a complete different world. The bell brought me back to earth, and I picked up my things and exited the classroom, having learned absolutely nothing.

I walked down the hallway, scanning the faces of my classmates as I made my way to social studies. Most of them were paired off into small groups, talking and walking. I silently cursed Kayla, my best friend, for being sick. How dare she leave me alone to fend for myself?

The crusty blue carpets in the halls were just as unpleasant as ever. I swear, they crunched with every step. You know that sound you get when walking on fresh snow? Yeah. Walking down the halls of Nellisburg High School was not an experience I would brag about to out-of-town friends. Still, it’s not like I was bare-footed.

I laughed to myself, amused at the fact that I had spent the passing period thinking about the shitty cerulean carpeting in my school. Thankfully, the social studies room was free of carpet.

The agenda said to pick our seats, so I sat in the corner of the room, closest to the window. Window seats are the only places in this jail of a school where I enjoy sitting. Staring at the sky offers a good opportunity to daze off and think about whatever strikes my fancy, be it the inevitable demise of everyone I know and love, or the shitty carpeting choices made by the school’s officials. I wasn’t picky.

When the class was settled, someone asked the teacher, Mr. Helms, why we were switching seats in the middle of the trimester. Apparently, we were getting a transfer from another school.

A murmur went up in the classroom, wondering who the mystery student would be. I couldn’t care less, I don’t really socialize in class.

The door opened, and the student entered. I turned to see who it was.

Oh, no way.