All For You

Encounter

"Well, back to our regularly business. Marietta, how about you work with Conrad? I've been told you're a very special student."

Glancing behind me, I land on who this kid seems to be. Judging by the way he's staring at me. Turning my attention back to Mr. McCallahan.

As she starts talking about the lesson, my focus goes elsewhere. The classroom is colorful and has many posters. Taking a look at my classmates, they don't seem to care for how they look. Which makes me stand out more than I'd like it to as I decided on wearing my red neck dress. Becoming self conscious, I try to pay back attention to the board

"Conrad, why don't you come up and show the class how you did this problem?" Mrs. Truman says with a raised eyebrow. Conrad rolls his eyes and sighs, "Fuck that. I domt know how to do any of this shit." She shakes her head and calls on someone else.

I'm shocked that he spoke to the teacher like that. Does he not get a punishment?! Looking back at him, I notice his appearance. His tan skin tone compliments his dark hair. I can't make out the color of his eyes since he's staring down at something on his desk. Skimming over his outfit, I notice how raggedy his clothes are. Dirty hoody with a washed out pair of jeans. While I'm awkwardly staring at him, he seemingly notices and is smirking at me. My face flushes a bright red as I quickly turn my attention back to the board.

"Now, speak with your partners and figure out the last eight problems together." I feel his eyes on me as everyone starts moving to their partners. I stand and face my desk to Conrads'.

"Ay, you're new here right?" He asks while moving his folders off of his desk. "Yes. I just arrived here." "Why the fuck you speak like that?" Raising my eyebrows in confusion, I ask, "What do you mean?" He laughs a little, "I mean, why you speak so formal?" I shift in my seat. I thought I was speaking normal. But, apparently not..

"I guess that's just how I was raised to speak." Lowering his mouth into a frown in disapproval, he leaves the conversation there, which I'm grateful for. I am not here to be interrogated or because I want to be. I'm here because of my father.

As we work, his phone is rapidly going off. Picking it up, his eyes widen as he scrambles out of his seat. "Ay, uh, I'm sorry. I gotta go." Startled without a chance to reply, I stumble back as he runs out of the room. For some reason I felt that I should follow him. That he may need help. But why would I? For all I know he's a scummy drug dealer.

I wonder what happened to him...