𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬

Chapter Six

Craig sat by himself in the hall whilst Lola and Christophe went in to discuss their classroom brawl. "Well, this is kind of nice." It's actually quiet for once. He breathes in a fresh lungful of air now that the human ashtray was in the other room. Craig found himself dozing off underneath the light breeze of air and the dimmed lighting of the hallways. Yet it was short-lived. Christophe wrenches open the door and is seen stomping out, his eyebrows furrowed and his mouth shut tight. His lips are again clamping down on a cigarette. It was almost impossible not to acknowledge the Frenchman. Lola follows behind him, equally unhappy looking. How many minutes did we waste sitting here anyway? Craig glances over to the clock before sinking down his neck into his sweater.

"Ah, I knew I should 'ave ditched…" The French guy takes out a lighter and presses it to the end of the cigarette as he strides out from the hall with his noisy army boots. Lola glances over to Craig and blushes before making a hasty exit herself. Craig grumbles into his seat and leans back his head into the wall behind him. He closes his eyes and takes in a breath.

The Dean clears his throat and calls in Craig from the desk. His authoritative voice can be heard booming from inside the door. It sounds low and mechanical. "C'mon in, Tucker. I know you're outside."

He kicks his backpack up and carries it loosely over his shoulder. Craig then takes off his hat and brushes aside his hair as he walks in and settles down on the wooden chair sluggishly. "Well, what's my punishment now?"

Monotone, dull, nasally, and bored. Here for the millionth time. He takes off his glasses and rubs at the bridge of his nose as he pauses to think. "… Yeah, let's skip the formalities… I don't want your family coming in and flicking me off like last time when I tried to suspend your ass." The Dean was a wizened, middle aged man, but he resembled more a war veteran or drill instructor than the charge of educational discipline. He wears a white dress shirt that clings tightly to his overweight torso and the sleeves are folded up neatly to the elbows. His red and yellow striped tie is also loosened around the neck. He has a scraggly beard and his hair is brushed back.

Looks like a mafia hit man like always. Craig eyes him in a sinister way. "I told you it runs in the family." His legs are spread apart lazily on the chair with his fists pressed down on the knees of his pitch black jeans. Craig is trying to hold back a yawn as he looks at him with droopy golden eyes.

"Your grades are doing fine. You're a straight B student, huh?" He skips a beat when he murmurs under his breath: "God, you're like some kind of machine; they're all solid Bs. All practically the same percentage, too..." He grumbles to himself as he studies and analyzes Craig's records. The desk was cluttered and the small tin can he utilized as a pen holder seemed packed with other useless knick knacks. He has a small doll that leans against a picture frame of his wife and three kids. He and the baby (who highly resembles him) are the only two that are not smiling in the photo. "Well, you're doing fine in school. Just try to do your hardest, okay? Stop flicking people off." He sighs wearily as if he's been through all this before, and in many ways, he has.

Craig blinks multiple times when he realizes he'd been talking and mumbles a muffled: "… Yes."

The Dean merely glares. "…" Oh, like you ever will, you little prick. The two stare drearily at each other as a quiet war is fought.

"…" Craig remains equally dull and unmoving.

He continues to glare at Craig, his eyes not blinking even once. His hands are clenched together on the desk in front of him. "…"

Craig continues to stare back aridly. "…" Craig yawns softly and then smacks his lips once as he stares on absentmindedly at a piece of lint that clung to the side of the desk.