A Goth, A Geek, and a Ghost

Chapter III: Detention

       You had been very level-headed in your attempt to sway your English teacher, who you now knew as Mr. Lancer, and convince him to let you off the hook. For a few moments, you truly thought that he was going to agree, seeing as he hadn't really given you a hard time during class. In fact, you had almost fooled yourself into thinking he had forgotten about the whole ordeal until the bell rang and he asked that you remain in your seat.

       You had plastered on the most genuine smile you could muster, trying to reason him into letting you off with a warning "in light of recent events," as you had put it.

       "My apologies Ms. Driscoll, but if I made an exception for every student who survived a ghost attack then I would have to make exceptions for everyone. These sort of things happen almost everyday here in Amity Park...I suggest that you learn to adapt."

       Not once did he look up from the book in his hand, and you stood in silent resentment as you watched his eyes dart from one line to the next.

       He may have good taste in reading material, but that's about all he's got.

       "Of course," you grumbled, sulking as you returned to your seat.

       You had expected something like this to happen; that he would make you stay, even though you could have quite literally died a few hours ago. From what you could gather during the class, he wasn't the most understanding teacher around...but he definitely wasn't the worst.

       You dropped back down into your seat with a huff, mindlessly bouncing your foot against the tile with a soft and repetitive tap. You had never been in detention before. There had been a few close-calls back in Chicago, but it had never escalated beyond a threat or warning to "see me after class." It was an unfamiliar feeling, being stuck here.

       This sucked.

       Your boredom only increased as the minutes chased each other at a snail's pace.

       "Can I read?" You asked, breaking the silence. Mr. Lancer eyed you for a moment over his glasses before returning back to his book.

       "I suppose."

       Your lungs contracted in a sigh of relief as you leaned over your seat, digging through your backpack for some form of entertainment.

       You pulled William Golding's Lord of the Flies from the abyss, its edges battered and beaten from years of love and use. Sure, you were a little young for it, but that didn't ever stop you before. It would be required reading next year, anyways; You might as well get ahead of everybody else.

       You wasted about thirty minutes of your time reading before Lancer's voice cut through the quiet.

       "An interesting choice," he observed as you tore your eyes away from the words.

       "What was that?" You asked, still immersed in the world within your hands rather than the one around you.

       "Lord of the Flies", he clarified, "an interesting choice. The majority of your... demographic... doesn't quite appreciate the genius that went into writing such a piece."

       "I'm not the majority of my demographic," you murmured. "It's a good book...I've read it dozens of times." You turned the paperback over in your hands as you spoke, smoothing out a few dents on the cover.

       You bought it used; It had more personality that way.

       "Have you been able to identify the theme?" Lancer asked.