Copyright 2011 Lindsay Covington
Chapter One
“Odette!” A voice grated at my ears, “Odette! Good Lord, girl!” I rolled my eyes and continued doodling on my notebook page, “Odette!” Something heavy landed on my desk with a resounding thud! I jumped in my seat and glared at the stack of Biology textbooks on the outer edge of my desk.
“Odette.” The voice was low and angry, a sort of guttural growl.
I ignored it and obstinately continued my design on the page; bringing my ebony pencil in a lazy arc, adding pressure to get a value range.
“Miss O’dean!” Somebody wrenched the pencil from my tight grip, causing it to skid across the page I was working on.
I stared at the jagged black line cutting across my drawing, “You ruined it.” I stated simply, my voice cool, removed.
“I think you’ll be fine, Miss O’dean. Now would you pay attention to the class, which, might I add, is not art!” The teacher that was talking was mad as hell. But he had just made me angrier.
I stood up, pushing myself away from the rickety desk that I had inhabited for the past month. It was late November, but I’d been kicked out of my last public school. Mrs. Heatherrow, like all good social workers, had dumped me here, The Stafford School for At Risk Teens. It’s a boarding school.
As I said, like all good social workers, she aims to get rid of me, and since no foster families wanted me, I got left in the next best place I suppose.
But that’s not what’s important at the moment.
The teacher, I hadn’t bothered to learn his name, stumbled back in surprise at my abrupt movements. “Look, I have better things to think about than this class. No, I’m never going to teach or use biology in my life! I don’t care, you know I don’t care, so stop pretending that you give a damn!” I spat at him, my eyes flashing dangerously.
His watery, brown eyes widened at my icy anger, probably wondering what was wrong with me. Thing is, my life is none of his concern.
I watched as my words finally registered with him, his pudgy face turned an unhealthy shade of scarlet, “Miss O’dean! How dare you speak to me, a teacher! Like that!” Spittle flew out of his mouth, “Detention! Detention!” He shrieked, waving around a pad of pink slips.
I bent over and picked up my sketchpad and pencils. The red-faced middle-aged man in front of me was still hollering at me in a fit of rage. The class of about thirty-or-so ‘at risk teens’ watched the show with avid interest, some even had their phones out.
But I didn’t care what they thought of me.
YOU ARE READING
Tears of Ice (Hold)
RandomOdette is different. Most would say that she suffers from depression, one father dead, one sister murdered, one mother missing. Fate hasn't been kind to this young artist, but she's used to it, grown a thicker skin. One day, running out of class she...
