Wingspan(Paranormal, Young Adult) MAJOR EDITING**

twenty three

The professor sighs extremely loudly with all the force of a slamming door - consequently tap, tap, tapping, her ruler on my desk. The woman knows how to make noise, I'll give her that.

Finally, she claps her hands, sharp and quick, and sighs once again, tiredly this time.

"Yoohoo! Ms. Striker!"

The professor snaps her fingers at me, snap, snap, snap, a bewildered expression twisted on her splendid face. She really was something to look at. The headmistress had the body type of Victorian Ladies in fine art paintings.

I cringe when I feel the heat redden my ears. Since I have fair skin I know she can see the pink not only in my cheeks but dotting across my neck. Like a rash that I kept itching, the feeling only gets worse as the headmistress sneers at me.

I'm dead. Totally dead.

As I look at the headmistress, I realize not only is my mouth hanging open but these strange sounds came out, and as soon as I catch on to my weird behavior, I slap a hand over my lips and bite my cheeks.

I'll need a closed casket by the time she's done with me. I couldn't even think about what mom would have to say about this.

Huh.

So, that annoying noise I was hearing during my panic attack was the headmistress trying to get my attention. Not that it made any difference.

I winced. If I was remotely any good at reading into situations like that one, I would affirm myself as a prime candidate for detention. I tried not to think about how Darcy would have a companion, someone to corrupt after hours if I didn't get it together and follow through.

The professor sighs through the flared nostrils of her aristocratic nose, completely exasperated at that point. That made two of us.

"Ms. Striker, now that I have your attention, let's see if you can restore your good grace, hmm?"

Third times the charm; she glances at me before reading the question.

"If you get this correct you can breathe easy for now," she tells me with a too-nice smile. Like the vindictive double-o agent. Like the other Gemini twin.

Oh, don't get it twisted. She had a beguiling allure, one that could dazzle you right off the spot, or snap your cap and make you foam at the mouth.

Like pushbutton panic that loud thud beating in my ears happened the moment I became perpetually aware of everything in the room. The way the fluorescent light hit my face gave spotlight a whole new imagery, the turned heads of classmates either too engrossed in their need for me to fail and that's why they didn't look away, or simply wondering what I would say this time.

Bracing myself, I wipe the sweat from my hands on the outer part of my pants, the straight hemline raised up against the flesh of my palm as I slid my hands up and down the worn-out denim.

Not caring about the stain I just made, I grab hold of the side bar of my desk, the anticipation making me fidget in my seat as I came up with scenarios that end up in me looking like a fool and them laughing because of it.

Gosh. I had to work on not being so grisly.

Please, oh please let it be something I know.

"Explorer Christopher Columbus made four trips across the Atlantic Ocean from Spain. Fill in the missing numbers in consecutive order: 1492, 1493,...,..."

I tense up, my expression grim. That complicated pit and fall intensified my absolute dread when everyone looked back at me, half-expecting me to fail.

To block them out completely I play with the Lester laced bracelet that was small enough to fit my wrist. Bright neon pink looped over right end, captivating vibrant yellow square knot tucked left end and under in the back, both strands pulled with a slow tug. It twisted and threaded diagonally in a continuing pattern, all four strings tied in a safe knot at the end.

I pulled a strained look on my face. "Yeah...Ughm." I bring a fist to my mouth and clear my throat, wishing I was stuck in a vortex of a really bad nightmare instead of the vivid reality of my current situation.

I exhale shaky and look at the headmistress. No one in the universe could have felt any more embarrassed. Feeling stupid, I moan erratically, "1492, 1493,..uh...uhhm...uhhh..." My no-tint-moisture-free lips trying to catch eight digits in the air en rebound.

My god, were my palms always this sweaty?

"You are not sure," she retorts, a snide remark as if she couldn't believe I was in her class.

I shake my head. I may not have liked Starkhouse or understood why the headmistress brought me here, but none of that was important. What I needed to do was impress her. Maybe then she would start looking at me in a better light.

"Please, just give me a minute," I plead anxiously, searching my memory that had anything to do with Christopher Columbus, and came up short.

Last night I'd concluded that ambitious success was an unprejudiced luck never to be guaranteed. By his third expedition concerns about his mental welfare struck many, which I somewhat sympathized with given my own narrative history.

And just like that, that part in my brain where I retained information and knowledge opened up like a vortex, the energy moving and balancing itself out without much force on my part as facts and data started out small and grew wider until I remembered something.

The missing subsequent number received notable stigma after a long drift at sea, not to mention there was a shortage of water supply during that particular voyage and that's why I remembered the number. Grief and distress just seemed easier to believe in. Fairytales were such crap.

I'm not saying that I'm perfect, but it would be foolish to presume in happily ever afters. Relationships, whether business or personal, aren't meant to last. They're much like a plate of cookies that way.

You get your hopes up by recreating a batch using the same recipe from before, but when you eagerly take your first bite the taste is not as you remembered it and so you spit it out feeling dejected and pissed off. The aroma of spices coming from the oven might trigger happy memories but the cookie itself embodies a different quality and aftertaste, leaving you feeling spiteful and remorseful.

What really struck me, however, were all the catastrophic hardships Columbus had dealt with, and yet he'd managed to make trade with the natives anyway.

"1492, 1493, 1498, and 1502," I tell her. I could feel myself smiling. This time it felt natural.

"Well done, Ms. Striker." She watches me with her scrutinizing eyes, just waiting for me to screw up so she could reprimand me again.

Ultimately, the bell rings so everyone bumps over the other to get out first.