Ashley ✓

Seven | Baltimore

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SOTC: Hips Don't Lie by Shakira (ft. Wyclef Jean)

Straight from the womb, I had a death plan.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen. When I was a fetus (metaphorically), little me knew in my heart— felt in my bones— how I wanted to die. I'd be eighty years old, looking like a yogurt raisin at the bottom of the cardboard box. All around me would be my family as I lay in a white and gold canopy bed as I exhaled my soul from my body into the clouds.

Now I'd rather die by melting into the floor of this godforsaken classroom.

Because at a desk in the back of the History classroom sat the dude who fell out Sienna and I's window.

A.K.A Mustafa Fadahunsi.

Like last time he donned white wife beaters and piercings, except the grey sweatpants were traded out for red Nike shorts. A black fboy cut shaved on the sides was now visible on his head instead of a red checkered scarf.

I snapped out of my trance on his physical appearance when I watched him glance at me.

Then just go back to his phone!

As I sat at a random desk in front of the class, I gritted my teeth. The fact that I half-wished he did glare at me and he got to be all calm like a deer about to get slammed by a semi-truck made me seethe.

I tried to calm myself down by observing the walls of the classroom. There was a couple of posters regarding the Industrial Revolution and WWI, which immediately made me scowl. Archduke Franz Ferdinand wasn't assassinated by Turkey; it was a Bosnian Serb named Gavrilo Princip.

"GOOD AFTERNOON, SQUIRRELS!"

Half the class jumped as a woman with cat-eye glasses yodeled the greeting as she came in, slamming the door behind her with her red rubber rain boot.

What the frick?

The crazy woman continued. "Tis I, Ms. Zigenhorn, back at you for another History lesson! But first, I must grab my trusty clipboard and do roll call!" She cleared her throat. "Drax Snifflus!"

"Here," a boy with dreadlocks blonde at the tips called out.

"Amaya Jonnorea!"

A girl raised her hand as she said, "Here."

"Hannah Klondike!"

"Present!" a skinny girl wearing a corset called out.

"Klon-dyke," a few boys snickered, making some people glare at them.

Ms. Zigenhorn cleared her throat. "MUFASA FADAHUNSI!"

Everyone, including me reluctantly, turned around as he slowly turned his head up from his phone.

"Miss, why you always gotta be saying his name like that, the fuck?!" a short girl with long, vibrant red dreads in a ponytail shouted. "His name's Mustafa! What's next, miss you gonna be racist? Are you gonna say he gonna blow the school up?"

Mustafa glared at the girl as a couple people blinked at her.

"Whoa, Jordyn, your hot sauce needs to get back in the bottle!" Ms. Zigenhorn exclaimed, throwing her hands up. "And how is it racist to blow the school up? I'd love to go viral on TikTok!"

So that girl with the red dreads was Jordyn...

"Teach, are you dumb, stupid, or du—" Jordyn started.

Ms. Zigenhorn cut her off. "Miss Squirrel, you need the vitamin kind of D or a therapist!"

"She wants Mustafa's kind of D," someone in the back of the class said, making people laugh.