my english parter || jack lame x anne nguy || slow burn

Chapter Two

Anne's POV:

I hated that the first thing I saw was Jack Lame.

God, did Jack always show up to school looking like he found his clothes in a Safeway dumpster?

Today, he chose to wear a soccer jersey, a tie, a leather jacket, and on his legs, some cargo shorts, a scandalous pair of fishnet stockings, along with flip flops. Everything was in black. It looked like a 3rd grader had chosen his clothes. Wait, no. That's a disservice to actual 3rd graders, I thought. It just really didn't seem like he cared, but maybe that's what was in fashion these days–looking like you found your clothes at a garbage dump and throwing it all together to make a mismatched, incohesive mess of an outfit. But, oh well. I wouldn't know. Hopefully I had some semblance of normalcy with my plain white sweater and black leggings.

As I was walking in, I think he caught me staring at him. We kept eye contact for a fraction of a second before I turned away, scoffing. For all the money that he and his family had, he could afford to look better, I thought. He even had the audacity to roll his eyes at me before continuing his conversation with Jamie.

"Ah, Anne!" At the call of my name, I froze where I stood by my desk.

The voice belonged to Mr. Brown, a sweet, old man and the English teacher of this class. He walked up to me, a smile growing under his bushy mustache (the only reason I could tell was because the ends of it were turning upwards); a paper in his hand–a paper with my name on it.

I could feel a headache starting to form already.

Ever since I was young, it was obvious to me how different I was to the children and peers my own age. While others spent their time doing... normal, childhood activities like um–I don't know, making mud pies or something? Playing house, hanging out at the park and starting a wood chip business at said park, setting things on fire, memorizing the entire times table up to 100, playing a wind instrument until their lungs feel like they're on the verge of collapsing? Okay, maybe not the last two, but the point is: I never had that luxury.

My days since I was around six years old were spent exclusively at three places after school: tutoring centers, the community center for free flute lessons with Miss Souri, and at home under the watchful eye of one of my parents. Everyday was a bombardment of information and knowledge that I forced myself to consume. I was a starved dog lapping up at any sustenance I could get my hands on–in any form–if only to suppress the gnawing need in my stomach to be normal.

However, my parents didn't want normal. They wanted a gift. A genius. And I, the mere dog, chased after the warm affections of my masters. I ate and drank their poison; I learned the tricks they wanted me to; I stopped barking and shut my mouth.

The only rewards I got from that were medals and awards for my mathematical abilities or my flute playing, and the high praises from other people–never from my parents. I was their pride, their gift they could brag about in front of other people in public, but they could not spare a single compliment in the privacy of our own house.

And–shoot, I forgot Mr. Brown was talking to me. He... seemed like he was done talking? He was still smiling at the very least. I tapped a finger against the desk. A second passed. Okay, he was definitely done with whatever praise he was telling me. With an exhale, I nodded towards him and took my seat at the front of the class.

But then I had to quietly snicker, because he really could not be less obvious, could he? Jack, that is.

I could feel his disdain rolling off in waves from where he sat behind me; he was practically glaring holes into the back of my head. Having known him for so long and how he felt about me, I could practically picture how he looked like right now. Eyes narrowed, nostrils flared, slouched in his seat with his hands crossed over his chest, a deep furrow in his forehead from how knitted his brows were, and of course, a frown that more closely resembled a child's sulky pout than anything else.

There were a lot of things I could say about Jack, like our childhood and our supposed "rivalry" (as he called it, not me), his parents and his wealth, his... intellect, and his. Atrocious fashion choices. But those were stories for another day.

Other people were starting to make their way into the classroom, so I started to settle into my seat and pushed my glasses up; tucked my hair behind my ears and tried my best to fix up my hair and my clothes. Something something, "You need to take care of your appearance and how you are perceived at this school," yada yada. What do my parents know anyways? They clearly haven't seen what Jack shows up to school looking like. I let out a scoff at the thought.

As I was tugging on the bottom of my sweater, the bell rang. I let out a sigh. Even though it's only been around five minutes since I came in, it already feels like two days have passed. I rapidly blinked my eyes to try and shake off some of the tiredness. What being in the same class as Jack Lame for years will do to a gal, I guess.

The projector whirred to life (it sounded pretty damn ancient for something that belonged at such a rich school) and the screen displayed the daily check-in. At this point, I was really only half listening to what Mr. Brown was saying. Probably something about our new unit, Greek mythology, and a final group project with assigned groups or pairs. I knew this class' syllabus like I knew Chaminade's Flute Concertino in D major–very well–so I didn't fret the details and only caught the last part.

"Please look on the screen to see who you will be working with."

I scanned the list shown on the screen for my name, and there it was. Near the bottom was Anne Nguy, and the name next to it?

That's... new, was my first thought. But then it sunk in that I was clearly not one of God's favorites, because out of around 30 students, what were the chances I'd be paired with him? (... There was a 3.45% chance.)

Him being Jack. Lame.

I had to stop myself from banging my head against my desk. Or retching. Or strangling myself. It was very hard but I am nothing if not a woman made of sheer will, so I. Remained placid in my seat. Not even a hint of me being bothered on the outside.

The boy behind me, on the other hand, did not share the same idea. I didn't need to look at him to know he was making a face at the back of my head. I rolled my eyes. Whatever, I thought, I could make do with this. He's... smart. I think. So, it'll be fine.

... Right?

Mm, yeah. I don't really know how much I trusted that myself.

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Note:

#EatTheRich
Thanks for reading! Next chapter will probably go back to being Jack's POV. :)