Panting for air, fighting for your fucking consciousness, hunched in your chair- you counted your breaths. The wrong textbook lying on your desk like a misplaced chicken leg in the vegetable section of the supermarket (Bonus points for pulling out a book that wasn't even close to the color of the actual for about 5 minutes before realizing and getting another one to match everyone else). Why the hell were the teachers here already discussing lessons on the first day of school? Your eyes constantly darted toward your loosely opened bag to your teacher's eyes like an undercover cop on a stakeout.
Were they looking?
Were they staring?
Were they gonna notice?
The teacher wasn't the only one you were worrying about.
You silently said your prayers to whatever cosmic entity was looming above you- eating popcorn, laughing their asses off on a couch like they were watching a sitcom on a Friday night, and generally having a baller time while you sat there feeling like you were melting in this nuclear reactor typed pressure cooker of a classroom.
Your mind made the most astute observation in this and probably the next 20 lifetimes.
That cosmic entity was probably Lady Luck.
Fuck Lady Luck.
You wished it was that easy to say that, ignoring your life filled with a lot of mishaps so pathetic it was laughable enough to drive a stranger to tears, there were a lot of things you were grateful for, and right now, the backseat especially.
The teacher wouldn't call you there.
Right?
Right?
RIGHT?
Unable to follow the discussion without your material, your mind drifted off again to a blurry memory of you flimsily packing up your bag last night- trying to figure out if you'd left it at home or not. Even though that memory was more hazy than looking at a vintage photo of your great-grandparents smothered in tomato sauce and drowned in boiling water two times, you were sure that you put it in.
Or maybe you were wrong again.
Was it that hard to trust yourself?
Always has been.
Why?
...
Shooing away those thoughts as casually as you could the same way you would jokingly put away a lethal poison that would burn your world away if you got too close, you reached to grab your pencil case under the desk to make it seem like you were actually doing something productive. You started feeling through the inside of your desk, keeping an eye on the pretender of a book lying there. A tight-lipped expression crossed your face, boring your gaze into the paragraphs upon paragraphs (that weren't even matching the page everyone else was on) that you acted like you were reading as the teacher's ramblings flew past you. A jolt drove through your body from the tip of your index finger from something slightly sharp. With narrowed eyes, you slumped deeper into your chair to get a better look of under your desk.
Lo and behold, your textbook was lying inside.
Akin to a dusted doll left by its unaware dumbass of an owner in some rusting attic.
And you were that unaware owner, you were that dumbass.
Oh.
...Well isn't that the clearest indication of why?
But your memory was right in the end?
Still.
Still?
YOU ARE READING
At the Back of The Class
General FictionThe stars had finally aligned, and Lady Luck was for the first time ever, looking at you with favor. After all these long years, you were finally given the coveted seat at the back of the class. You only waited for like your teenage years and one sc...
