Before The Sunrise

mean

It doesn't take long for me to regret going to school.

It's only October, but somehow in two months I have managed to antagonize myself with every teacher I've got. I don't even understand what I've done to them. I'm sure it sucks to get paid like zero dollars to make up lesson plans that nobody pays attention to, but I wasn't the one who chose their salaries. And in the long run, what's it to them if I give a shit or not? They still get paid. I'm the one who's losing here. I used to enjoy learning stuff.

Sometimes, if I think about it hard enough, it can really piss me off. I wonder where I would be if someone had thought to consider why I sometimes fall asleep in class instead of yelling at me for it in front of all my peers. Maybe they'd be nicer if they knew I had violent, disturbing nightmares of my father beating the shit out of me and of my mother killing herself and of my best friends crying at my funeral, and that those nightmares make it so hard to sleep at night that sometimes I fall asleep during the day by accident.

But not a single teacher has ever asked.

I realize I have a test in my second period Spanish class as my teacher is handing them out. The packet of questions lands on my desk, and when I flip through and see zero multiple-choice questions, I seriously consider dropping out of school. Obviously, I can't, but that means I have to take this fucking test.

The whole class is finished by the time the bell rings to end class. That is, except for me, who only has about half the questions answered. I practice (practiced?) Spanish with Rafa. I'm not bad at it. But for some reason most of these questions are illegible.

Everyone leaves the classroom, but I stay in my seat, staring at my test.

"Mr. Hanson, you have one more minute," Mr. Kurtz—who is as white as his name sounds—says to me with a complete lack of empathy in his voice, indifferent to the anxiety coursing through me right now.

"Sir, is there any way I can just stay for a little longer? Please. I just need some more time." My hand is shaking too much to keep writing. How can he not see that?

"What, do you think you deserve special treatment because you did your special little sports thing last night? Everybody else has a life, too, but they still carved out time to study for the test."

I cannot comprehend what he gets out of being so fucking mean. "Can I retake it then?" I ask helplessly.

"You really want me to take time out of my busy schedule to make an entirely new test for just one student? You think you're so important, huh? Well, get over yourself and stop acting so entitled."

I drop my pencil on my desk, pushing my hands into my hair out of pure frustration. "What—how do you—is this even real right now?" I stutter. I can't help choking out a laugh. I am shaking, on the verge of tears, physically incapable of finishing a test, sitting here with a purple bruise shining on my cheek, and all this man can think about is the ten minutes it would take him to change the questions on a Spanish test. How pathetic is that?

"Your time is up," Mr. Kurtz says, completely ignoring the way I am short-circuiting. He stands up from his desk and literally snatches my test out from under me. He scans my answers, snorts, and concludes, "Better study hard for the next one."

I wish I could say I regret what happened next.

Suddenly feeling a lot less unsteady on my feet with the help of adrenaline, I storm over to Mr. Kurtz's desk. I snatch my test right back, tear it up, and let the shreds fall on the floor.

Then I lean in real close and say, "I know it must make you feel real great inside to make high schoolers feel like shit. Maybe some asshole jock bullied you in high school, and you cope with it by using your position of power to ruin sixteen-year-olds' lives. But guess what? While you sit here and roll your eyes and feel jealous of me and take your bullshit out on me, I have real, life-and-death matters to deal with. Shit that's more important than your time and your test and your infuriating indifference. Okay? I don't give a fuck about you. You can shove your test up your ass and go fuck yourself, because I'm certain that no one wants to sleep with a vindictive piece of shit like you."

Absolutely zero regrets.

That probably should be my signal to bail on school, but in case it's not clear by now, I'm feeling a bit unstable, and I'm worried I'd do something stupid if I left.

Instead I go to my drawing class. I needed an art credit, and this class is famously easy. I actually kind of like it sometimes. I can't say I'm the next Leonardo da Vinci or anything, but everybody else here sucks, too, so it's kind of fun.

Except that, for some reason, this one girl seems to think I care about her drama. I can't say it's never entertaining, but most of the time it is so ridiculously stupid it makes my brain hurt trying to figure out why she thinks I need to know.

"...and one of my friends, Lisa, is trying to overthrow me as section leader..."

Seriously, who cares? My patience has already been worn thin by my confrontation with Mr. Kurtz. I rub my temple with my thumb, trying to massage away my headache as I stare blankly at my empty sheet of drawing paper. The motion makes my wrist hurt.

"...without me, and it really hurt my feelings because..."

What am I, her therapist?

"...and my depression has been really bad lately..."

She's always talking about her "depression," and it's not like I don't believe her, but sometimes I feel like she—and a lot of society, to be honest—throws around the term as if mental illness is a trend or a fleeting feeling and not a daily battle with a murderous, soul-sucking monster.

"My parents are in Prague this week, and—"

"—Daisy, I don't really feel well. Do you think we could just work quietly today?"

Daisy flinches, surprised. I wonder if she's trying to remember if she's ever actually heard me speak before. Kindly enough, she nods, turning back to her drawing.

I try to keep working on my drawing, too, but I can't think of anything. I aimlessly put some pencil strokes down, and somehow moving my arm around the paper exacerbates the pain in my ribs. I wasn't lying to Daisy at all. As I come down from the adrenaline of my fight with Mr. Kurtz, a sick feeling continues to build just underneath my skin until goosebumps break out over my arms, and I'm starting to feel the anxiety writhing in the pit of my stomach. God. How soon does my body stop functioning, so this can be over?

I look up to find Daisy staring at me.

"What?" I snap, frustrated that seemingly nobody can just leave me the fuck alone today.

"What happened here?" she asks, pointing to her own freckle-spattered cheek.

"Football is a contact sport," I say.

"Oh," she says. "Does it hurt?"

I roll my eyes, which ironically does hurt. I take one last glance at my nonexistent drawing and decide I don't want to be here anymore. I leave my paper on the table and stand up, collecting my things.

"Class isn't over yet," Daisy says, as observant as ever.

"It is for me," I say dully.

"Wait, James. I'm having a party at my house tonight. Just me and a few people from my section. You should drop in."

I stare at her as if she has grown a second head. Why the fuck would I go to her party? I don't even go to the team's parties.

And then I realize it.

She has a fucking crush on me.

Stupid bitch.

I leave without bothering to answer.

Maybe Mr. Kurtz has a point. I can be quite the asshole.

Fuck Mr. Kurtz

x. Sky