Tormented (Zouis Talik Student/Teacher)

Chapter One

''For instance, Italian! That's a good example. Loads of English words come from-'' Mr Tomlinson paused in his words, and began to draw a map of Italy on his white board, ''I know that's an awful drawing, but you can improvise, yeah?''

By this time, the whole class was snickering. The map he'd drawn (or attempted to) had turned out to look like something completely different. Mr Tomlinson looked back and forth, confused, between the laughing class, and his drawing, then when he'd finally caught on what it looked like, and he sighed, smiling to himself, his eyes sparkling darkly in embarrassment, mixed with amusement, as he scanned his drawing with new thoughts in his brain. ''All right, all right, you girls can handle a little sex ed, can't you? So what if it looks like a dick-'' by this time, the whole class was practically rolling off their chairs. ''And don't tell your parents I said dick, all right? Just tell them I said... manly flowers...'' he mumbled, his eyes hovering over mine, making me feel hot and intrigued, but in a few seconds, he had turned round, rubbing off the Italy/dick with his sanitizer. I sighed, and leaned back in my seat. I'd been watching him this whole period, which was nice, because everyone else had, which meant I'd had an excuse to do so. He was giving us another one of his lectures on the English language, which are normally funny like this, which was the great thing I thought about Mr Tomlinson. He was so... nice. And he'd always make something as boring as lectures, something pretty enjoyable, and by the looks of my classmates, wiping their eyes from laughter, shaking their heads as they thought over the happy times, they found it funny too. 

Mr Tomlinson turned round, his smile quickly lost, back to seriousness. Everyone else hushes around me, and immediately paid attention to him. ''That's what's so great about it. The English language, I'm meaning-it comes from everything else around the world, and it's not all so formulaic and original and old. It'll always surprise you,'' he said dreamily, looking over the whole classes heads, then hesitating over Harry's gaze.

Harry Styles. Ahh, Harry. One of my best mates of all time, my curly Hazz. I know that sounds gay, but hey, I am. He knows that, and he's the only one who does, because he's the only person who'd really understand and be able to accept that, because he's the kind of person who'd never judge you, who is silently willing you to tell them all your deepest secrets. Almost literally. And he knew about Mr Tomlinson, like Jazz did. We'd had a lot of great memories together, whether it was hanging at the skate park, chatting to the nicest girls, or laughing over the newest 'fails' no YouTube, which never fail to crack us both up. But still, even Harry wasn't my best friend.

It was Niall Horan. Or as I like to call him, the Niallator. He's epic, Irish, carefree, blond, and really good at... pretty much everything. Logically, Niallator is a no-brainer, but academically, he was a genuis. He'd even got a forth year to come in a help him with his maths. And that was in Primary Seven for god's sake. Now we're both in forth year now, he got to skive off Maths periods, and get a free period, wandering round the empty school, moonwalking past the classroom doors, laughing at the people (especially me) working hard in the classrooms. He could be a prick sometimes, I'll admit, taking a little too much pride in his work and intelligence, but apart from that, Niall was such a laugh. He never faltered in a joke, and once he got started, there wasn't much stopping him. It must be exhausting being him, but it never got exhausting being around him.

''Mr. Styles,'' Louis said, pointing over at my curly friend. ''Care to stop flirting with Sinead and tell us what Shakespeare's lost play is, please? I didn't study Shakespeare day and night until all the ice creams of the world would melt, teach it to you, and be completely ignored because you're a flirt. Tell me,''

Harry grinned, and shuffled back in his seat, trying to trick Mr Tomlinson with his naturally born charm, leaving Sinead behind him, giggling like an idiot, trying not to smudge her lips gloss as she stifled her laughter, clearly not very good with her sympathy, as he was being scrutinized particularly by Mr Tomlinson. I liked it even when Mr Tomlinson was angry. He became much more vocal, and much more physical, moving round more, trying to shake off his rage with yelling and moving. It scared some of my classmates, because we were so used to seeing Mr Tomlinson jumpy and funny, rushing round the classroom either to tell a joke, or because he was incredibly passionate about something.