Desirous of Everything at the Same Time

Chapter Two

I would have skipped school the next day if it were not for a five-page essay that was due in first period U.S. History. I would not have minded writing this report if I was not assigned these goddamn research papers almost every week. Also, being preoccupied with the disappointing outcome of my date with Adeline did not aid me in directing my focus on the unfinished homework. I did not start on the project until my 6AM alarm went off. I checked my syllabus because I had already forgotten the topic of the task: "Write a five page, double-spaced essay about the effects of the French and Indian War." I scrambled to the desktop near my bed, opened a writing document, gathered all of the applicable information I remembered from in-class lectures and The Last of the Mohicans film with Daniel Day Lewis, and typed away. I was not in any respect worried or concerned about only turning in a three-paged History essay with a blockbuster motion picture as the primary source because it was still better than: a) not writing an essay at all, and b) copying the information from Wikipedia and posting it onto a writing document without citing it as a reference, of which a couple students in the class had already attempted and been accused.

When I reached the Riverport High School parking lot, the time on my smart phone read five minutes past 8AM. I remained calm in spite of the fact that I had never been late to class once during my period enrolled in high school and I would no longer be able to uphold the previously undefeated streak. If my History professor Mr. Morrison asked about my tardiness, I would simply inform him that I was so engrossed in the political intricacies of the hostile relationships between the French and British American colonies during the mid-1700s that I lost track of time. Hopefully, this plan would work without further interrogation and questioning, and Mr. Morrison would not be suspicious as to why I was conducting research on the subject of the essay on the day it was due. Ideally, he would not inquire of me at all.

When I entered the classroom, I sat in my undesignated, but predetermined spot, which was a rickety, antique arm desk. The writing table was so old that I wondered if the notches that covered its body were correlated with the years of its active utilization, like the rings in a tree trunk. Much to my surprise and relief, Mr. Morrison was not even present. I looked at Devon Marshall, who returned my stunned stare with a smile so broad that it strained my tired cheekbones thinking about reciprocating the wide smirk. Devon always sat in the far left corner of the classroom in the seat in front of me, and I was incessantly grateful to him for that because he was undoubtedly a more rigorous note taker than me, a talent of which I had an inkling would be useful to me that day, as I was certain I would not be capable of completely being present during the lecture.

"Hey, Devon, where's Morrison?" I asked, leaning in his direction only to detect a sweet scent of citrus lemon aftershave that almost roused me from my sleepiness.

"Oh, one of the students brought McDonalds into the classroom and began eating in class, so he escorted them to the principal's office. It was actually kind of funny, but not funny enough to get out of bed at 8AM for." Devon answered while pulling a wide-toothed comb out of one of his skinny jean pockets to pick his Afro.

"So, did you write your paper on the French and Indian War?" I asked.

"Bitch, please, I wrote and turned that in last week." He answered and I laughed.

Devon was without a doubt the most intellectual student at Riverport High, and he hardly had to exert his cognitive load to maintain that rank because he was inherently gifted. He formerly attended a boarding school in Southern California until his parents vacated their home and moved to Rio Vista to take care of Devon's grandmother. Devon could have continued his academic endeavors at a prestigious high school, but he decided being with his family was more important than having an impressive high school resume. I always poked fun at him for allowing his familial relations to influence his decision to move to Riverport by calling him a "softy," despite his tenacious persistence to be perceived as a "super hard badass motherfucker."