The Angel with Papery Wings [prequel]

ch.23

I felt weird. I wasn't guilty, but I wasn't content, either. Angie knew I had been around a girl today, even though she had warned me against it, but it's not like she'll listen to me when the times comes that she starts going out with boys. I cleared my throat. Not boys. No boys for Angie. Not now, not...ever?

The next day came a bit too slowly. It seemed like everyone at school was aware that I was new. It's always like that: the new kid sticks out like a sore thumb.

And with my new schedule, I barely got to see Danny, let alone the other boys. I was still adjusting to my new schedule, but that didn't stop me from wondering about after school activities, like wrestling. Didn't Niall say the Middleton team was really solid?

The only class Danny and I shared was chemistry. Sam was also in that class. I briefly wondered what Danny thought of me and Sam, if he even considered the word "us."

I grew nervous and decided to focus on class. English was one of my favorite subjects. It was the only class that I always did extra work for. My mom used to tell me I had a knack for using words in a special way, but I'm really not that good. English class helps.

There was a woman at the head of the room. Her long, scraggly fingers pressed together like yoda. I sat upright. The old lady teachers are the best because they tell it like it is; no BS.

"Most of you don't know how to read," she stated bluntly. Confused whispers arose in the class. The teacher, Fitzgerald, crossed her arms over her frail body and paced around slowly.

"Most of you read things for face value. You get a text: "Movies, Friday, come?" you answer the phone "How about the movies, this Friday?" You see the person in real life, "I wanna go to the movies on Friday."

The class stared at her, completely perplexed. "Those are three vastly different forms of communication: one lacks body gestures, another lacks both gestures and voice, and the third has everything. But how do novels play into this?" she furrowed her brow.

I didn't even realize I was raising my hand. The women nodded at me. "Most novels have a literal plot, a deeper, symbolic layer, and an overarching theme," I explained. "Basically, you can't just read something as is. You gotta take into consideration why certain scenes were chosen, what implications they have for the characters and plot."

Fitzgerald smiled coyly. "Looks like someone's getting an A in my class," she nodded. I cleared my throat awkwardly.

"Geek," a few people huffed. I looked away, fiddling with my pen. 

We read a few chapters of Orwell and Steinbeck before class was dismissed. I tried to leave early so as not to seem any more of a nerd than I already was. But Fitzgerald called me over.  A few kids snickered. I tried to ignore them.

"Do you write?" she asked plainly, while she organized her notes.

I glanced at her journals, thick with papers and etchings. "No," I lied. It wasn't a complete lie. I haven't written since my mom was alive. She was the reason I wrote. Hell, so was Sergeant. He didn't let me speak except to obey him. Well I got tired of obeying and started acting.

"You should," Fitzgerald recommended. I laughed. "Something wrong?" she furrowed her faint brows.

"No, it's just..." I trailed. "I'm not the most eloquent guy out there. I occassionally word things well, but not often, so I probably won't always have the answers to your questions in class," I mumbled. I didn't want her to think of me as a teacher's pet. I had to gain friends in class before I could become close to any teachers. That was just the unspoken school code. Only the weirdos befriended teachers first.