Of Gods and Mortals

Chapter 1.

Mold spores and cockroach legs.  That's about as interesting this class gets. 

Biology, your last class of the day, was never one of your favorites.  Your professor, Mrs. Mallor, was about as exciting as a slug race on the hottest day in summer.  She looked like she was embalmed, her skin tightly pulled over her bones and her blonde hair in a tight bun on the back of her head.  That bun seemed like it held her whole body together, at its constant fixed point.  

You let a puff of air pass your lips as you leaned your chin on the heel of your hand.  Your gaze was pinned ahead on the white wipe-board that extended over the front wall of the classroom.  Mrs. Mallor was droning on in her high-pitched monotonous voice about the cells of mold spores compared to the cells in cockroach legs.  It's about as exhilarating as it sounds.

Your mind started to drift.  As it always did. 

The white cement walls of the classroom paired with the sickly green linoleum floors and uniform metal desks made it seem more like a prison block rather than an educational facility.  The brightness started to press on your temples in the most uncomfortable manner, making the board in front of you look fuzzy.  Mrs. Mallor's voice sounded like the whining of a balloon letting out air agonizingly slowly.  As your imagination wandered, you started to picture the insufferable teacher as the world's squeakiest oscillating fan.

You could feel your stomach churn at the sound, your lips curling and eyes squinting as your face takes on a painful grimace.  You couldn't hear the words she was saying; you could only hear the atrocious pterodactyl whines coming from her mouth.

Something hit the back of your head, making you jolt from your daydream.  You started to sink in your chair, taking deep breaths as both embarrassment and anger bubbled in your chest.  You didn't have to look behind you to know that it was the jocks in the back of the room picking on you again.

It wasn't that you weren't well-liked; it was that you weren't well-known that they picked on you.  They figured since you didn't have much of a voice in this school that no one would care if they poked a little fun at you.  That was a lie.  You cared.  And you were someone, even if you didn't want to acknowledge that just yet. 

The chorus of snickers that followed their little attack on you made the blood rush to your face.  A gentle hand from the seat beside you was set onto your upper arm, making you relax the smallest amount as you turned to face your best friend. 

Your best friend's name was Lars.  He wasn't very known, either.  You two have been together for as long as you can remember; all through elementary school, through your leather pants phase in middle school, through your father's marriage (he and whoever your mother was never tied the knot), and now, through high school. 

He was a precious kid, that was your main thought.  His eyes were such a dark coffee brown that they appeared black, his hair dirty blonde and curling up at the very ends.  There was a light dusting of freckles over his crooked nose; crooked and slightly puffy from all the punches he'd taken from bullies over the years.  He was a bit lanky, especially his legs due to the fact that he couldn't exactly use them.  You see, Lars had this muscular disorder (which you had no idea how to pronounce the name of) where the use of his legs is extremely limited.  He always carried around a pair of crutches.  Though, in this school, they were basically a target on his back for local bullies. 

The presence of his hand on your arm was an instant relief.  You smiled slightly at him as he gave you that nervous grin of his. 

"Are we still on for move night after school?"  He whispered to you, deterring your attention from the bullies taunting you.  You smiled at the thought, remembering the lineup of awesome films you have in store.