The Butterfly Effect

II - What part of the chicken IS that?

{— WREN —}

I struggled to find my worksheet as Mr Friesland spoke monotonously over the chatter of the class. If I wasn't already failing this class, I would've been a little panicked. Why did I even have to learn physics? This was an ARTS school, where they teach you ARTS, not physics. I looked up from my backpack to see if Travis had his worksheet. Surely enough, the guitarist next to me was already scrawling down answers as I dug through my backpack.

"Miss Hughes, would you like to explain to the class why you could not come to my lesson in an organised manner?" He spoke like the villainous teachers from those high school movies, or like that one teacher from Ferris Bueller's Day Off. He stared at me with a bored expression on his face, as if I were trying and failing to entertain him.

"Um, well-" I began as I retracted my hand from my bag and sat up in my seat. He made a silencing motion with his hand and continued talking.

He turned to face the rest of the class. "Ladies and gentlemen, this may the most prestigious arts academy in the country, but it is still expected that students keep up an above average academic record throughout the school year -" He glanced down at me as he returned to the front of the class, "- and not just before admission."

I gulped as I fished the slightly torn paper from my bag and continued the equations on the board. There was a small drawing of the male genitalia on the corner and I hurried to erase it before Mr Friesland saw it. Travis snorted as he watched me, but his face returned to a solemn expression, "Are you trying to get kicked out of this place? At this rate, you're going to fail all of your science exams!"

I glared at my best friend and shoved my hair out of my face, "For your information, I'm doing perfectly well in all of my classes." I huffed and erased my previous answers, which all seemed to be wrong.

He glanced down at my answers, "Uh huh."

Mr Friesland cleared his throat from the front of the classroom, reading from a slip of paper, "Miss Hughes, Ms Rutherford would like to see you after class." Travis shot a worried look at me as he graded his worksheet. 100%. How flipping fantastic.

**************

"And you can see why some of our staff are worried, Miss Hughes?" I sat in Ms Rutherford's office as she questioned me from her oversized office chair. I sat opposite her, the stiff, barely-padded metal chair beneath me getting more uncomfortable by the second. She had many colourful and creative artworks hung behind her, which was a nice contrast to the tone of her voice. She sipped from a mug that seemed to have fingerprints on it in different primary colours, but the prints were so smudged they looked like blobs covering her cup. My file was laid out on her desk, all my tests from the past month spread out for the entire world to see. Each one with a red D or F on the front. Below average. Well below.

She continued. "At Camberwell, we thrive to allow the most talented youth of our nation a better chance at fame, but we only accept the most well-rounded students. Your proficiency in the arts is duly noted, however, your grades, being sub-par, are what is making me question your dedication to this school." She pushed her glasses up her slender nose, and I watched as a bit of her bright blonde hair unravelled from her bun. She was quite young to be a principal, but she spoke like a sixty year old.

I picked at my fingernails, "I understand." I silently debated whether or not to get a manicure after school, as my nails were looking pretty disgusting, and examined my nails subtly.