The Final Ticks: A Collection of Short Stories

Ditto

"Miranda! Sweet Miranda! Wherefore art thou Miranda!" Clay clutched his heart with his right hand and stretched his left one out to her. He bent on one knee and gave her a sadistic grin as he shouted this in the middle of the busy high school hallway.

Miranda looked at him in disgust. "Clay, you asshole, go back into the snake hole you came from!" She clutched her books tightly to her chest and ran as quickly as she could through the crowd, her blonde ponytail swishing left and right behind her head.

Bursting through the door of the bathroom, she ran to a mirror, dropped her books on the small metal counter in front of it and looked down at her hands clutching the sides of the white porcelain sink. 

"Boys are stupid," she muttered to herself. She looked up at her reflection in the mirror and studied herself. She wasn't breathtakingly beautiful, but she wasn't ugly either. She had light blue eyes, a perky nose, and a light sprinkle of freckles across her pale face. Her mouth and ears were petite and in just the right place. Her eyebrows were thin and hardly noticeable. Her smooth forehead sloped nicely from her eyes to her hairline. 

She was pretty enough, so it couldn't be her looks they constantly made fun of. Oh no, it was her love of Shakespeare and Edgar Allen Poe, her adoration of the written arts. It was her.

Sighing, Miranda picked up her books and walked slowly out of the bathroom. She had vaguely heard the bell ring sometime while she was studying herself, and now she was late to history class. History class with Clay freaking Turner.

Trudging through the hallways, up a flight of stairs, and down another hallway, she stopped in front of the door. Maybe she didn't have to open it. Maybe she could just skip it. That wouldn't be too bad, would it?

Miranda gave another huff of breath and carefully laid her fingers on the doorknob. Slowly turning it, hoping it didn't make a sound, she opened the door slowly so as not to disturb the class too much. After slipping inside, she quickly let go of the door, which swung closed with an audible click.

The class in front of her all turned their heads toward her, then back at the teacher, who said, "Miranda, you're late. I hope you have a good excuse."

"Sorry, Mr. Whittlemeyer. I had to pee really bad. Couldn't hold it in," she mumbled.

"Well, I guess it can't be helped. But next time, go sooner. There's five minutes for a reason," he sighed.

Miranda sheepishly nodded her head and ducked into her seat near the front. Once Mr. Whittlemeyer resumed his lecture, someone from behind her tugged on her ponytail.

"Hey! Mrs. Shakespeare!" whispered the mocking voice of Clay Turner. "Way to be late to history! You didn't miss much. Just the start of the Great Depression."

Miranda frowned and leaned forward. Trying to listen intently, she stared at the projection Mr. Whittlemeyer presented to the class, but as the long hour dragged on, she found herself doodling a manatee on a stage with music notes drifting around it when she heard the bell ring again.

"Don't forget about your papers on how you would live if you were in the Great Depression! Make sure it is cohesive and displays a solid understanding of the lifestyle of the people caught in it!" Mr. Whittlemeyer shouted to the class as they returned to their conversations while packing their backpacks and walking out the door.

"Hey, Miss Shrew, you wanna work on this together?" Clay asked Miranda.

"Really, how do you come up with all these nicknames for me?" she asked, rolling her eyes.

"Hey, come on. I'm serious. I didn't listen to his lecture at all, so I have no clue what to write about. I saw you studiously taking notes."

"Pff. Right. Notes. If you call singing manatees history notes, then yeah. I was taking notes," Miranda smirked to herself.

Clay's eyes widened. "No way. You? Miss Golden Globe Theatre? But you're, like, the smartest girl I know!" He waved his hands around himself.

"So? And it's just Globe Theatre, idiot," she hissed, jerking her backpack onto her shoulder and stomping out the door.

"Hey hey hey, I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry. I didn't mean to get the theater name wrong," Clay said in a panic, intercepting her in the hallway and walking backwards in front of her.

Miranda tried to walk around him, but he kept blocking her way by stepping in front of her. Giving up, Miranda crossed her arms and stopped with a huff of breath.

"What do you want from me, Clay?" she said.

"I told you. I want to work on the paper with you."

"Why?"

"Because."

"Because what?" she said exasperatedly, throwing her hands up into the air.

"Because I like you. And I want to get to know you better than as my shrew," he replied, looking into her eyes.

Miranda's eyes widened at his confession. "What? But you always make fun of me!"

Clay shrugged. "So? Can I work on this with you?"

Miranda looked down at the floor. "I guess," she said, tapping her heels together.