The Right Kind Of Wrong

Chapter 3

The next day at college, during the English class, our teacher Mrs. Gambhir declared an event.

"Listen here, children. There's a Poetry Reading Competition that is going to be held by the Department of English next month. I want each of you to submit a poem that you have written. Keep in mind they should be written by YOU. Not your cousin, not your father, YOU. Bring them to me by the end of the next two days. I will not accept anything after two days," she finished. As soon as she left the class, there were whispers all around.

"Naina, you will take part right?" Khyati askes me.

"I don't know, I don't have anything prepared."

"Oh shut up! I saw your book of poems. It's almost full," Sandhya answers from behind us.

"Okay, I'll see what I want to do. What about you guys?"

"Yeah what about us? We should all take part!" exclaims an excited Khyati.  "Yes, all of us should take part. It'll be fun, and we can be the poem gang," I say sarcastically. Everybody laughs while I sit with a fake smile on my face.

"I'm definitely writing a poem on him," Purva suddenly pipes up and nudges all of us to look at where the guys were sitting. I turn around scanning the rows for anyone interesting enough for Purva to make such a comment, and then I see him. The only decent looking guy from our entire class. The angel artist from yesterday, D.Arya. I ask Purva who she's referring to exactly just to be sure anyway.

"Which one in specific?" I ask. "Naina, which one of them is the only decent looking guy from our class?" she asks and the girls all giggle. 

Huh, so I wasn't the only one who thought that. It brought a ghost of a smile on my face but I decided not to show it and rolled my eyes.

"Oh," I reply dryly and get on with composing a new poem good enough to be submitted. It doesn't matter what they say. They're stupid if they think they have a chance when I'm there. Even if they get selected, they'll never win as long as I'm there competing with them. I was proud and egotistical and I knew it.

Back in school I always wrote poems for the annual magazine and at least one out of two was always chosen to be featured. And I know I'm pretty good at it anyway. I wasn't overconfident but I definitely was self-confident.

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"And then you won the poem competition. Big deal! That's so cliche," Dheeraj says with a bored expression.

"Are you going to let me continue or not?" I ask him.

"Fine I suppose you can," he says trying to pull a bored face. I could tell he wanted to know what happened after that. And so I continued.

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It was a week after the appointed two days that I finally went to college. I had caught a bug that was going around and as a result, the last seven days were spent destroying two boxes worth of tissue papers, a lot of complaining on my part and a lot of worrying on my mother's part. I had a fever.

My friends were sympathetic towards me and really fussed about me (which I didn't like at all). By the time English came, I was miserable. Not only did I not have any poem prepared but I also was a full week late which means I will have to resort to begging her to let me in. I decided to approach her at the end of the lecture. Much to my surprise none of my friends had their pieces chosen. " A very strict analyzer" is what I had heard my friends describe her as. Still, I decided it was worth a try at least. Getting my poem in the competition was going to be my first step in showing them I was better than them. Then I needed to get a standing. Then I could rub it in their faces.

As usual, as soon as the bell rang, Mrs. Gambhir, always on time, marched in and went to her desk. Dumping her books, she muttered a good morning to us before promptly heading to the board and thus began our lesson. Forty minutes later, with another five minutes of the lecture left she declared our syllabus for the day complete. That was one thing I insanely liked about her class. If she finished with what she had planned for us, she would let us free. I realized this was going to be the only chance I get.

I looked out from the corner of my eyes and realized angel guy, Mr. Arya was getting ready to get up as well and for a second I let my imagination run as I dreamed the two of us walking together to talk to mam. Then I shook my head and continued walking up to mam. My fantasies could wait. Mam would not.

Ignoring my friend's curious stares and questions, I approached mam. "Excuse me, mam?" I asked her conjuring the sweetest tone I could muster. "Yes?" she turned to me. "Mam, I'm aware that the deadline for the poem has passed but I was wonde-" She cut me off mid-sentence with a hand. Oh shit, I'm screwed.

"I still have two places to fill in. If you two can give me your poem submissions by the twelve forty lecture, I might consider it. That's all I have to say." She turned and started packing up her books. Then a lightbulb went off in my head. She said "you two". I turned and sure enough angel guy was standing there. I froze. I could feel my body temperature rise and my cheeks turn warmer while my eyes got wide enough to resemble doraemon's. Don't judge, my brother loves that shit. And what happened next was probably the reason why you have to sit and read this pathetic excuse of a love story.

He smiled at me.

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