Please, please, please, please, please, Gods, if you're up there, please brainwash Fieldson so that he can't give us homework for the next term-preferably forever. Please, please, please... Actually, scratch that. Let's try that again. Please, please, please, please get him fired, or perhaps exploded off the face of this earth (maybe that was slightly drastic) or something. Either way, don't let this webpage open displaying more maths homework...
I sighed and thumped my head on the keyboard as my desperate prayers were rudely ignored. Next to the picture of the Redpark High crest in the top left corner of the screen, there was a flashing notice that told me that 'STUDENTS OF CLASS 84M HAVE FIVE SEPARATE PIECES OF REVISION TO COMPLETE OVER THE CHRISTMAS BREAK. SET:TODAY. FAILURE TO COMPLETE ALL FIVE WILL RESULT IN AN HOUR'S DETENTION WHEN TERM STARTS AGAIN.'
This was one of Mr Fieldson's favourite methods of student torture-setting at least four pieces of double-page homework, waiting a while to fool his victims before attacking again a few days later in the form of posting up notices like this. I hadn't even managed to finish the first stack of questions that he had given us on the last day of term, and now he was oh-so-kindly blackmailing us again with detention if we didn't finish even more pointless questions. Why couldn't school realise that at least ninety percent of all students were never going to use algebra when they left school, and as a result decide to substitute Maths lessons for free periods. Then, I was sure, the attendance rate would be far higher as at least five people in my form skipped class every single day.My phone pinged the moment I reached for it, and I knew immediately who the text was from. Fieldson's just given us another mountain of sheets! I've come up with a theory that he's trying to slowly kill us-what do you think?
I giggled. Yes, that was definitely true to some extent. Of course he is! He's making sure that none of us last the year, I swear. Come over right now. We could attempt to draw fanart? A reply came almost instantly. Count me in. I'll see you in ten.
And then I remembered. So, what were we now that we'd kissed? Girlfriends? Still best friends as we always had been? Experimental-sort-of-friends? I'd have asked her-if I wasn't so scared of what the answer would be. Instead I only wondered, failing to come to any sort of conclusion. I warily peeked into Mum's room to find, thankfully, that she wasn't there. She must've been at one of the many workshops that she'd signed up for- she had told me that they were to pass the time while she didn't have a job, but I had a nagging suspicion that she attended them so that she didn't have to put up with me. Her irritation with me still hadn't lightened ;if anything, it had increased, even though I was being extra careful not to do anything that might fuel her anger.
The pencil scuttled across the paper like a lost beetle as I attempted to accurately copy Draco Malfoy's angular face glaring out at me from the computer screen in front of us. "How's yours going?" Dylan pulled a face and held up her attempt, which, although not as bad as mine, wasn't the work of art that I had pictured it to be. I smiled and said, "Well, yours is a lot better than mine, at least. His head looks like a potato." She squinted at it and raised one eyebrow, grinning. "I must say, his head does look more like a vegetable than a human body part. Okay, okay, I take it back! Stop!" The awkwardness we'd both felt in the aftermath of the kiss a few days before melted away as we thumped each other with pillows, our laughter releasing the frustration of trying to get the drawings right. She hadn't yet mentioned the events of the tree and I wasn't planning to either, for fear of the situation becoming even more confusing than it already was.
Three hours later (yes. Three hours. Well, I did already make it clear that we weren't the best of artists, didn't I? Or, at least, I certainly wasn't.), I was sketching the final edge of Harry's scar and Dylan was finishing off the curves of the Slytherin snake emblem. I sighed and held the paper I had been attacking with the pencil at arm's length, studying it in forensic, judgemental detail. Overall, it wasn't as bad as I had expected it to be. But my self-reassurances instantly went to waste as I glanced at Dylan's drawing. "When did you get so artistic?" I demanded, grinning at her and looking from her drawing to the picture on the screen. Back and forth, back and forth. She blushed and smiled. "I've been practicing. So that Miss Garcia doesn't try and get us to come to more art catch-up after school sessions when school starts up again." I nodded sagely, remembering the balmy, turpentine-drenched heat of the art room due to the sealed windows and no air-conditioning.
YOU ARE READING
Eve(-1)
Teen Fiction*COMPLETED AND EDITING* You can't often tell when you're internally breaking. Most of the time, you don't want to hear it. You say you're fine and hold your head high, trying to camouflage your pain and the approaching storm. But what do you do when...
