Wronged

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QOC: Basketball or volleyball? (Basketball for me)

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- Anna's POV -

Ignorant people are ignorant of their ignorance.

Take this man standing in front of me right now, Mr. Owen, for example. His arms are crossed, wrinkly face furrowed in frustration and irritation. He is watching me answer this fifty question quiz he put together specifically for me. It's on psychology, of course, but I'm not sure what level it is. It can possibly be recognized as masters level in second year? That's as close as I can get.

Anyway, the rest of the class sits boredly at their desks, giving Owen this annoyed look. They're silently telling him to just give it up already. And can you blame them? I'm answering college-level answers at an insanely quick speed. Their time is being wasted here.

I sigh and pause on the forty-seventh question within this minute and thirty-two seconds. Aiden has been hardcore glaring at this teacher's face for the past half an hour of class, and I suddenly join him.

"Can you not waste your time on me because of whatever weird grudge you have against me? The rest of the class needs to learn something," I say, deadpan.

"Finish the quiz."

I roll my eyes and complete the last three questions, barely even skimming over the words before selecting an answer. Why is he so desperate to see me so badly? Mr. Monroe, who is my math teacher, sees my intelligence. But he's kind. He doesn't press me, although slightly encourages. He's cool, I guess. He gives me a B because he knows what I am capable of, but I don't do much work.

I sigh and close the packet before handing it to him briskly. Distraught, he picks up the packet and flips through it violently, trying to spot a flaw in my work.

When he finds nothing, he rips it in half and throws the pieces on the ground. The girl next to me flinches in surprise. I give him my dullest expression.

"Where is it?" He seethes quietly, pressing both palms on my desk. I jump at the loudness, and then narrow my eyes to slits.

"Where's what?" My words are venom, and I speak just as quietly. Aiden is tense, and out of the corner of my eye I can see him getting ready to pounce.

"The cheat sheet. Do you have the answers on your arm?" He reaches out and grips my left forearm. My eyes widen as he examines it.

I yank it back, holding it close to my chest. My eyes glance down, already noticing the redness on my skin that would soon morph into a gross bruise.

"Back off, asshole," I sneer. "How could I have a cheat sheet prepared when I didn't even know you were going to throw a test in my face today?"

He points a finger in my face. "I don't know. But there's no way on this goddamn planet that you could've gotten this quiz correct! I don't care what your files say! You simply can not be more intelligent than I - or any other teacher - in this-"

Before he can get another word in (or before his face can become any redder), Aiden has come out of his chair and laid a fist into his face. The entire class gasps as our psychology teacher is flattened onto the ground, holding his jaw in pain. A groan leaves his lips painfully.

My eyes are wider than saucers. I stand from my seat and rush over to my boyfriend (or whatever he's classified as), standing on my tip-toes to grab his shoulders.

His shirt has risen up a little bit, showing off his skin on his torso. His hands are still curled into fists at his sides, and I spot two veins: one on each tensed arm. Those green eyes hold the emotion of red. I can imagine that that's all he sees.