Cobalt

0:7

Cobalt

0:7

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Playlist is in the external link.

        About half way through my third period class, chemistry, the class phone rings. I barely pay attention to it though, as I take the time to jot down the notes written on the white board. Mr. Peterson is one of those teachers that believe that teens have the writing speed of the speed that the words come out of his mouth.

        I have a hard time deciphering what is written because of his bunched up scribbles, but I squint my eyes and manage to translate them onto my notepad.

        Beside me sits my assigned seat partner, Jesse Masterico. I believe Mr. Peterson sat me next to him because he manages his time efficiently as compared to me, but it doesn't encourage me to improve myself at all. As a matter of fact, it demotes my will to participate in class.

        Chemistry has to be one of the easiest classes out there for me. All it is is memorizing, honestly, which I'm pretty good at. I use this to my advantage and decide talk to my classmates. At first, I try chatting a storm with Lance, who's sitting right in front of me.

        He proceeds to give me the stink eye and tell me not to ruin his chances with his precious Lily, who's sitting right beside him. I give him some annoyed comeback along the lines of : "you'll do that on your own" and return to scribbling on my notebook.

        Shortly after, I turn around and decide to talk to Faye, a second-tier girl at the school. Apparently she's extremely down-to-earth. Dallas' words, not mine. But to no avail, she's too caught up in copying the notes written on the white board to start a conversation with me.

        Gosh, people simply cannot multi-task nowadays.

        I don't even bother trying to talk to Jesse, as I know he'll probably just shush me. Which leads me to the very rebellious decision to text in class — heavy sarcasm indeed. I've been texting in class even before I've turned into mybad girl self. Heck, there was no possibility of getting caught in the act because the class telephone is keeping Mr. Peterson busy.

        As my fingers swipe away at the touchscreen of my phone, I look up at the board to try and make things less obvious. I type out a message to Dallas, ranting about how antisocial the kids in my class are. Once finished, I slide my phone back into my black jean's pocket and rest my chin on my crossed arms.

        "Brooklyn, you're asked in the principle's office," Mr. Peterson says as he strolls back into the class and grabs his red dry-erase marker and continues explaining his domain.

        I raise a brow but simply gather my things — anything to get out of this boring class. As I get up and push my chair back into its desk, I bend over and whisper in Jesse's ear : "hey, can you take notes for me please?" 

        From the look on his face, I can tell that he's genuinely surprised and actually proud of me for asking it. This may or may not be considered using him, but I surely will help him if he ever needs my help with anything. Maybe. Probably not.

        Leisurely, I saunter over to the principal's office, making silly faces to the kids in the classrooms whose doors are open. 

         Mr. Finnely catches my grimace as I stalk past his class and calls for me to wait outside. I blow out my cheeks and rest my back onto the maroon lockers. His loud and husky voice gathers the attention of his class as he tells them to keep working while he heads to the washroom. I smirk, I have a teacher lying to his students in order to have a conversation with me.