They Call Her Love | ✔️

3: They Call Her Badass

Contrary to what society believes of the average teenager, I genuinely enjoy school. Learning, in its twisted ways, can be gratifying once you work through the challenges.

Notice: just because I like school, doesn't necessarily mean I'm good at it. I mean, my twelve year old sister tutor's me for Christ's sake. Obviously, I'm not as gifted as her. In every subject, there was something I struggled in. With math, it was decimals (why in the world are they even necessary?); in history, it was dates (it's not like we celebrate every single important date that's happened, why memorize them all?); with French it was everything (Je m'appelle LOST). But I found pleasure in working hard and trying to find the solution to problems, or memorizing a date, and even translating words.

I couldn't be classified as a nerd though. I wasn't naturally smart - I had to earn those A's with my blood, sweat, and tears.

However, despite my love of learning, there are some subjects, ones that pop up when you least expect them to, that I find completely horrendous and an abomination to mankind. Subject's that shouldn't even exist. Subjects that make someone who actually like learning, dread going to class.

Chemistry is one of those subjects.

It's only been twenty minutes since the bell rang and I'm physically forcing myself to refrain from stabbing my eye out with the mechanical pencil held captive in my curled fist.

Our teacher, Mrs. Oliver, could kill someone with boredom from her dead tone and lack of energy. Okay, to her defense, she was a bit aged. Although, shouldn't there be a limit on how old they allow teachers to exist? Staring at her hunched back slumps as she writes some nonsense letters on the white board, is starting to make my back hurt.

It doesn't help that I don't know anyone in my class. Thompson High is increasing in population since it's the only public high school in the entire city (what was our city thinking). This will probably be the first and last time I ever see these kids once this class is over. I could attempt to make friends, but since it seems that everyone knows each one another, giggling and talking with each other, I easily rule that option out.

And so, as Mrs. Oliver writes a bunch of what seems to be hieroglyphics scattered across the white board, I'm wishing I had taken Darcy's advice and signed up for Art 101. No matter what Darcy thinks, I really did drop out of that class because of my embarrassing lack of-

"I don't think choking that pencil to death will do anything"

A mysterious low whisper crawling behind my back sends chills down my spine. I jump which causes me to almost drop my pencil. I slowly turn around to find a boy leaning in, chewing feverishly on a piece of gum.

"I-I'm sorry?"

He motions his chin towards my fist. "Suffocating that innocent pencil won't make Mrs. Oliver disappear. Unless you're working some voodoo on it, I don't think we can rely on it as our way out of here."

I realize he's making a joke. A bad one, but nonetheless I stifle a laugh through my nose because this was more entertaining than watching the world's oldest woman write nonsense. And also to make him feel better.

"Do you have a better escape plan?" I ask him. At this point, I had full fledged turned my back against the front of the class.

"Hm," He chews, his jaw clenching every other second. "You could create a distraction by throwing the pencil at her. Then when she's not looking, we make a run for it."

I couldn't help but laugh. Not because it was funny, but because of how lame the idea was. "That's the best you could come up with?"

He arches a brow at me. "You got something better?"