"That" girl

Chapter 4

I know it sounds like I hate all my classes, but as hard as it is to believe, there is a class that I don't completely hate. Shockingly, I actually enjoy orchestra.

I sit in the back with no partner, but it's better that way. There's only a few people who take orchestra seriously; everyone else talks the whole time, and let's be honest, most of them probably don't even know the difference between a crescendo and a decrescendo.

The teacher keeps telling people to pay attention. She's too nice. She should yell more. That would get her point across.

While the idiots are being idiots, I'm practicing music that is twice as hard as what we do in class.

An eternity later, orchestra is over.

And then there's language arts.

The class where I can read without everyone looking at me weird. Don't get me wrong, they will always look at me weird, but in language arts, it's more acceptable.

I sit in the back. No surprise there. I finish my work and read, the work taking a few minutes, and the reading taking up the rest of the time.

I'm making it sound like I'm the next Einstein. I'm not. I just do my work and pay attention when I don't understand something. It's not my fault if you decide to be an idiot and not pay attention in class, but please refrain from asking me to do your homework.

That's the problem with people. They expect results from sitting around playing video games. No, silly drones, it doesn't work that way.

My teachers understand my constant reading. Even if they don't, it's not like they can say anything. I participate in class more than a majority of the drones, and my grades are still high so I'll keep reading.

"Melanie?"

My teacher's waiting voice brings me out of my comfy little world.

I was apparently expected to answer a question. I vaguely remember discussing oxymorons, and on the board, there were two onomatopoeias, one oxymoron, and a hyperbole.

I said the oxymoron on the board, and looked at my teacher.

Silence.

You could feel the tension.

Then, like a rubber band pulled to hard, the tension was shattered by Mrs. Henderson's monotonous voice.

"Correct."

Thank heavens.

Some of the drones turn and snicker. I shoot them a look that conveys my urge to smack that grin off their faces.

Luckily for them, the bell rings, pulling me out of my safe world.

I walk into the hallway, and I'm thrown into the tide of drones, gossip, and too much perfume.