The Vigilante's Handbook (Misfits #1)

Seven (Part 1): Learning How to Punch My Peers

"On account of my being shot over the weekend, I did not complete questions three through fifty-six, odds only," I told Mr. Forrest bluntly when he asked why I didn't hand in the math assignment. I had been trying that excuse all day to no avail. And it was because of one particular star student with such a perfect academic record that being shot couldn't put a scratch on it.

"Then, tell me, why does Mr. Mason have an assignment to turn in even though was also shot and held in the recovery room longer than you?" He made a sharp X next to my name on his clipboard. "How are you feeling, by the way, Stitch?" he asked as he collected his assignment. I caught a glimpse of the extra credit problems on the back. Overachiever.

"Much better than when I first got shot, sir," Stitch answered with a high and mighty look my way. I almost regretted letting him into my secret loser club. Even if I wanted to kick him out now, the rest of our class had already drawn their own conclusions and connected us in their minds. I settled for sticking my tongue out at him when I thought Forrest wasn't watching. He returned my childish move without missing a beat.

The fact that Forrest did not ask about my slightly less serious but still serious enough bullet wound did not go unnoticed by me.

For years, rumors had been flying around campus about him. Like most of our teachers, Mr. Forrest had once been a vigilante. As students, our favorite topic of debate was matching retired civilian identities to their superhero personas of the past. No one had been able to pin down Mr. Forrest's secret identity.

This led to my theory: No one had figured out which superhero he was because he was never a hero. He was a supervillain who had infiltrated Paramount Lake to seek revenge.

Mona only laughed when I scrawled my one hundred percent accurate theory on a note and passed it sideways to her. She wrote back that this was my way of coping with the fact that he didn't like me. She said I was "reaching" and "not being logical." I told her if that was the case, then I would be comparing most of the staff and students to villains because none of them liked me.

I wasn't listening to Forrest's current lesson, something about advanced calculus that the whole class had figured out years ago, but he insisted on reteaching us. Instead, I was busy mentally comparing his build to the all time worst supervillains we had learned about in history class. Too tall to be the Scholar. Too blond for Circuit. Too old to be the Creature.

By the time I had run through my normal repertoire of supervillains, he was writing tomorrow's assignments on the board. I began scribbling it in my notebook. Maybe I would actually do it this time. That would catch everyone by surprise. Halfway through his assignment writing, the bell rang.

Despite our Pavlov-like condition to leave at the sound of a school bell, most of the class stayed in their seats. A few younger students got up and packed their bags, but the seniors in classroom 301 stayed silent while Mr. Forrest continued scratching on the chalkboard.

We didn't keep still because Forrest was one of those "the bell doesn't dismiss you, I do" kind of teachers--even though you better believe he was. We kept still because we were waiting.

No one spoke even to greet the other half of our graduating class when they entered. Not all of us were unlucky enough to have to deal with Forrest for back to back periods. The only reason we dealt with it was because we were excited. And not for more math.

If math was everyone's least favorite class, hand to hand combat was their favorite. Mine too but not because I was good at it. Only Malee was good at it in Mr. Forrest's books.

Mondays were everyone's favorite days because we just got to spar, no instructions or lessons. Just duke it out like ordinary human beings. It sounded barbaric, but none of us got out much. Monday combat class was all we had to look forward to.