THERE SHE GOES | ❝This is the worst day of my life.❞
Seventeen-year-old Hallie could have thought of a million better places to be staying for two weeks than her Aunt's home. But since her parents have cleared off for a romantic getaway, she wi...
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CHAPTER TWELVE ❛ the breakfast club.❜
I SHIFTED UNCOMFORTABLY IN THE PLASTIC CHAIR, THE frontal lobes of my brain clenched in concentration. My eyes bore into the answer I'd scribbled into the small gap given under the question, proofreading again and again. I was especially meticulous today when it came to the accuracy of my answers, as it turns out I'd completely forgotten we even had a text today in the first place.
This was unlike me. I never forgot about a test, and was always the first to be revising efficiently and effectively. Today, however, was different. It wasn't until this morning when I checked my school calendar that I almost keeled over in panic. The past week had been so unprecedentedly time-consuming that it must have gone completely over my head.
But I'd still had time. It wasn't until third period, so before school and during break I crammed my head with as much knowledge as possible: sat in the library with my nose buried in a textbook, soaking up an abundance of scientific equations and theorems.
Even if I was a little more unhinged than usual, there was no way I was walking into battle unequipped.
Up to now, things were going fairly well. I was lucky that I paid attention in class and had a confident understanding of the topics, anyway. Although a couple had tripped me up, I was doing well thus far.
That is, until...
"Hey! Hey!"
A boy sat behind me whisper-yelled, not in my general direction so it wasn't directed at me (thank God), but even then I still sucked in a deep breath through my nose. What made him have the nerve to interrupt during a test? For someone who had good focus, even I was getting distracted by the boy. Namely, it was Stanley Barber. Of course.
"I need to talk to you." he continued to whisper, to who I presumed was Sydney. I mean, who else could it have been? After last night, it was presumably to apologise for what he'd said about her dad.
Mr. File, whose feet were propped up on his desk, flopped down his Popular Mechanics magazine with a look of alertness. "Eyes on your tests," he glared just over my shoulder at Stanley. "No talking."
I shuffled in my chair again, turning the page on my test. My fingertips throbbed from where they'd been clamped around the pen's nib, pink and indented. Habitually, I began nibbling on the pen lid: something my mother had scolded me over for years, but I'd failed to grow out of doing. The black plastic was ragged and uneven from the times I'd bitten it down during exams.
