If I Should Be Quite Honest

18

I see him but he doesn't seem to see me. And in short, that annoys me, as I feel like he's doing it on purpose.
When I see the gates, he's not there waiting as he did before, I don't see him in the yard or on the field or anything. Crying isn't an option right now, because I never cry at school. Ever. I'd rather stand up in assembly and sing the national anthem. And I didn't actually know it either. I knew the American one though. They played it everywhere and I heard it on damn near anything. It has more personality. I guess, more traces of colonisation, but less culty or cultish like ours. Less praising of our "gracoous" whatever.
I see Carla of all people though. She looks like she wants to come over, so I start walking in the other direction.
I then see him, talking to someone else. A girl.
She's meant to be one of the nice ones too. Those girls in your class that aren't you're friends, but if the teacher put you in a group with them, you wouldn't mind and it wouldn't be mad awkward.
Sarah. Has he ever talked to Sarah before? I've never seen him talk to Sarah before.
I feel sick.

They're just talking, I tell myself when I've charged into the toilets. I fail to throw up again. I just stand there, breathing in toilet bleach and scribbled insults from the stall walls.
My heart sort of sinks. He didn't text me or anything, call or send me a meme. He might as well stab my wrist with his compass. Ok, I'm being dumb, right? I'm being irrational. I'm being the irrational one now.
I breath, like Jacob always told me to do when I started to freak out. I didn't do as much freaking out as I got older. Only because things failed to surprise me as effectively. When you see life for what it is literally: a mess of disappointment and dissatisfaction, nothing really impresses you or shocks you. You just kinda roll with it. It's not healthy, I know, but this isn't a health guide?
I tell myself to stop being such a little bitch and go and talk to him. He is your boyfriend. He never said he wasn't. And who said he couldn't talk to other girls? Does his life have to revolve around you?
I tell myself off, really going in, disappointed and appalled frankly.

You're not exactly the best at this, but at least, suck it up man.

That stops it. If you just stop yourself from thinking, trust me, you can, there's no limit to how much you can get through.
Just go for it.

I go to lesson, sitting beside Grayson, who is sort of mad that I didn't text him back.
"Sorry," I say.
"You better be," he mutters, clicking his pen repeatedly.
"No really," I tell him.
"Whatever."
"Taron told me he loves me."
"When?"
"Yesterday."
"Right," he says, but his brow is raised. He's caught, "Do you think he's lying?"
"I hope not," I reply. I also hoped he wouldn't ask me anything else under that last question. I might get mad.
"Well, me too," he finally said, "You deserve this."
"Thanks," I smile at him. "You could smile at me too, you know."
"No thanks," he said. He looks up when Mr Jones walks in, looking sullen as fuck.
Did I do that?
I hope so.
I think it's silly though. Maybe his dog pissed in his shoes. Our dog did that to Jacob's trainers one time and we all laughed. Maybe Mr Jones wasn't that guy. Maybe his kids, if he had any, scribbled on his papers or maybe he got nagged at. Who knows?
You can always tell when a teacher isn't having it.

They wear it plain on their faces, like the way they blatantly write a fail on a paper they didn't like. What pissed me off, as a student, is that you didn't even have to be wrong, a teacher could just simply not like your work and you're fucked for the rest of your school career with them. That's how it felt with Mrs Wonter most of the time.

He went on with the lesson though. Suddenly, Queen Elizabeth I didn't seem so interesting anymore. I zoned out and lay my head on the table. I could feel Grayson's knuckle slightly knock against my head as he scribbled quickly, trying to keep up with Mr Jones' pace.
"Goddam," Grayson muttered, grunting, "Motherfucker's going too fast."
He's mad, friend.