Her Coffee Hearts and Angel Wings

Chapter 3

    “You’re late.” I’m greeted by those words, spat from the mouth of none other than Damian Wayne. 

    “I’m not late, Damian,” I respond, resisting the urge to nervously tug at a honey blonde curl. “The bell hasn’t even rang yet. Take your seat.”
    Unsurprisingly, he doesn’t. 

    “You’re usually here at 7:50, Silver,” he snarls, eyebrows narrowed fiercely. “We’ve been loitering in the hallway for fifteen minutes!”
    “If you’d like me to listen to your words, you’ll have to address me appropriately, Damian,” I say calmly, and cross the room to set my briefcase down on my desk. His face darkens and he looks disgruntled, deciding, probably, whether or not to follow me and hound me some more.

    The kid retreats to his desk, shoulders hunched hostilely, and I have to suppress a smile. Score! Apart from one instance of I demand you repeat the equation, Silver, and him muttering intellectually stunted blonde under his breath, the first part of class goes by with only these minimal disruptions from Damian.

    “Okay, looks like it’s lunchtime,” I announce, setting down my white board marker. “We’ll continue working on this when you return.” The kids filed out of the classroom, Daiman last, like usual. “Damian,” I call, crossing my fingers under my desk that we would both escape from this unharmed. He pretends not to hear me and is about to leave the classroom when I raise my voice and say his name again. “Damian.” He stops at the door and turns around, head high, haughty.

    “What?”

    “Come here.” He drags his feet over to my desk and stands slouched, hands shoved in his pockets, unpleasant expression settled on his face.

    “If this is about--” he begins, but I cut him off, not wanting to let him direct the conversation.

    “Damian, this is about your essay. The one you were supposed to write on Halee Trent.” His face doesn’t change at all.

    “What about it?” His expression may be the same, but his voice is slightly agitated.

    “Damian, I’ve spoken to you numerous times before about addressing others in a respectful manner. In your first sentence alone you call Halee Trent a harlot, a whore, and a skank-- all words that I’ve asked you not to use. Then you wrote the essay on Batman. I don’t know if you were trying to be funny but it’s not. I don’t want to give you a zero-- but I will, unless you rewrite the essay and give it to me by next class.” 

    “Next class?” His face is pinched and angry. “I need more time.”
    “It only has to be one page, Daiman,” I argue. “It shouldn’t take you a long time. If you can’t get it done when you have the whole evening, maybe you need to be taking an extra class in writing.” His face turns white from anger.

    “Are you implying that I have inferior academic skills?” His fists are clenched and I tap my foot against the ground under my desk wearily.

    “Calm down. I’m trying to help you, Damian, not insult you. I can enroll you in another class, it would keep you after school for an extra hour. You would learn writing and researching skills.” His face has gone from white to infuriated red. 

    “Help me?!” He spits. “All you’ve done since the beginning of the year, Silver, is try to fail me.” My face hardens and I shake my head.

    “That’s not fair. I would never just try to fail a student, Damian. That’s ludicrous. I care about each one of you, and I want you to do well. But you have to try, too.”
    It’s like the boy is deaf to my words.

    “You’re an interior grade of human,” he snarls, and I can tell he’s losing control. “You’re a harlot, and you were late this morning because you probably spent the night corralling men for pay. Because you’d be too poor to live without seducing men because that’s all you’re good at! You’re worthless, Silver!” 

    And then he storms away, slamming the door to the classroom behind him. 

    I fall back into my chair, blood rushing in my ears, completely astounded. He’s taken it too far this time--  Damian Wayne has crossed the line.

    It’s time to call in the big guns. It’s time-- past time--  to call his father.