Show Me, Sensei

1| I Am Seeing Your Panties

"Don't be cautious, don't be kind. You committed, I'm your crime. Push my button anytime. You got your finger on the trigger, but your trigger finger's mine." —Billie Eilish.

Chapter Theme Song: 'Copycat' by Billie Eilish.

••

•Edit: IMPORTANT: PLEASE DO NOT PLAGIARIZE OR STEAL MY WORK, I WILL KNOW AND TAKE ACTIONS. This book is heavily copyrighted, and I would be so delighted to get my lawyer involved. Money makes me happy, you know.

THIS BOOK WAS WRITTEN FIRST. IF YOU FIND ANYTHING TOO SIMILAR LET ME KNOW ASAP.

Kelly

I hate my teacher.

And it's not the type of hate that people would deem as tolerable. It is the kind that makes you feel like encircling your palms around his neck and compressing the air out of his throat. The type that makes you want to put a large glob of glue on his chair and spoil his perfectly ironed trousers. Or puncture his tires and pull a pointy key across his shiny BMW.

Mean? I am not. If you knew him, you would be of the very same belief. He's annoying and arrogant, and the girls here at Camber High do a remarkable job of feeding his ego every day. He looks about twenty-five but is a lot crankier than my grandad. He has a great built, jet black hair, and chocolate eyes with little sparks of grey inside them. Whoever irons his clothes needs an award, and I have never seen him wear a shirt more than once. He's good looking, I'll give him that, but his personality stinks. And when I say stinks, I mean stepping in a pile of dog shit stinks. I am not exaggerating.

"Ms. Young?"

If his pants get any tighter, I will personally pull him to a tailor and have her loosen every hem on it. What is he? Some Elvis Presley wanna-be? God, and why is his hair so shiny? I wouldn't be surprised if he used all the goddamn grease in his Vaseline bottle this morning. I hate how he paces across the room during every lesson, prying over into people's notebooks and eavesdropping on whispered conversations. Doesn't he have a life? Doesn't he have a wife? He should get one; perhaps then he wouldn't be so inquisitive.

"Ms. Kelly Young?!"

I jerk in my seat, coming back to reality and realizing that the entire class is looking in my direction. Including Mr. Tight Pants, who is currently folding his muscular arms across his chest, his veins protruding under his tanned skin.

I chew on my lip and fix the hem of my pleated skirt over my thighs, blinking my eyes awkwardly. "Yes?"

"Who was it that had led the French Revolution?"

What? That's the topic we're on? I thought we were discussing The Civil Rights Movement.

I must look extremely dumb as I lean over to my friend Derick, attempting to locate the answer in his opened notebook. He gives me a timid expression as his eyes travel from me and to Mr. Todd.