The Geek Revolution ✓

03 | gossip

I THINK MOM'S CULINARY CAPABILITIES were lost somewhere in the family gene pool.

I certainly don't cook or bake well.

But Home Economics seemed like an easy A, as well as being one of the only classes that worked within the slots left by my other classes.

Alongside Home Economics, I have five other classes. Three AP classes — Calculus, English and Biology — Music Theory as my elective, oh, and Gym because this stupid school district has mandatory P.E. curricula at all grade levels.

When it comes to the sewing unit that I read comes later in the year, I'll probably have more confidence. But at the moment the electric egg beater on the desk is giving me major anxiety. I chose Angela — a quiet girl with soft features and a softer voice — to be my partner because she looked accommodating. More importantly, she was sitting alone.

So I guess it wasn't really a choice.

After the attendance has already been taken, Terrence waltzes into the classroom. A shiver of familiarity, and something akin to nervousness, runs through me. I almost want to duck under the counter to avoid being seen by him.

Mrs. Fern attempts to reprimand Terrence, but he smiles sweetly at her and says, "Mrs. Fern, my attendance record is going to be as mediocre as the last three years. I don't care about it. Admin doesn't care about it because I'm not going to college. Do you really care?"

She scowls, and tells him to pick up an ingredient pack. We're making chocolate chip cookies today.

When Terrence turns, I duck my head instantly, trying to escape making eye contact. I'm very sure he recognises me as he passes Angela and my counter, but I don't care to verify that by looking.

Thirty minutes later, the polished counters are lost under dustings of flour and cinnamon, in the class' efforts to produce a solid batch of chocolate chip cookies.

Angela and I keep mostly to ourselves this period. The contact we make is brief and restrained, seeing as neither of us are willing to talk. See, if it hadn't been for Leah and Terrence both carrying the weight of the conversation earlier this morning, I'm not sure I would have met anyone by now.

Several times, I feel someone throwing chocolate chips at my head.

Several times, I turn around, only to see a normal scene of busy teenagers and cooking ingredients.

And then there is Terrence, mixing a batter of his own, whistling innocently. Whistling too innocently. I'm sure he feels my paranoid looks back at him; he keeps meeting my gazes with a dazzling smile of his own. 

"Problem, Sophie?"

"Real mature," I shoot back.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

He does.

My suspicions are raging, pushing me to get revenge.

For a few minutes, I set back to shaping and placing my raw cookies onto an oven tray. Terrence returns to his whistling-while-working, thinking I have let the whole incident go.

No-one really suspects when I pick up the tray and head towards the ovens, brushing past Terrence plating up his second batter. When his back is turned, I twist the temperature knob on his oven right up. Not enough to catch on fire — but only just.

Now I wait.

There's a soundtrack of evil laughing playing in my head the whole time. It takes five minutes for him to sniff the air, tentatively at first, then with growing panic. It's almost impossible for me to bite down the mad laughter that bubbles up when he flings open his oven, revealing charred cookies.