Unlikely ✓

Three: Study Buddies

POV: Nathan Westmore

To say that I zoned out a lot when it came to Science class was a major understatement.  I had not been allowed to sit near the windows in the classrooms since the sixth grade.

Now as a senior, things haven't really changed from then.  I knew well if I didn't pass at least one of the tests or a few of the quizzes sent my way I was screwed.

No passing grade, no football.

Even coach Dick would kick me off the team until the problem was fixed.

What stopped me from learning in Science was all the years I spent not understanding it to the point where I wasn't sure how I got this far.  In all honesty, it was shocking that I passed last year at all.

All of my other classes were as simple as walking to me; if I studied for the assignments I would pass with ease.  Science, not so much.

Mrs. Boston, a lady in her mid-fifties, with long grey hair that was always pulled back with her glasses, somehow made her look like the most intimating hippie librarian hybrid.  She was the meanest, toughest, non-forgiving, teacher I have ever had.

She would put cheats on the board and if you didn't get them written down in five or so minutes, well then you would fail the test.  No phones or cameras were allowed to be used either.

My hand felt like it was going to fall off at the rate I was writing.  I wasn't even sure if I would be able to read any of it later, when I needed it.

Even as the door opened and most of the class turned their heads to see who dared interrupt Mrs. Boston, I didn't look up from my messy notes.  I took the time to turn the page to save some time and hopefully room to read my scroll later.

Normally my handwriting was fairly good, at least compared to most of my friends.  Mandy always teased me about it saying things along the lines of it being better than half the people in her calligraphy club including her—who had cursive down before she ever had a use for it.

When I couldn't take it anymore I stopped writing and shook my hand trying desperately to get any feeling other than pain, back in it.

That was when I saw him, again.

"Nice of you to join us today, Mr. Teller?  I'm guessing," Mrs. Boston spoke with intimidation laced into every word.

The rest of the class watched as if she had punched the unfortunate guy in the face. 

I just stared at him.  Noticing how bored and uninterested he looked.

When he didn't say anything in response Mrs. Boston cleared her throat and turned back to the lesson, having everyone's attention back to her again.

Yet, it was like I couldn't pull my stare from him, knowing full well I was being creepy and looking for way too long—and for what?

I didn't quite know.

When I turned back to my unfinished notes, I remembered what I was actually doing.  However, when I looked up to the board, it was all cleared.

So much for passing this year.

The rest of the class went as planned.  Stern tones that made me want to sink into my seat or die rather than be called on by the Nightmare Lady.

Irrational thoughts always managed to cloud my head when I got to this part of class, the part where she would sum up the lesson and pick three very, very unlucky people to call on to make sure they paid attention to what she was saying for the nearly hour-long class.