Just Another Day
The words flowed like syrup in January, slow and stumbling, churning over each other in the clumsy race to leave my mind and my mouth. I had never presented a successful speech in my life. This one was worse than usual.
I felt the emotions welling up, overwhelming my mind and making my hands clammy at my sides. I tried not to look at the faces, but my eyes kept wandering to guy playing CandyCrush on his phone in the back row. The high-pitched music sounding from the game added an explosive element to the melting-pot of frustration and stimuli crowding my subconscious. I honestly couldn't control the reflex- I picked up a marker from the board behind me, and threw it as hard as I could. It bounced off his head and flew off in another direction, sending the class into fits of outrageous laughter. "Hey!" he had dropped his phone and sat rubbing his head.
I've always been better at sports than academia: exhibit A.
"Christiana!"
"In conclusion," I rambled quickly, "the industrial revolution was-"
"Christiana, may I see you outside?"
"was essential to the-"
"NOW, please?"
"development of western civilization," I muttered as I slumped out the door. The teacher held it open for me, drilled me with an 'I'm serious this time' look, and slammed it behind him as we went out into the hall.
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"So you see, I really shouldn't be here," I explain to the detention monitor after I relate the story to her. She looks wearily skeptical, her eyebrows raised under her frizzy hair and huge glasses and her mouth pulled down as if it's not used to smiling.
"If Randy-the-Asshole hadn't been on his phone- and wait a minute, why isn't he in detention too? I mean, come on! Everyone knows the American history teacher is sexist. He actually sounds sad when he teaches on the women's suffrage movement. And the guys in his class may as well be gods; they get away with everything!"
The detention monitor is still looking at me with the same bland expression. She's heard this a million times, I'm sure.
I pause, hoping she'll say something. She doesn't.
"So," I say, hoping to prompt her, "I was thinking that since this is all a misunderstanding, I could just leave now..."
"Sit," she says. No empathy in this woman, I swear.
I turn and roll my eyes and dump my backpack into an empty seat.
"I'm going to miss soccer practice," I pout. "Hope you're happy."
The frizzy-haired detention monitor just ignores me and goes back to typing.