Status: Okay, so the whole 'get everything off my laptop' plan went to hell. The harddrive is messed up. All the chapters I'd written are gone. I don't think I'll delete ACA and I will probably continue it, but I can't say how long it will be before I do. I am considering redoing it completely.
A Cigarette Affair
Collecting dust.
“…and that’s how you solve one-step equations. Now, let’s move on to two-step equations, which are a bit more difficult.” A subsequent groan arises from the rest of the class. Only she is silent. Her mind is elsewhere, oblivious to the incessant drone.
“Fuuuuuuck,” she mutters, slouching against her desk. Her hair spills across the graffitied surface, a monotone contrast of mahogany against the lacquer. A head turns in her direction briefly, beady eyes assessing her like a scientist dissecting a new species of bug, before turning away in obvious dismissal. What the hell’s her problem? she ponders briefly, before turning her thoughts towards more interesting areas.
Like how many more minutes are left in class. She doesn’t need this. School, that is. It’s just so much bullshit and they seem to be trying to cram all of it into her brain as quickly as possible. She really didn’t need it at all.
“Miss Barlick,” she hears and twitches inwardly at the sound of the teacher’s strong southern accent. Sure, everyone else in Kentucky had that similar country accent, but Mr. Bronson’s is thicker. Maybe he’s from South Carolina. “Miss Barlick!”
She cringes and a blush heats her cheeks under the pressure of the man’s stare and the snickers that resound through the class.
“Yes, Mr. Bronson?”
“As elevated as you think you are above such lowly tasks as learning Algebra, I would appreciate it if you would pay attention,” he drawled and her cheeks darkened. Did all teachers find a sick amusement in humiliating their students? It must be something in the water; mad cow disease, or whatnot.
Mr. Bronson waits for her mumbled, “Sorry,” before turning back to the smart board. Immediately, she slumps down in her seat and turns her head to stare out the window a few aisles away. She really doesn’t need this.
“Fuuuuuuck,” she mutters, slouching against her desk. Her hair spills across the graffitied surface, a monotone contrast of mahogany against the lacquer. A head turns in her direction briefly, beady eyes assessing her like a scientist dissecting a new species of bug, before turning away in obvious dismissal. What the hell’s her problem? she ponders briefly, before turning her thoughts towards more interesting areas.
Like how many more minutes are left in class. She doesn’t need this. School, that is. It’s just so much bullshit and they seem to be trying to cram all of it into her brain as quickly as possible. She really didn’t need it at all.
“Miss Barlick,” she hears and twitches inwardly at the sound of the teacher’s strong southern accent. Sure, everyone else in Kentucky had that similar country accent, but Mr. Bronson’s is thicker. Maybe he’s from South Carolina. “Miss Barlick!”
She cringes and a blush heats her cheeks under the pressure of the man’s stare and the snickers that resound through the class.
“Yes, Mr. Bronson?”
“As elevated as you think you are above such lowly tasks as learning Algebra, I would appreciate it if you would pay attention,” he drawled and her cheeks darkened. Did all teachers find a sick amusement in humiliating their students? It must be something in the water; mad cow disease, or whatnot.
Mr. Bronson waits for her mumbled, “Sorry,” before turning back to the smart board. Immediately, she slumps down in her seat and turns her head to stare out the window a few aisles away. She really doesn’t need this.
♠ ♠ ♠
I'm aware that "graffitied" doesn't appear to be an actual word. {frowns} I like the sound of it, though, so I'm keeping it as it is. Besides, what author hasn't made up a word here and there? :]