Sunday Afternoon

Too soon I was heading to my music theory class, the class I hated with a passion. It was stupid and useless to even me, I find that there is no use to this subject at all. Who really cares about dissecting the music of dead people, seeing as that’s all we do, this seemed like my millionth year taking this dumb class. It seemed worse than History that repeated so monotonously.

Notebook open, I wrote, scribbling away with my favorite purple pen, not caring in the least bit. I was one of the students that could get away with it because I tend to pay attention, even while I’m up in the clouds, plus there are some good sides to being a good student.

Truthfully, all I heard from Mr. Henderson was ‘yadda, yadda, yadda… yadda, yadda, yadda… yadda, yadda, yadda.’ Once in a while I’ll hear something worthwhile, but today didn’t seem like that kind of day. I ran a hand through my hair, wanting nothing more but to go to sleep, I hadn’t gotten much last night for staying up so late with my notebook and my iPod, hiding under the covers of my bed. Or maybe having my fingers dance across the piano would make everything better.

I heard the door open then close. “Damn, wrong class isn’t it?” I heard the person ask. That would probably send Mr. Henderson into a lecture on not using ‘such language’. And it had before he asked if the guy – who was on my bad side now – was, probably going to give him a detention or something, let’s just say this teacher was a pain in the arse. “Carter Guenadere”

I knew that last name. It was the guy from earlier, from inside the office. I looked up, taking another look at him. The first thing I noticed was the complete look of annoyance on his face, then the eyeliner, then the snakebites. I watched Mr. Henderson check his roster. “No, no, Mr. Guenadere, you’re in this class.” I swear, I heard him groan. But who wouldn’t when the class is music theory? Seriously, I hated this class, and I’m pretty sure everyone else here did too.

I closed my eyes lightly before going back to writing, zoning out until I heard my name. I didn’t look up though, not even glance when I heard the chair to the desk beside me slide out. I just continued to scribble down in my notebook, my life, my hair creating a veil around me. I closed my eyes wondering why Mr. Henderson had to sit him beside me.

Here I am, the girl that literally begged for something new and was now I wanted it all gone and everything back to normal. It shows you how courageous I am. I shook my head slightly, now my hair was practically eating my face. All those thoughts of me being a total coward out of my head, I paid attention to the class, jotting down the notes like a good girl.

I wanted nothing more than to have time speed up and for it to be lunch, but that only happened in the movies for perfect people. I wanted my fingers to dance across the piano like they do almost every day during lunch. I could well be at the cafeteria, socializing and being nice, but I’d much rather be out of it in here, the piano in front of me as I slowly worked on my own composition. It was just to keep my boredom at bay at one time or another, but it soon turned into something I couldn’t stop until I was finished with it, and I knew well I wasn’t done.

As Mr. Henderson droned on and on and on about something or another, I tapped my fingers across my desk, pretending I was at the piano, I sat up a little straighter than normal and flicked my fringe away from my eyes. Would a B or a C# note sound better there? I kept playing that part over and over again on the desk, trying to figure out which note to use.

I jumped slightly when the bell – which in no way sounded like a bell at all – rang, forgetting I was in class. Two more periods, Quinn, two more periods before lunch.