A Dream Is A Wish Your Heart Makes

Is it posibble for time to seriosuly slow down when you want something to happen? I feel like the clock takes a minute to tick out a second. First hour biology drags on, and Mr. Everson keeps blabbing about cell structure. I'm sorry, but when am I EVER going to need to know about the nucleus of a whatcha-ma-call-it protista thingy-ma-bob? Exactly. Never.

Alright, so maybe I'm a little anxious. Maybe my hearts beating three thousand times a second and I swear the kid next to me can hear it. I mean, maybe its even because of Jake. Because I get to see him today. Two hours left.

I'm hard-core spacing out when a paper ball hits me in the head. I turn around to look, but no one seems to be looking at me, or even noticing that I exist. I can't find anyone I know, but hey, its only September. Plenty of time to make new friends, right?

I open the paper, and I can only see one word in the center, the pencil mark grey and smeared. 'Skank.' I turn around in my seat so fast I almost fall out, which was enough to cause a scene.

"Ms. Ryan, can I help you with something?" Mr. Everson asks.

"No, sorry... I was just spacing out, I guess."

"Oh. Did you hear that, class? Ms. Ryan was spacing out. Could someone please give a definition of that term, please?" You have got to be kidding me.

Some dweeby kid named Nate raises his hand a bit too eagerly. He's got thick-rimmed glasses that look nearly 3 inches thick and a pocket protector. Please.

"Yes, Nate?"

Nate clears his throat, and I swear I can hear his nerdy-phlemy-ness from here.

"Spacing out is when you are daydreaming about something more interesting." Nate says.

"Thank you. So, Ms. Ryan, please inform the class about what was so much more interesting than my lecture."

My face must be the color of a tomato by this point. I feel like I'm in a bad movie, my face and palms are sweating. 'This is so gross.' is all I'm thinking.

"Uh, um, I wasn't really, uh, thinking about anything. Um, yeah." God, could I sound any more dumb?

Mr. Everson started walking towards me, and it was evident he had seen the crumpled up piece of paper on my desk. I could see the glow he got, as if it was his lifelong dream getting kids in trouble.

"What is this?" he says as he picks up the paper ball and opens it. Mr. Everson adjusts his glasses, and starts to read it aloud.

"Its says ska... Alright, who wrote this?" All joking aside, Mr. Everson looks pissed.

"I'm serious, class. This is the most disrespectful thing I've seen in years. I want someone to come clean right now."

People start getting restless in their seats, looking everywhere but at Mr. Everson. And me. Honestly, I never knew a ceiling could be so damn interesting.

"Fine. Morgan, who wrote this?" He asks me like I know. I stare at him blankly.

"Morgan Ryan, I asked you a question. Who. Wrote. This?"

"I have no idea."

"Did you write this? Were you intending to pass it to someone?" What! Does he think this is my idea of funny? I know I'm a little twisted and I understand I may not be the nicest person out there, but I'm not that big of a bitch. Honestly.

"No, I didn't write it, I don't know who did."

"Alright, Ms. Ryan. I'm going to need to talk to you after class." And just like that, he went back to the front of the class, and kept talking about some stupid cell stuff. Like none of it happened.