Let's Pretend

As soon as I step foot into class, I realize I can’t just march my way up to the front of the room and look through the partners list, could I? Especially if the teacher was right there, watching everyone’s move like a hawk to its pretty. So, I decide to just wait it out until he announces the project to the rest of the class. Then when he tells us to, I can run to the list and see if Gardener was really telling the truth or not.

Speaking of Gardener, he walks into class like he owned the school – which he does not. Again, it isn’t one of those clichés where he’s a jock, quarterback, or whatever, and I hate him to death. He’s actually quite the opposite. With his ebony hair and gray eyes, and what my mom calls “charm” (both our moms are friends, apparently), he’s a drama geek. He usually plays the lead male roles in all of the school productions, so whenever he tells you something, you never know if he’s trying to annoy you or is actually telling the truth.

And I’m stuck in the situation right now. I have no idea if he’s telling the truth, or just pulling my leg.

He takes his seat two rows next to mind. I turn to glare at him to find that he is still grinning at me while chomping down on his gum. As secretly as I could, which was just me running a hand through my red hair, I flip him the bird.

Jerk just laughs at me.

The bell rings, alerting everyone in the hallways to hurry their butts up and get to class. It is, after all, almost the end of the school year. There’s just two more months remaining.

“Alright, class. Settle down,” Mr. Connelly, aka the demon who decides my fate with Gardener, yells over the noise, his voice cracking more than any normal person’s should.

Mr. Connelly is a skinny man who everyone suspects to be gay. His dark brown hair is cut short, like a buzz cut, and has two different colored eyes – one green and one blue. Every now and then, he sneaks food into his mouth in the middle of class, making the flabby skin on his chin jiggle. He occasionally picks his nose, too, when he thinks no one is looking. If he isn’t wearing a suit that fits him awkwardly, he is wearing white jeans and a tight, navy blue t-shirt with the words, “Rip Girl!” in yellow…decorated with yellow pictures of flowers and a yellow surfer girl riding a wave.

As my peers' noise diminishes into silence, a track of classical music is all that is heard in the background.

“Okay. So, now that I have your attention, I have a huge announcement to make. As you all know, the school year is coming to an end, and since you guys are seniors, you have to pass this class with fifty credits or more,” Mr. Connelly says, pausing to stare at our reactions, which wasn’t much, might I add.

“So, to help those of you who need the grade, under fifty credits or not, I have decided to give you an end of year project. You are to memorize and act out—not recite—a Shakespearean sonnet with a partner. And those of you who think you can bypass this assignment by picking your friends and fooling around on presentation day, think again! I have chosen each of your partners, and I expect all of you not to screw up. This is, after all, eighty-five percent of your final grade in my class.”

At stating the last sentence, everyone in the room panics. Some people yell in surprise and distress, some scream whilst grabbing the hair on each side of their head and pulling, and some slam their faces into the desk in front of them. I was part of the latter category.

“And the sonnet will be one of my choosing!” he yells over the noise, moving to sit down at his wooden desk so that he can indulge himself in the Skokie Review, the local newspaper.

It takes a total of ten minutes and thirty-two seconds for the rest of the class to quiet down. I should know – I was counting. Once the class quiets down again, he sets his newspaper down and stands back up, the rest of the students’ eyes on him. He seems to love the attention, because he smiles slightly, the corners of his mouth turning up.

“I don’t know what all the fuss is about, now. I still have more news for the project,” he grins, his voice cracking even more. “I didn’t get to the best part. Not only will it be a Shakespearean poem, but it will be a poem of my choosing at random.”

Even more groans reverberate off the walls.

“Now that you have wasted over fifteen minutes of class, use the rest of the forty-five minutes to look up your partner’s here at my desk, find your partner, and collect your sonnet from me. You can start memorizing it, or you can turn it into a paper airplane – your choice,” he adds lamely.

As soon as he sits back down at his desk and takes out his newspaper, I bolt to the front of the room to check the list. I use my finger to find my name, tracing through all four papers, and finally find my name.

Zoe Munson.

I sweep my finger slightly to the right and use all my willpower not to cuss right there and then. Instead, I growl under my breath at the name.

Eric Garner.

I storm to the seat next to mine, and plop my ass down on the seat next to Gardener’s empty one. After about two minutes, he comes back smiling, and holding two sheets of white paper.

“So, partner, should we start memorizing this lovely piece, already?” Eric asks, still grinning at me like he won the lottery. He was probably just doing it to get on my nerves, since he knew I wasn’t so thrilled to be partnered up with him.

“Yeah, whatever,” I agree curtly, crossing my arms over my chest.

He places one of the papers on surface of the desk I’m sitting at, and I sigh when I glance at it. It has to be one of the most cliché sonnets to be assigned in the whole class.

“Why did he even choose romance sonnets for this class?” I complain, holding the paper up to the light, hoping that it would transform into something less romantically awkward.

Gardener just shrugs, skimming over the piece.

“Whatever, Eric,” I sigh, “what’re you doing afterschool? Got any drama activities?” I put the sheet of paper back down on my desk in defeat.

“Why, kid? Are you asking me out on a date?” he questions, turning his head towards me and wiggling his eyebrows in a suggestive manner.

“Yes,” I deadpan sarcastically.

He shakes his head in regret, pouting slightly. “I hate to disappoint you, kid, but I don’t date children. I’m old enough to be your father!”

My left eye twitches in annoyance, and I have to pinch the bridge of my nose to stop myself from snapping at him. “You’ve only been eighteen for two months, and older than me by three. It isn’t physically possible for you to have produced sperm cells at negative six months to have been able to conceive me, so no. Incorrect.”

He pulls his head away slightly, a little disturbed and uncomfortable. “Please don’t talk about my sperm.”

“Anyway, I just want to get this project over with,” I say, changing the subject, “so I don’t have to spend any of my valuable time with you.”

I run a fair-skinned hand through my hair.

“You say that now, Zee, but at the end of this whole project, you’ll be soooo in love with me.”

I give him my best “you’re crazy” look, and double over in laughter. My stomach muscles begin to burn from laughing so hard, and I’m sure my usually pale face turns a ghastly shade of tomato.

“Yes, kid. Deny your love for me,” he says, staring at me with a straight face, “but sooner or later you’re going to want a piece of this hot bod, and you're going to lose your chance! Then you'll regretfully say, ‘God, I really do wish I tapped that fine ass,’ and cry hysterically when my swarm of fan-girls push you out of the picture.”

I smirk in amusement, not quite believing a conversation this ridiculous was happening.

Remember how I said how Eric and I were more of acquaintances than enemies? These were one of those rare times where we actually got along...one of those rare times when he wasn’t annoying the living shit out of me. It was also one of those rare times when I wasn’t shooting him one of my infamous death glares or punching him in the face. Speaking of laying one on him, the one I gave him last week is still faintly healing. I can still see the yellowish hue of the fading bruise on his right cheekbone.

“To answer your question, though, I don’t have any more drama. The last production, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, was the last one of the school year,” Gardener answers, turning in his seat to face me. “How about you? Any Science Bowl-y stuff?”

I shake my head, staring up at the clock on the wall. 3:21

“Okay, well, then I guess we’ll work on it at your place,” he decides, glancing up at the clock as well, and then proceeds to put his paper away in his backpack.

“Mhmm,” I hum, doing the same, but then stop abruptly when I realize what he just said.

“Wait, what?” I ask, which happened to be the exact time the bell rang at three-twenty-three.

“See ya!” he yells, bolting for the door and disappearing as fast as I could blink.