Cracks in Anchors

l'amour est si mauvais

Mr. Styles was a god on earth - literally. His hair bounced against his head and his khaki pants hung loosely off his hips. His pullover sweater clung to his defined chest and with each intake of air it lifted at the bottom to give all the girls a real-life sneak peak of everything they’ve dreamed about. He wandered through the halls with an air of “look-at-me-I-know-you-want-me,” and that air couldn’t have been more right, for every girl within a 2-mile radius would smile and turn their heads and forget what they were saying when they saw Mr. Styles.

Which was happening now, as the break between sixth and seventh period was almost over and Mr. Styles was mom-walking towards Madame Cl- his classroom. Manila folders overflowing with crinkled papers fumbled together in his hands and a blue pen clenched itself in between his teeth. His usually calm eyes were darting everywhere and he almost ran into a few students who were shell-shocked by his attractiveness. Which I wasn’t. Psh, no way. He was just another British boy who all the girls thought was more mature and sexier and romantic than all the American male population combined. Which I doubt was true, because there had to be a few good looking, nice and mature American boys, right?

I didn’t know, but I couldn’t dwindle on it for longer because the bell rang and I was still a few steps away from French class. So I had to jog into the room, sighing because nobody was there anyway, including said teacher. I sat down in my middle desk, where I could fall asleep without the teacher noticing and pretending to listen when I really wasn’t; when I was day dreaming about Kpop and trying to write in Korean, which I failed at horrendously.

But I digress.

I took out last nights worksheet and waited with feet crossed for someone to enter, and soon later the other students did. They were rushing and breathing heavy and cursing to themselves and already had an apology on the tip of their tongue - but a collective sigh filled the room when they noticed Mr. Styles was even later than them. So they all sat down - those girls said hi to me and I said hi back - and a guy I recognized as a football or soccer or baseball player turned to me and asked, “Where’s Mr. Styles?” I retained the urge to roll my eyes - how was I supposed to know, was I Mr. Styles keeper? No, but I smiled politely and uttered a quick “I don’t know.” The guy nodded and turned back around, joining a conversation taking place between two other stocky boys.

I watched the clock tick as Mr. Styles was still absent, and I was getting anxious to just 1)sleep or 2)leave. Option 2 was becoming more and more appealing as time drifted by without any teacher or classwork or French words, and when I was about to say ‘fuck this’ and walk out, a flustered Mr. Styles ran through the door and dropped an armful of folders onto his desk. He was shuffling them around and running a hand through his hair and puffing out his cheeks and oh god, was he hot. The girls stared and giggled behind manicured hands and the boys just groaned and rolled their eyes, bitter because their chances of getting fucked were getting ruined by the attractiveness of Mr. Styles.
Mr. Styles eventually turned towards the awaiting class and sighed, closing his eyes once again.

“Kids, I’m really sorry. I was busy and had to get a bunch of bloody sh-stuff that needed to be filled out and I don’t even know what I’m saying anymore.” He took a quick breath and pulled at the collar of his purple sweater. “Do you all have your homework?”

I thought it was funny that in one minute he could be flustered and apologizing and clumsy while in the next second he could become composed and teacher-ly and ask us about homework. But that was the condition of Mr. Styles.

Shuffling filled the opaque room as papers filled with scrawl and probably bullshit answers were pushed forwards to form a haphazard pile on the desk in front of the waiting Mr. Styles. When all were collected he smiled and grabbed the sheets, tossing them on his desk just as carelessly as a student would and turned back to us.

“So,” he clapped his hands together, “I actually want to give you guys a quiz..” The class erupted in groans - exay me because, hell, I was pretty good in French - before Mr. Styles could finish.

“Hey hey, I’m not bloody done yet!”

The class quieted.

“But it’s not going to count or anything, I just want to see how good you all are in French.”

I internally high-fived myself because, as I said before, I was boss at French. I mean, I couldn’t speak it fluently or live in France or anything, but I could get by the high school-level of French they required. So I wasn’t really worried.

But most of the class was, for all the boys had their heads down and the girls groaned and pleaded with a chorus of “No, please don’t!” “Mr. Styles, you can’t do this to us!” and the ever-so-popular, “Can it be a group test?”

To which Mr. Styles just shook his head and began passing out the devious quiz. And as he passed by, placing a paper on my desk, his hand lingered a little too long and his smile was a little too mischievous and I swore everyone could hear my heart berating a little too fast inside my chest.
♠ ♠ ♠
My amazing kpop playlist for this chapter guys;
fiction fiction~
oh ma laday\(*-*)/
love is badddd
you aint shit without your crew \m/

awgfuye idk does this chapter suck? expect more harry in each chapter.