Laura Silverman

Thumbtacks

The thumbtack leaves a light impression as I press it against my finger; a tiny drop of blood falls loudly onto my wooden desk. People tell me not to prick myself with them, not to prick myself with anything. They tell me it’s weird and bad, but what they really mean to say is: “You’re weird; you’re bad.” Thumbtack. It’s called thumbtack- not corkboard tack, not wall tack. It is a thumbtack. They most have named it that for a reason.

My desk is at the back, far corner of the classroom. Assigned seats plague us; usually seating charts don’t bother me- there aren’t many people I’d want to sit with anyways. But now, in these dreaded seats, I have quite the nuisance of a neighbor. Her head is cocked to the side like my clueless six month puppy; her dyed blonde hair falls to her shoulders. Pink gum snaps between bleached white teeth as she stares at the miniscule puddle of blood on my desk. Snap. Her eyes travel to the thumbtack currently imbedded in my skin. Snap.

“What are you doing?” she asks me, pulling at the long string of pale pink gum. I notice that her gum matches her velour sweat suit.

“Sitting in class,” I respond, twisting the metal object so that the crimson liquid drops out at a faster pace, splashing in opposite directions like the splitting of the red sea.

Snap. “Like, I mean with that thumbtack,” she questions. Her manicured hand has progressed from pulling at her gum to twisting her hair.

“Holding it.”

The pink sweat suit girl sighs, rolls her eyes, and twists back in her seat to face one of her friends. “Like she is such a weirdo,” I hear her complain as if I’m the burden to her existence. I’m not though. To her- to most people- I am nothing. I’m simply crimson blood on a desk. I’m just a thumbtack.

***

At the end of class Mrs. Lewis, my Calculus teacher, asks me if my mother sends me to a shrink.

“No,” I reply, attempting to sidle past her so I can get to my next class. My old English teacher had to take a pregnancy leave, and the new teacher is supposed to arrive today.

“Is she aware that you,” Mrs. Lewis pauses, probably in thought of how to best approach a subject that is none of her business, “that you, uh…you know…do what you…do…you know…that thing you do?”

I have to suppress a smile as my teacher stumbles on her words. It serves her right to be uncomfortable; if she would stop being so nosy, maybe her face would stop turning so red.

“I do a lot of ‘things’,” I respond vaguely, with a hint of sarcasm, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have lit class.”

Mrs. Lewis gives a hopeless nod, letting me pass by her. I never particularly liked Mrs. Lewis. She’s middle aged with a husband fifteen years her senior. She’s hopelessly plain with mousy brown hair and dull brown eyes. Her seemingly boring, drab life leaves her only to get caught up in something more interesting- i.e., a girl who pricks herself with thumbtacks during class. Not exactly riveting, but something to fantasize about.

***

Most of the students are already seated as I slide into my classroom. The final bell accompanies my entrance. For the first time ever, the entire room is silent. Everyone’s attention is riveted on a man who is writing his name on the board. “Mr. Rog— ” it currently says. I watch as our new teacher’s marker freezes at the combined sound of a door slamming and the bell ringing. He caps the marker in his hand, neglecting his partial name, and turns around to face me.

“Late? Miss…” he trails off, waiting for me to insert my last name. I don’t respond. Instead, I walk silently to the back of the classroom and slip into an empty seat.

The teacher continues to stare at me. I notice how young he looks, probably no older than twenty-five. And suddenly the silent classroom makes sense. The new teacher is blatantly good looking. And he obviously knows it. The pushed back long, black hair, the green eyes, the narrow black slacks, and the white sweater. It’s a combination that’s making all the females in the classroom look like a pack of starving wolves.

I realize that he is still waiting for my name. I can already tell what this guy is going to be like. He will refuse to restate his question, but he will also refuse to continue class until I tell him my name. The class seems a bit confused—the slower students can’t understand why the teacher is silently staring at me. Those who do catch on take advantage of the situation by pulling out undone homework.

Refusing to give in, I lift my brown eyes in defiance to meet the teacher’s gaze. He isn’t going to give up, even though he is surely aware our silence has turned into nothing more than a silly game of two petulant children.

“Excuse me,” someone says from the back of the classroom. After a final look at me, the teacher turns his attention to a boy sitting a few seats over from me.

“Yes?” responds the teacher in an annoyed voice. I roll my eyes. Five minutes of class, and I have already pegged this new guy as a complete ass.

“Are we going to actually be doing anything today?”

The teacher sends me another glare. “Not until your classmate gives me her last name.”

“Oh, well in that case, I’m just going to go. Later man.” And then, to the astonishment of the class, the guy gets up and leaves the classroom. What is more astonishing, is that the teacher doesn’t even try to stop him.

“Umm, Mr. Rog…” a student trails off realizing they don’t know his name. “Uh, Mr. R, aren’t you going to get that guy to come back?”

“Why?” the teacher asks, “it’s a lot easier to write a suspension slip than chase a teenager.”

A girl in the front gasps. “You mean that you’re going to suspend him for skipping one class?”

“Well, since he’s skipping, he apparently doesn’t want to be here in the first place; so why would he even care if he was suspended?”

“Oh, well, if that’s the case,” I mutter while picking up my books.

“What do you think you’re doing?” the teacher asks as I make my way down the aisle.

“Getting suspended, obviously,” I sneer.

It’s only when I close the classroom door that I realize I just made an incredibly stupid decision.