9:32 AM: First Period
As it turns out. There were two major flaws in his reasoning when he compared his thoughts to rusty thumbtacks. 1. Thumbtacks don't rust easily, at least, the real ones don't. Comparing your thoughts to anything but the best thumbtacks is borderline depression. 2. Even if the thumbtacks were rusty, they wouldn't pop out of a corkboard, corkboards are very hard to 'pop' out of.
Despite these facts, Zack still couldn't find a better metaphor for his racing mind. Especially since it wasn't racing, swirling, popping, or really any of the other things he'd tried to describe his thoughts as. Also, while thinking this over, he'd completely forgotten to do his Algebra work, the three problems that were fondly displayed on the chalkboard, and yeah, this one was actually a chalkboard. Not a whiteboard, damn budget-cuts.
The teacher was asking for questions, and as Zack looked at his paper, noting the scribbles he had been making as to make it look like he had been actually working, he also found he didn't know what the hell this problem was. He raised his hand sheepishly, eyes held to his paper even as he did so.
"Yes, Zachariah?" the teacher asked, Zack could feel the piercing gaze.
"It's Zack." He said gruffly, the teacher nodded lightly and cocked a brow.
"Alright, Zack. Do you have a question?" Zack nodded in reply and sighed deeply.
"Numbers one through three, please?" He couldn't help a slight smirk as the teacher glared at him, almost red-faced.
"Did you do the work, Zack?" He demanded. Zack smirked, this time it was wider, and more noticeable. He shook his head and the teacher sighed.
"No. I didn't do it, because I didn't know how. Would you teach me how, sir?"
Somehow people had concluded that being a smartass was a bad thing, Zack wasn't entirely sure why it would be a bad thing for any part of his body, or anyone else's body to be smart. Especially his/anyone else's ass. You'd think the ass would be the stupidest part of the body, so wouldn't it be good for it to be smart?
Some words just don't make sense, that's the way he quieted the debate in his head. But the teacher hadn't liked the debate he had held orally with him, so, here he was, outside on the cold cement. Which actually wasn't very cold since it was Florida and fall. This somehow equates to summer anywhere else. Cold cement is much more pathetic, poetic, and also, thought provoking. Isn't it? After a while of thinking about his Algebra assignment and trying to listen in on the description of how to do it he resigned himself to determining the evaporation point of some saliva on the concrete by measuring the temperature outside with his cell's Weather Channel gadget.
It was 102 degrees Fahrenheit, probably.