I glanced around and sighed; no matter what happened, a high school is still a high school. Even though it's Crawdley School for the Mentally Challenged. But I'm not mentally challenged. I just think outside the box too much. Honest. But no, they didn't believe me. Just because of ONE little incident, they decided that I was completely insane and sent me here.
But even after a few weeks, it still seemed too much like the hell-hole that was my previous school. Of course, all the students here are complete nutcases, except me, obviously, and the teachers all think we're completely insane (which is true, but once again, they think I'm mentally challenged too.) "Oh no," they always tell us, "we don't think you're crazy. We just know that you all have little problems, like- Donny, please, there is no bunny in that corner. Put the knife down." (Okay, that only happened a few times, but still. I'm trying to get my point across.)
Anyway, the point is that I'm living in a freaking boarding school that houses the psychologically insane, but still it's too much like a damn high school. Which probably means that every other kid in this egotistical country all have mental problems. I'm excluded, of course. I am perfectly sane, despite popular opinion. Seriously.
The only differences I can see are the teachers and kids, as I might have mentioned before. And the classes. Can't forget the classes. There's one which basically teaches us how to meditate. I don't need to fucking meditate. 15 year olds have no reason to learn the "fine art" of sitting cross-legged while humming. Because that's all I do in that class, though Ms. Jacks always glares at me whenever I start humming "Bohemian Rhapsody".
Honestly. What's her problem? It's too awesome of a song not to be hummed while meditating.
Oh, and then there's "group therapy" hour, which is even worse. Do you have the so-called "guideroom" at your school? Or perhaps it's called "homeroom", where there's about thirty extra minutes for the teachers to talk about what's going on at the school?
Yeah, well, imagine that, except with mentally challenged kids (and, if I must add, teachers) discussing their problems in a circle and how they might be able to solve that problem.
As if their problems weren't obvious enough already.
"This is so stupid," I muttered to myself, slumping back lower in my seat as the science teacher droned on about the specifics of chemical reactions. Or something like that.
"C'mon, Liz," my jittery roommate whispered next to me, smiling nervously, "it's not all bad. You- you just have to-" she twitched a bit "-get used to it, is all." Then she hurriedly turned to her right, glancing fearfully at anything that resided in that general direction.
Rebecca, from what I've gathered, has dextrophobia- which, for all those unaware, is the fear of things to the right side of the body. I think she also has alektorophobia, geniophobia, and possibly even consecotaleophobia, which is the fear of chickens, the fear of chins, and the fear of chopsticks respectively.
"Yeah, well," I muttered back, "I don't even need to be here. It's so stupid."
"Liz, if you're here, then it means that you have a problem too, just like the rest of us." Rebecca started to frown.
"Are you kidding? It was just one little incident! I can't be here for something so small!" I stage-whispered in a rather loud voice.
Luckily, the science teacher—Mr. James, if my memory serves me correct—was too caught up in his nonsensical rambling to notice.
"Well…" Rebecca leaned further in her desk, voice becoming nearly inaudible now. "…You did say that the voices told you to-"
A ruler slammed on her desk, and we both jumped, along with the rest of the dozing class. I say this teacher shouldn't be teaching at a school like this, as quite a few of the kids ran for cover after a loud noise like that.
"What do you think you're doing?" he snapped harshly. (Ha. As is anything being described as "snapped" couldn't be harsh.)
"Er…" I tried to think of an excuse, but failed miserably. "Making lovely conversation in the midst of this group therapy session?"
Of course, I knew it wasn't group therapy, but we were allowed to privately discuss with peers during that time. Plus, all of us were labeled insane, so lacking the ability to know what class we're in is possible, right?
Predictably, though, Mr. James' eyes narrowed.
"Lunch detention," he spat, "both of you." Then he turned around and walked briskly away to the front of the class again, seeming to forget about what just happened. Rebecca returned to keeping track of the things to her right, and some of the kids crawled out of their hiding places and sat back down in their desks.
A few weeks in Crawdley School for the Mentally Challenged, and it's still the same as any other high school in America.
Well that's a comforting thought.
NOTE: There is no such thing as a school for the mentally challenged, as far as I am aware, so don't review bothering me about that. Oh, and should I write a second chapter? Just wondering if anybody's interested in this...