Chapter 2- Something Interesting
"Ah," he says, looking serious, "Mr. Wheeler, from now on I suggest you sit in the front." That caused everyone else to freggin' laugh. Jerks. Mr. Peters doesn't even do anything about them! Asshole! I frown and lean my head onto my hand.
Worst day ever. Why? Because in all of my damn classes, the teachers put me in the freggin' front row and treated me like I was made of goddamn glass! It was sickening.
That's not even the worst part. No, the worst part was that like half the students were giving me pity (which is disgusting), and the other half were fucking laughing at me! The teachers didn't even do anything about it!
What's even more outrageous is as I was walking home, like I always do after school, Mr. Peters stopped me before I could even get to the sidewalk.
I had wrote down, What? , glaring as hard as I could.
With a glare of his own he said, "Where do you think you are going?"
I'm going home. Is that a problem? I snarled back with my teeth showing and everything.
"Yes, it's a problem!" He had the nerve to tell me, "From now on you'll be getting rides from my parents or friends it's safer that way." I glowered at him, as he dragged me back inside the school.
What sucked the most was that after, he made me wait until my mom came to obtain me.
The only good thing that happened today was when my mom let me out of the car when we were a block away. At least she understands that I hate cars, her, and people.
So here I am, sitting on a swing in an empty park. Most people would find it odd that I hang out in an abandoned park after school, but it's quiet out here and that's just how I like it. Quiet. Okay, I admit it is a little creepy here at night, with the eerie creaking of the merry-go-round, the swings swaying in an invisible breeze, and the strange rustling coming from behind me. Wait, What?
I turned around so fast I think I give myself whiplash, and there standing behind me is Mr. Peters. I open my mouth in a silent scream, falling out of the purple swing and onto the wet ground.
Why the hell is the grass wet when it's like seventy degrees out here?!
"Aren't you supposed to be at home?" I close my mouth faster than a lighting strike, and quickly scramble for my note pad.
I write in sloppy handwriting: What are you doing here?! I hold it up to him; he glowers.
"The better question is what are you doing here?" He's not serious, is he?
I was only trying to clear my head! I huff at him as best as I can.
His glare intensifies. "And you can't do that at home because . . . ?" He has one hand on his hip. If he had both hands on his hips, then he'd be my mom when she's mad.
I write, It's not the same. I stare at the ground after showing him what I wrote. It's true that I can't really think at home; there are way too many memories.
Seeing the depressing look on my face, Peters says, "Look, I know you've been through a lot these past few months, but that's no reason to put yourself in more danger by being alone." He squats down and holds out his hand waiting for me to take it, and I do. Only out of convenience, really.
Once we're both standing, he pats my head (which is disturbing), "How about we make a deal." It's a statement, not a question. I give him a perplexed glance.
He answers my stare without me needing to write it down, "What I mean is, how about you come to me when you need a place to think, or you just want someone to talk too, and I'll let you walk to and from school?"
That sounds completely unfair to me. Why the hell should I go and talk to someone I just met about my problems? I don't even want to talk about my problems with myself!
I scribble, Why the hell would I accept that? He frowns, eyebrows and everything.
"What?" I feel like a badass for some bizarre reason, "Why the hell wouldn't you?"
I smirk and write, I don't even like you. My problems aren't any of your concern. Holding up for him to read, I feel the ruff paper start to bend under my fingers.
"I'm your teacher!" That makes no sense, although he does seem to have reached red-faced, angry, scary person. I have never seen some one turn so tomato before. I bring my sketchbook to my chest and swiftly spin around.
"Get back here! It's not safe to be by yourself!" He shouts. I hear the stomp of his feet as he runs to catch up. It is sad he has to run, I'm not even walking that fast unless strutting is fast.
I feel callused hands grab my shoulder and yank me to a stop. This day just doesn't want to end! I glare at him. Why does he look out of breath? Must be out of shape, how sad.
He pant's out, "Where…do…you think you're going?" I swear if he asks me this one more time I'm going to punch him in face.
Fine, I'll humor him. I flip to one page in my book, and cover up some of the writing leaving only the word, Home.
"I don't think so," he growls. Okay, his grip is starting to hurt. I grimace at the slight pain, and bring my left hand up and attempt, rather poorly, to remove his pain causing hand from my person. Awesome leather jacket though.
Peters blinks, releases his grip, and takes a deep breath. Uh, maybe Peters goes to anger management classes?
"Sorry, it's just… I… never mind, go home," he sighs, and his shoulders slump. Peters pats me on the head again then shoves his hands into black leather pockets.
I am dumbfounded. I stand there and blink for a good couple minutes before heading home.
That was so strange. I have never seen someone do that before. I wonder what he was trying to say. I look up at the darkening sky and breath in the scent of damp, freshly, mowed grass.
This year is going to be interesting.
Chapter two is done! You'll have to wait a while for chapter 3.