My heart is thumping in my ears. Here I stand, facing a group of individuals, in an ill-fitting uniform, feeling awkward without reason. Yet as I look at those deep brown eyes at the rear of the classroom, I can't help but remember the incident at the lockers just a few minutes back.
"Could you please tell the class a bit about yourself?" Mr. Martin encourages. He gestures for me to enter the classroom. I am standing and staring by the door.
I enter and sense a gentle warmth color my cheeks. "Umm, er, y-yes."
"I'm Philip, um, Philip Blue." God, someone please shoot an arrow into my throat and let the ground swallow me up.
"Indeed, Mr. Blue." "Have a seat at the available desk over there." Just when I believed my life couldn't resemble a foolish story any more. The seat is right next to the jerk who shoved me against the lockers.
A person grumbles as I approach the only seat that's free.
It seems like every student is focused on me. I slip into the chair and place my bag on the ground.
I sense his eyes on me. His stare makes it harder to pay attention to Mr. Martin teaching France's foreign policies. I fidget in my chair, wishing that if I appear obviously uneasy, the man will cease glancing at me as if I'm a piece of meat.
"You look like you're almost swimming in that uniform," he comments, his gaze still focused on me.
"Be quiet," I utter through gritted teeth. My leg is bouncing in a bid to calm my nerves. "Oh, your stutter has faded now. I suppose I don't make you as anxious as you do when you stand in front of the entire class introducing yourself like a little child. I'm sure that a bit of self-assurance would do you good. And I''m pretty sure I can provide you with the confidence you need," he murmurs with a soft laugh following.
"N-no, th-thank y-you." The stammer is back. My cheeks heat up as I look around the room. It seems as though they're monitoring my every move.
It feels like everyone in the room is watching how I react as he leans so close to me.
"Oh, the stammer has returned." He chuckles slowly.
I'm not even sure if this is teasing or harassment anymore, but I've had my fill of it.
"Please, just let me be," I murmur.
"It's amazing how much influence I have over you, and you aren't even aware of my name."
It's exactly as I thought. I hate the way he laughs.
"I d-don't have to know your name to realize you're really getting on my nerves," I retort. I understand it's wiser to avoid provoking the bear, but I cannot restrain myself anymore.
"I was unaware that 'annoy' meant you were acknowledging that I arouse you."
Finally and to his greatest pleasure, for the first occasion in this whole discussion, I glance at the jerk. A smirk stretches across his arrogant face and a flush spreads across mine.
"No, you truly don't." It's irrelevant that I think he's extremely hot. His personality is doing wonders to soil any hint of attractiveness.
"Oh, really?" he replies, arching an eyebrow.
"Yeah," I respond, turning back to look at the teacher. The entire class is unaware of what's happening.
While no one's really paying attention to what Mr. Martin is saying at the front of the classroom, no one seems to be paying attention to what's happening in the back either. Which is… lucky, I guess, considering the awkwardness happening at my desk.
"Here."
His words are soft but smug, like he already knows he's getting under my skin. He slides a folded piece of paper onto my desk like it's nothing. The kind of motion that says he's done this sort of thing before, maybe multiple times.
It's a phone number. And an address. The handwriting? Yeah, you guessed right. It was just as arrogant as the guy who wrote it.
I glance at him, just for a second. He's not even pretending to hide the smirk on his face. I narrow my eyes, more of a glare than a look, but it's weak and barely holds weight. My "thanks" is more of a reflex than a response, kinda flat and unconvincing.
Still, I fold the paper up quickly and shove it into the side pocket of my bag like it's contraband. My face is burning. Like a full-on tomato. I can already hear the guy next to me snickering like he just watched a live episode of his favorite reality show. I hate him a little.
And now my heart is beating way too fast again, like it's trying to escape from my chest and run all the way back to my apartment. Everything feels tight right now, my throat, my chest, even my fingers around my pen. I try to focus. I tried that breathing technique I read about online. Five seconds in through the nose, hold for three, ten seconds out through the mouth.
It doesn't work.
It never does when I actually need it to.
Eventually, I stop trying and just sit still until the shaky feeling in my hands go away. I stare at the back of the kid's head in front of me and try to act like I'm not spiraling. Once the dizziness calms down and my face cools off just a bit, I try to lock back in on whatever Mr. Martin is droning about.
Something something France's foreign policy.
Honestly? I couldn't tell you a single useful fact about France unless you count the fact that Daveed Diggs as Lafayette is objectively one of the hottest things to ever come out of Hamilton. But I'm pretty sure that's not going to be on the test.
I barely have time to pretend like I'm catching up before the bell rings, dragging me out of the weird headspace I've been in since this morning. Welcome back to reality.