Second Chances [caston]

chapter four

-Ashton-

My french class was abnormally quiet and as usual my teacher sat motionless, except for his constant tapping against the screen of his phone. Even though, I hate this class, it has to be one of my favorites, mainly because the is one of the classes I have with Michael. We don't have a lot of classes together, except this block and first block with Mrs. Anderson, so it shouldn't be surprising why I 'love' this class so much.

"Dude," Michael groaned as he scooted his chair closer to me. I lower my feet from the bar beneath my desk and position my elbows on top of the wood, giving Michael my full attention. His legs extended outward as his body slugged into the back of his chair. His arms were thrown over his stomach and gripped onto his waist, "I'm hungry."

I slouched back into my seat, resuming my comfort, after I realized his comments were useless to me. I grabbed my pencil and opened my lyric book, revealing the messy thoughts that were thrown across the pages. Tapping the eraser top to the desk, it created a rhythm of beats in my head, as I began to ignored Michael's statement.

Michael cleared his throat, thinking I might have not heard him. He spoke a little louder, "did you hear me, I'm hungry."

My tapping stopped as I slowly swiveled my body toward Michael, "Oh no, I heard you. I just don't care."

"But I'm craving pizza," he pouted, yet sounded quite firm, which wasn't the slightly bit intimidating to me.

"We just got out of lunch. Didn't you eat then," I replied, swinging myself back into my original position, placing my pencil onto the paper.

"Yeah, I did eat. You saw me eat."

"It was a rhetorical question," I add, not even lifting my head to notice he had moved back toward his desk. Realizing he may have wanted to have a conversation with me, I lifted my head and blinked profusely, planning my next move to show how to apologize. I turned my body toward his desk and where he sat. Leaning forward with my notebook in hand I placed it onto his desk. Pointing the lead toward a lyric on the page, I grabbed his attention. "Does this lyric make sense with the rest of the song?" I question as I slightly move my chair next to his. His eyes lite up and he nearly shot out of his chair.

Michael has always been into the art of music. Ever sense we meant, I've tried to convince Michael to play some sort of instrument, but he refuses, saying he 'doesn't want to put in the effort' or he's 'too nervous to play in front of people'. I don't blame him, though, playing in front of people is very stressful. But, its not like I would know, I just play the drums as more of a hobby than a carrier choice. Even though, he doesn't play an instrument or doesn't seem like 'the musical type' he sure can write the hell out of some lyrics.
.....

Walking across the sea of faceless teens, I felt out of place as I stopped in the middle of the traffic. Admiring the people as they scooted by, unemotional and bland. People unwilling to stop and notice their life as they casually floated thought life without the a spark of life or expression. As soon as a shoulder bumped into my backpack, I shook my head and fastened my shoulder strap while I took a few meaningless steps to my classroom door.

Unaware of my surrounding, I softly shimmed shoulders with a passing classmate as I made my way to my seat. Ignoring the person, the last steps toward my seat seemed to take an eternity, for I felt the eyes of students stabbed into my chest. The movement of a student lean back into his chair startled me, I quickly sat down and nervously slumped in my chair.

Lifting my hips forward, I grabbed my phone from my front picket and readjusted myself. I thought texting Michael might've killed my social anxiety of this class, but nevertheless it only got worst as a familiar face popped it from the hallway.