You headed to Yearbook for first period to see JFK frustratingly typing at a computer. "I told you to delete the spread. How does that translate to make 10 copies of them in Japanese and send them to the entire administration? No, I will not be your baka! Is that supposed to be funny?"
You furrow your brow as you take a seat at your desk. "It's the 21st century and people can't follow directions or use a damn computer," he mutters under his breath. He gets up from his seat, and he spots you, a smile melting onto his face. "Finally, something to brighten my god awful day."
You raise an eyebrow. "It's that bad?"
"Based on how incapable everyone in here except me seems to be, yes." He pauses. "But, of course, not you! You're perfectly fine, I'm sure you're doing great with those interviews."
"Yeah, I've got about three left. Oh, and then yours."
"Best for last as always. You're making great progress. You've got any of them this morning?"
You glance at your page. "I was hoping to do Kamala Harris' today."
"I think she's in poetry class at this time. Maybe you could drop in and talk to her if she isn't busy."
"Alright, I'll get to it."
"Good luck!"
You exit the classroom and search the halls for the poetry classroom. For once, you actually wished Lincoln would appear, so he could actually help you find it.
You round a corner and gasp as you slam into a figure. Your things clatter out of your hands, and you curse yourself for being unable to take care of them for like the thousandth time. Papers fly around you, and you almost think you're in a tornado.
The smoke clears, and a girl with dark curly hair, light almond skin, and a full pair of lips stands there with her hands on her hips. You can't stop yourself from staring, and you're pretty sure she notices.
"So, were you planning to just stare at me or...?"
You blink. "Oh, excuse me, I'm so sorry." You quickly get down on your hands and knees and beginning picking things up, and you realize you have a bunch of poems in hand. You pause and look to see her next to you, picking things up.
"Are you Kamala Harris?"
She furrows her brow. "Yeah, why?"
"Well this is embarrassing. You're running for President, and I'm supposed to be interviewing you, because I'm from Yearbook."
Her gaze softens. "Oh, what a coincidence. I just have to drop these things off at the class, you can come with me."
You nod as you continue picking things up. You manage to gather your things up and place them to the side. Your eyes can't help but skim over to poems, and even though you believe poetry is an incompetent and pretentious form of literature, you can tell that those are written beautifully.
"Did you write these?" you ask.
"Yeah, most of them anyway. It's nothing."
"No, these are actually really good. I've never seen anything like it."
She avoids your gaze and clears her throat. "Thanks."
"What do you plan to do with them besides y'know write them and share them?"
"Sometimes I publish them in small publications, keep them in my portfolio, and I... occasionally do slam poetry."
You notice she looks a little flustered at saying that. "That's really cool. Is there something wrong with slam poetry?"
YOU ARE READING
Diplomat High
HumorLooks like you're a new student at Diplomat High, y/n. To be able to graduate, you're placed on the Yearbook team, meaning you're tasked with talking to and interviewing several future political leaders, along with helping them with their misfortun...
