SENSE: Part One (continued)

Sense: Part I (continued)

I write. Most often it goes unread, only a lucky few get to skim. This is a piece I've been working on for some time now--not sure if it will be a short story or much longer. I suppose it could be categorized as adolescent lit. It's a work in progress. Suggestions and constructive criticism are welcome. Working title- Sense
Installment # 2 (continued from August 13th)

He exhales as if to say I quit. His hands escalate, palms up, then BOOM, they hit the desk like a trapeze artist landing on both feet. He stands up, his hands motioning back and forth around his head. He talks about how I drive him crazy, how I am smart, how I am president of my class, how my future is important, how my education should be my priority, how I could get kicked out, how my parents pay too much money for me to throw my education away. I want to tell him I know more than the teachers do. I want to remind him I am a straight A student. I want to kick him in the nuts. Instead I stare at my shoes. He stands above me, follows my stare, looks down,

“And you wear blue shoes! What is going on?” his accent becomes more noticeable when he yells. He stutters and meshes words together,

“You wantto break the rules allover the place and get no punishedment.”

I look at my shoes, and feel like I won some sort of victory. Blue shoes. I am the ultimate rebel.

He turns to her now. She’s been sitting in the adjacent armchair, perfect posture, her hands crossed on her lap, that stupid fucking smirk on her face. I want to throw myself onto her and destroy that smug look. I want to be calm like her.

“And you,” I think his scolding, is about to resume, “you, Margarita, how could you? You just come to the school this year. I see you in my office three times in two weeks,” his voice softens. I think it’s just me. It sounds different because he is reprimanding someone else. I wait.

“You are too beautiful to do those kinds of things. Smoking. Psst,” his hand swats a pretend fly. His face softens up. His cheeks, they are pressed up towards his eyes, they are rosy and plump and look a lot like the cheeks of an Eskimo. He is smiling. She is looking at his face. Her great big white teeth glistening, as though they were wiped down with Vaseline. Her left leg crossed, like a lounge singer now, the left shoulder leans in towards his desk. Her cheek rests on her shoulder. Her cheek, it’s bright pink. I think she’s holding her breath. She is batting her eyelids.

“I’m sorry,” her head swings down. The drama, is coming. I can smell it the way I smell her perfume, a heavy mature Escape. She whispers, “I know it was wrong. It’s just I miss my mom,” the eyes are frosty and blue, like an iceberg, not the tip, but the part that is underwater, the deep dark blue that they show on the Discovery channel, “I’m not adjusting well here.”

Her mom skipped town when she was two. She told me she doesn’t remember her voice and if it wasn’t for photos she wouldn’t remember what she looked like either. She’s playing Mr. Potatoehead like a tator tot and he’s buying it. He stands up and walks towards her with giant strides. His hand falls on her head stroking her hair.

“I understand it is hard,” there is a pause when I am certain I hear a sniffle or a sigh come from under her hair, “If you need anything, come to my office, don’t go in the bathroom. You need to talk about it. It’s healthy that way.”

I look at the table behind his desk. The red ashtray is full of cigar ash. I wonder if he would smoke with her. The smoke comes out of her nose when she smokes and she smiles exhaling. I wonder if she would do that in front of him. I tried it once and burned my nostrils. Only witches and fire breathing dragons can do that and smile at the same time.