The classroom looked even worse than the hallway. Darkness fell across his surroundings, broken only at the front by a small shaft of light that covered the teacher’s desk. A gray-haired woman leaned against the wood, watching them all through narrowed, tired brown eyes. Though even as she glanced at him, her gaze didn’t feel as if it were landing. Where you could usually tell when someone looked at you, it felt as though her gaze was nothing more than a passing breeze. A shiver ran down his spine as he sat down in the corner, the desk shaking beneath his weight. At the front, the annoying Fickle and her cold-hearted brother had taken their seats, the former still shooting him amused glances.
“You’re annoying me,” Craven’s cold, eerily monotone voice echoed down to him. “Would you stop giggling like a toddler and focus on organizing your folders?”
“You’re quite the buzzkill, aren’t you?” She groaned loudly, flopping down on the desk. “I didn’t do it last night; you really think I’ll do it now?”
Brash couldn’t help but pray the teacher would call her out for her slothfulness. Maybe, if he were lucky, she’d even kick her out. To his dismay, the teacher simply rolled her eyes and pulled out her phone.
“Looks like we’ve lost even more students,” Her voice was flat, “though it’s not as though I blame them for going digital. We’ve got twelve of you left, including the new kid back there.”
The hair along his arms rose as she pointed a wrinkly finger at him, the gazes of his peers following close behind. Fighting back the urge to shrink away (he really hated this whole “shame” thing, especially since he didn’t understand it), he held her gaze with feigned confidence. In the corner of his vision, he could see a pair of unnaturally pinkish eyes staring him down. He didn’t dare look.
“His name is Brash.” The teacher’s voice finally drew their eyes away. “He comes from the 907 family, so don’t give him too much trouble. Who knows what kind of tantrum his parents would throw?”
Tantrum? Did she think his parents were a couple of brattish toddlers? He scowled, teeth grinding roughly as his fists clenched in his shirt. How long did these days last again? Eight hours? Oh, this would be a nightmare!
“I’m surprised you even showed up.” She tapped her pencil on one kid’s desk. “I haven’t seen you since the beginning of last semester.”
The boy, who had previously been asleep, stirred with a groan, his scruffy, unnaturally orange hair shaking atop his head like a mane. His eyes, which sparkled with the same ginger hue, narrowed smugly as he yawned, stretching out the puffy gray jacket on his shoulders. Apparently, everyone here had anticipated the chilly weather except Brash.
“Did ya miss me, Ms. Carol?” He flashed her a crooked, bright white grin. For such a ragged appearance, he had nice teeth.
“Hardly.”
He kicked his feet up on the desk, showing off his torn, dirt-covered sneakers. “Ya’re breakin’ my heart here, teach. I haven’t even been back for a day, and ya’re already tearing down my fragile lil’ self.”
She scowled, turning her back to go sit at her desk. “You’re a terror, Link.”
He turned his head around, shooting Fickle an amused wink. The girl chuckled loudly, throwing her head back with an overly excited round of clapping. Ms. Carol sat down at the desk with a huff, tossing her body across the surface as her eyes remained transfixed on the small, rectangular device in her hand. Brash leaned back in his chair, waiting expectantly for her to call class to attention. Hopefully, when class started, the rowdiness of the idiots up front would settle down, and he could focus his mind on something important, like being reminded of his parents’ amazing contributions to society.
After fifteen minutes, the woman looked up, waving her hand dismissively. “Go on and enjoy yourselves for a while. If I feel like getting up, I’ll pass out a paper on the city’s history and whatnot.”
Seriously? A paper? No lectures or anything? What was this woman getting paid for?!
Everyone, except Brash himself, got up from their desks, collecting in small groups around the room’s edges. Link, Craven, and Fickle moved toward the back, sitting down only a few feet away. Focusing his eyes on his desk and acting as though it were the most interesting sight he’d ever beheld, he listened to their words.
“Ya guys got any plans this afternoon? I was thinkin’ I could take Strawberry here out for another adventure.”
“We’re busy,” Craven’s reply was curt, cutting through his sister’s agitated squeal. “Some of us have better things to do than crawl around in the city sewers.”
“What do you mean we’re busy?” Fickle shook him violently. “We never have any plans! You just make me stay home and do work.”
“Precisely.” He crossed one leg, staring daggers at the orange-haired scrap in front of him. Though not directed at himself, Brash flinched away. “Having responsibilities is important, especially if you don’t want them. Your brain turns to mush if you spend all your time galavanting around like a fool.”
“Ya really are a debby downer, Craven.” Link fake-punched his shoulder. “Do ya ever lighten up and let loose?”
“I have more important things to do. Being the household keeper isn’t easy, not that I expect your homeless, orphaned self to understand.”
“Whoa, that’s a harsh blow, don’t ya think? Aiming right where it hurts, aren’t ya?”
“Don’t act like I hurt your feelings.” He curled his lip. “I don’t even think you have any under all that stupidity.”
Crash!
