But Landon keeps on talking, all the way to class. It’s noisy. Not just him, but the clacks of Serena’s heeled boots down the corridor, the guttural laughter of Oliver following behind with Dray.
The seating arrangements have changed this semester.
Courtney and James rush ahead, and when we pour into the classroom, I find that they’ve snagged their usual table. At the back of the room, side-by-side, they strive to be as invisible as possible.
I used to sit at the table in front of them, sometimes with an empty seat beside me, sometimes another loner joining me.
Now, Serena loops her arm through mine before she leads me to the middle desk.
I don’t fight it.
I don’t meet Asta’s death glare.
I don’t look at Oliver’s sour face.
I drop into the chair as Serena sinks into hers beside me, graceful and silent, while I grunt and throw about my bag, rifling through it for the textbook.
Asta and Landon take the table in front of us, Oliver and Dray behind—which leaves Mildred.
She hesitates in the middle of the classroom for a beat, looking around, then back at Landon who keeps his cheek to her. Her jaw rolls before she moves for the other side of the room and drops into the chair beside Dragana.
Mildred hasn’t stepped to me since Landon tackled her, hasn’t so much as looked at me or curled her upper lip the way she does when I say something she doesn’t like or thinks is stupid.
Maybe she’s trying to get a grip on her friendships again, or Dray dished out some consequences for going against him—or maybe it’s what I said, and she doesn’t want to add any fuel to the rumours going around the academy that she’s into me.
Whatever the reason is, I just know she sulks. She hurts. And it brings a smile to my face before the geometry begins.
I don’t pay attention.
I scribble on the pages of my notebook, draw little dogs and houses, then tune out completely and I think I drift off with my head on the desk for a while.
None of it matters.
I handed in my essay last week.
I didn’t even finish it.
I wrote half of it before deciding it was all irrelevant.
Like what Dray said, ‘you would be better off spending your time on things that matter to you.’
Still, I got that essay back on Monday—and the grade gleamed up at me.
C+
A generous pass, considering I didn’t even finish the assignment. No notes on that, either. And not so different to the usual grades I earn myself with actual effort.
If only I figured it out earlier, that I didn’t have to do any of my assignments, ever, to get a passing grade.
I just get them.
It happens in Brews and Theory, too.
Same grade, same effort.
I decide now to never write another assignment again. All that time I’ve wasted over the years. All forthis, the examinations, something I can’t even participate in.
The next day is reserved for the practice exams, the whole entire Thursday, and the thought alone is gruelling.
