I grit my teeth and try to focus. If my scores drop below a 94 this quarter, Griff will have me scrubbing urinals with a toothbrush. Unlike most of the losers in this place, I have ambitions. I want a career. I want to be someone.
He starts tapping. First a regular rhythm, then it mutates. By the third round, he's tapping Morse code on the metal with his nail. I time it, guessing he's spelling "kill me now," but it's random. I throw a pillow down at him. It lands on his head. He just laughs.
"That's abuse. I'm gonna report you."
"They'll give me a fucking medal for not going at your throat," I say, and he laughs even more, even though it's not that funny. He'll wake the others. If that happens, Jack won't shut up either, and Harry will start going on about poker or some shit I couldn't care less about, and Miles will be in a sour mood.
God. I'm a nursery teacher.
After a while, the hum-tapping slows. I look down to check if maybe he's asleep.
He's not. He's watching me. Eyes bright and blue.
I look away. The office. His face inches from mine. I didn't kiss him. I keep not kissing him.
"Don't you ever get bored?" he asks, and it's not the whine from earlier. A real question.
"No," I say. "I'm studying. I use time productively. Try it."
He rolls his eyes so hard, his whole head rolls with them. "Boooring. If I sit with my thoughts for more than ten seconds, I will literally start screaming."
"Can't do anything for you," I say.
A few seconds of quiet. I go back to my flashcards. Make it through three more cards before he starts singing. Under his breath, but not soft enough to ignore.
I Will Survive. Gloria Gaynor.
I want to beg him to stop. Or spank his ass again until I make him cry instead. That thought makes my cock twitch. I usually have better control.
Last straw. I pull a comic book from behind my pillow and throw it on his bunk. "Here. Shut up and read."
He lights up. Instantly. Like an actual kid. I look away before it gets to me. He grabs the book, flips through the pages like he's counting them, then settles on the middle. Quiet for the first time in days, eyes flicking left to right. I enjoy the peace for a second.
It lasts maybe five minutes. Then a noise. He's drawing with a pencil stub he must've smuggled from class. I should rip it out of his hands, but I'm curious.
He finishes, holds it up. Snorts, like he can't believe his own genius. "Tell me that's not dead-on."
He's drawn a grotesquely accurate caricature of Griff: brow together, lips pinched, arms crossed, glaring. Above it, he's written, "DISAPPOINTMENT IS A CHOICE!!"
It's so good I almost choke. I want to tell him he's ridiculously talented.
I don't.
"I hope you realize if Griff ever finds this, you're a dead man walking."
He grins. "He won't. Besides, I didn't sign it. For all I know,you could have drawn it. It's your comic book."
"Oh, hell no," I say. He laughs, excitedly, like the little brat he is. "You're an idiot."
"How charming," he says, but he's so excited now, there's no chance he'll sleep. I see him smirking into the fabric of his pillow. I wish it didn't make me feel good.
The next time Griff does a surprise check, I secretly hope he finds the drawing.
We're scrubbing the MMA mats at 8 p.m. Usually he has a terrible attention span, but now it's worse. The first ten minutes, Liam actually helps, which is how I know he feels bad for landing us there. Then his focus evaporates and he's shadowboxing at the mirror, swinging at his own reflection.
"Christ," I say. "You punch like a frog."
He turns. "Frogs don't have fists, genius." Laughs at his own joke. I don't respond, won't reinforce him. I keep cleaning. Count under my breath. Every time he loses focus, it's one more second we're stuck here. At this rate, sunrise.
