Page 24 of Strange Love

I look down again at my notes, realizing that I could have completed this project already without the group assignment. I haven’t spoken to anyone in my group except Corey Delacour, and that wasn’t school-related.

My hand shoots up, propelled by a surge of annoyance and defiance. The teacher’s gaze lands on me, pausing to acknowledge my question before continuing his lecture. I chew on my bottom lip but eventually push aside doubts and speak up.

“Do we have to do this project as a group?’ I ask, voice trembling.

“Well, seeing as that is the assignment given, yes,” he replies with a hint of mockery.

I press on, determined to make my point. “But what if I could turn it in myself and get an A? The final result won’t accurately reflect my capabilities if it’s a group effort.”

The room falls silent as all eyes turn to watch our verbal sparring.

“Did you miss the part where I mentioned the importance of teamwork in the real world?” he retorts.

“I’ve been in the real world, Mr. Payton. And trust me, it’s every man for himself,” I counter sharply. The room is eerily silent as we lock eyes.

A vein dances rapidly in his forehead, signaling his growing frustration with me. “You haven’t experienced the working world-”

I interrupt him. “The world I know is far more real than this sheltered bubble,” I begin, “and from my experience, relying on others only leads to disappointment. In the real world, you have to take on tasks yourself and carry them to completion.”

As our argument reaches its tense climax, I see the teacher’s face turning red with anger. But I stand my ground, determined not to back down or be dismissed. This is my reality, a harsher and unforgiving one than he could ever imagine.

As the last words of my sentence hang in the air, a heavy silence descends upon the classroom. I can feel all eyes on me, their weight like hot coals burning into my skin. A few snickers come from the back of the room, but most students stare wide-eyed in shock.

Mr. Payton’s face is beyond red now; it’s morphed into a reddish/purplish hue, and beads of sweat have begun forming on his upper lip as he struggles to maintain control. “Is that so, Ms. Owens?” he says through gritted teeth.

I swallow hard and clear my throat before attempting to respond, “I think that maybe our time could be better spent-”

But before I can finish, Mr. Payton holds up a hand to stop me. “You’ve said enough,” he interrupts sharply. “The way I run my class is not open for discussion. Your outburst is disrespectful to me and your classmates.”

I shift uncomfortably in my seat, feeling the heat of everyone’s stares at me.

“So here’s what we’re going to do,” Mr. Payton continues with a sneer. “Since you seem to enjoy working alone, you can spend your after-school detention today writing an essay explaining why your time is more important than everyone else’s.”

“That’s not what I said,” I protest.

“I think we all understood your implication loud and clear,” Mr. Payton retorts.

“Excuse me, Mr. Payton,” comes a husky voice from the back of the room. I turn and find Corey Delacour has raised his hand.

Our teacher reluctantly calls on him, “Yes?”

“She’s right. This assignment is bullshit,” Corey declares boldly.

The entire room gasps in unison and glances from Corey back to our teacher, who is now so flustered that he’s loosening the knot on his necktie.

“I’ll be expecting that same essay from you, Mr. Delacour,” Mr. Payton says with barely contained anger.

“Detention for expressing free thought? What is this? Russia?” Corey retorts, causing the entire classroom to draw out “Oooooooooohhh.”

The mention of our Cold War opponent is the last straw for our teacher. “Get out,” he spits, motioning to Corey and me. I start to protest, but Corey shrugs and grabs his backpack, so instead, I gather my things and exit the room as our fellow students clap loudly at our rebellion.

Sitting on opposite sides of the dimly lit office, our chairs squeak as we shift uncomfortably. My palms are sweaty, and I’m wracked with anxiety as I wait to call my parents and tell them about detention. Across from me, Corey fidgets in his seat, as restless as I am. Every so often, our eyes meet, and we exchange a knowing look, trying to make the best of the situation.

They allowed me to use the phone after what felt like hours but was more like thirty minutes. Thankfully, it rings until our new answering machine picks it up. My father’s voice rings out across the line.

“Hi. You’ve reached the Owens family. Leave a message, and we will get back to you.” I take a deep breath and leave a brief message asking for a ride at 5 o’clock but not disclosing any other details. That’s a problem I will deal with later.

Soon enough, we’re escorted to an empty classroom where Coach Jensen, the wrestling coach and health teacher, is our designated detention supervisor. Poor guy must have lost a bet.