3:30pm

3: Stephen

<This is about you, not me>

°•°•°•°

It was lunch time.

So far, everything had gone as they normally did; I still slept in Spanish class, because I couldn't see how Spanish was related to the course I wanted to study in college-Theater Arts-and I still bored a hole into the back of Jack Riley's head during Calculus because I couldn't, for the life of me, comprehend a darn thing that was being taught.

The bell had just gone off and as quickly as I could, I grabbed my English notebook and shoved it into my backpack, stood up, adjusted my jacket and slung the backpack onto my shoulders.

The feeling of Dante gone had began to wear off slowly as school stress took over. I was supposed to meet my Literature teacher, Calculus teacher and Biology teacher before I headed for lunch. I was screwed. They were probably going to rant about how I wasn't going to graduate because of my extremely poor grades, and their extreme disappointment toward them. The usual.

I got downstairs to my locker, took out all the textbooks I'd used before lunch and exchanged them for the ones I'd use after lunch, then I decided to see Mr Cunningham, my Calculus teacher, first.

I took the stairs up to his class, two at a time, eager to get our meeting over and done with. When I got there and walked through the open door, I met him going through his phone, his feet crossed on top of his desk, a chipotle before him.

As soon as he realized my presence, he put down his phone and got his legs off the desk. He moved the chipotle aside and folded his hands in front of him, fixing his gaze on me. His brown eyes, shielded by thin-framed, gold-rimmed glasses, stared at me for a full, awkward minute before he sighed and spoke up finally.

"It's a medium-sized town, so yeah, I heard about your brother," he said.

After another weird minute and he'd said nothing else, I raised my shoulders. "Okay?"

"I'm sorry for your loss," he said in a monotonic voice. "Really, I am. I remember loosing my sister. To cystic fibrosis. It wasn't an easy experience."

"Um, I'm sorry." I raised my shoulders again, not knowing how exactly to empathize with my Calculus teacher.

"But, Miss Petrakovski, your grades are falling. To the zero. It's a miracle you pulled through to senior year," he told me, taking off his glasses.

"I'm working on it," I muttered, lowering my eyes to his shiny mahogany table.

"And how, if I may ask?"

I looked up at him. "I've got a tutor," I said out of nowhere.

Mr Cunningham's eyebrows rose by an inch. "Who?"

"A student." I shrugged, trying my best to seem indifferent. Truthful.

"Hmm," Mr Cunningham murmured, nodding.

"Okay," he said finally. "I really hope to see an improvement, Cleo, or else you might have to repeat senior year."

Great news. Very great news. Not a fat chance I was going to let that happen.

I pulled my lips into a thin smile, dropped it and turned to go.

"Just a second." Mr Cunningham stopped me.

I looked back at him.

"I'd like to meet your tutor next week," he said.

"What?" I blinked.

"Your tutor. I'd like to meet him or her next week to give him or her the key areas to help you out with," he expatiated.

"But-"