The Mystery Fighter

The Mystery Fighter (2)

I opened the school doors just as the bell rang, signaling the end of the first two classes. The fact that I had made it back by my third class surprised me. Grocery shopping this morning had gone quicker than expected.

With my tattered bag slung over my shoulder, I took my time on my way through the broad school halls just as the last students entered their classrooms.

Despite my bad habit of occasionally skipping classes, the majority of my grades remained considerably stable. Still, the only subject I managed to stay on board with regardless of how many classes I skipped, was math. As I had been homeschooled up until four years ago, my dad had always acted as my mentor in every aspect of my life. His love and fondness for math had definitely rubbed off on me during that time.

I eventually ended up outside the boring, green door that led to Algebra. Not bothering to knock, I proceeded to sling the door open. The teacher's head swung in my direction, not an ounce of surprise in her expression as she looked at me. A scowl slowly grew over her wrinkled features.

"Thank you for gracing us with your presence, Ms. Haynes," her voice low and heavy with sarcasm.

"You're welcome." I shrugged, making my way to the back of the room.

"Excuse me?" She frowned at me as I took my seat, an irritated edge in her voice.

"You thanked me. It's only right that I respond," I heard a few snickers from the students as I slumped back in my chair and reached for my earphones.

The students were used to me talking back to the teachers, and I knew my behavior had become everyday entertainment to them.

"That's detention, Ms. Haynes. Now as I was saying..." I rolled my eyes as she continued the class. Never had I ever shown up for detention, yet they kept handing them to me.

I sighed and leaned back in my chair.

I should have just skipped.

________________

By the time the final bell rang, I was headed for the school doors, my pace distinctly quicker than when I entered the place. I strode over to my black 2005 Honda motorcycle, positioned by the entrance. The small group of people standing by it moved aside as I closed the distance to the motorcycle I had gotten from my father a few days before his death. As an auto mechanic and co-owner of an automobile repair shop, my father had been given the Honda after the owner had crashed it into a brick wall. Roughly seven months later, the motorcycle was back on the road under my father's care and repair.

The years following my father's death had changed my perception on a lot of things around me, one of them being the people at my school. Call this phase my 'rebellion days,' but I preferred to refer to it as my way of dealing with the grief, pent-up frustration and the ever-growing responsibilities that followed his downfall. Suddenly, what people thought of me didn't affect me as much. The frowns, scoldings, and threats stopped bothering me as well. I had little energy left to care for it.

A small smirk grew on my face as I placed the helmet over my head, a memory from a couple of weeks ago playing in my head.

It was the start of the school year, and the majority of the student population was gathered in the parking lot. A sophomore student had propped himself on my motorcycle as I was exiting the school. Within the second, I had him on the ground, my hand gripping his loose collar as I propped my knee down against his abdomen. My gesture seemed to have effectively warned every pupil around us to not touch my motorcycle. I had yet to stumble upon another disobedient student.