Downfall.

Chapter 3

I grabbed my schedule off my locker door and scrutinized it. 

First period: Basic Science

Second period: Geometry

Third period: English 206-Journal Writing

Fourth period: Arts

I sighed. All semi-decent classes, just not what I had hoped for. Moving here, to a small, isolated town in the middle of Idaho was not my ideal situation for my freshman year. I missed Oregon. I missed my old friends. I hated this, the new girl act. The process of actually meeting people, making friends. I was the worst at it. Probably cause I was awkward. I studied the schedule again. I had never tried to draw or paint or do anything artsy whatsoever in my life before, so fourth period was going to be a new learning experience. Other than that, everything seemed bearable. Having these classes all year though, I was not so excited about. But I guess that was the new normal for me. I started to wonder if I could switch out of my fourth period, when the warning bell rang. Shit. I really needed to get to class.

I ran down the science hallway, my schedule flapping in hand, and finally stumbled upon the classroom, gracefully walking into the door just as the bell rang. Or not so gracefully... Whatever. I scanned the room, found the last empty seat, and tried to avoid eye contact with everyone else as I made my way to it. I  plopped myself down in the seat and set my bag on the floor before taking a deep breath and looking up, taking in my surroundings. The teacher was an older bald guy, who had his name written in smooth, black whiteboard ink apon the obviously new erase board at the front of the room. 'Mr. Quiltan' it read, in a neat, cursive scrawl. I nodded, taking that in, remembering it, turning it over in my head, tasting it on my tongue. I shyly peaked at the boy next to me, who was obviously already bored out of his mind. He was a built guy, but rather on the skinny side, his wrists narrow. He had blonde hair that dramatically sweeped across his face, hiding his eyes, but bringing my full attention to the perfect arch of his lips. I shook my head and tore my eyes away, drawing my attention back to the front of the class, where Mr Quiltan was speaking about safety.

Geometry was taught by some old hag named Ms.Larook. She had wiry glasses and funny gray hair, a prominent snaggle tooth, and an annoying hunch back problem. I don't know why she rubbed me the wrong way, she just did. I hated being the new kid so much in these situations. All the cliques were starting to assemble, making fun of her when her back was turned, and I was left isolated in the corner sitting next to people who were either mutes or just extremely not friendly. 

Journal writing seemed to have hope. The teacher seemed like a nice guy, Mr. Rigbat. Nothing extreme was taught the first day, just the basic structure of how you were supposed to lay out a journal entry. It seemed kind of like a pointless class, but hey. I liked writing. So maybe this would be worth it. Plus, the girl who sits next to me looks nice. Lacey? I think that was her name. 

Fourth period though. Fourth period is when it got interesting. I walked into the art room and was immediately greeted by an obviously carefree enviorment. There were awkward easels everywhere, random tables, some laptops lining the walls, a photography photobooth shoved in the corner. The teacher purely told us to "set our minds free" and sat down in a chair, not even bothering to give us his name. I wandered around the room looking at the different stations when the accident happened. I was rounding the corner of an easel when I ran into somebody holding red paint. I gasped, as the bright color splashed itself along the front of my shirt. I looked down at it in dismay. My mom was going to kill me, this was a brand new shirt. "Ah.. I didn't see you.." I heard a boy mutter. "It's alright.." I managed, exasperated, starting to look up. And I recgnized him immediately, the boy who had ruined my shirt. He was the mexican boy from this morning. I felt the red envelope burning a hole in my back pocket, but I couldn't bring myself to give it back to him. We made eye contact, and I saw the slight glimmer of recognition light up in his eyes. I quickly averted my eyes, my cheeks burning hot. I shook my head, trying to clear it, and wandered over to the photo booth, which is where I stayed, covered in paint, until I was aloud to go home.