It was a slow paced December day in Derry. As third period continued on, my math teacher, Mrs. Haggard, rambling on about exponential growth, I tapped my pencil against the desk.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Fuck.
My eyes made their way to my desk, which was now covered in tiny graphite markings from my pencil. Scanning my surroundings quickly, I pulled my eraser out of my bag to rub at the markings. Quick and easy.
Releasing a sigh, I examined my pencil, then looked down at the desk. What if I left a note? I thought, the idea popping into my head quickly. Noting my surroundings to make sure no one would see, I slid my pencil towards me and picked it up.
Hey, how's life? I wrote. Hm. Simple, but good enough to get an answer out of someone. Perfect.
I turned my attention back to the teacher until the bell rang. Gathering my stuff, I hurried out the door to sprint back home.
_____
The next day, I arrived to math class with a pleasant surprise on my desk. A small note, messily written, had responded to my message. Dropping my bag beside my chair, I eagerly read the note.
Terrible, actually. It always ends in death.
I frowned, but then remembered my question from the day before. Shaking my head, I began to think. What a smart ass.
Actually, studies have shown that 100% of people who drink water die eventually. That's gotta mean something, I responded. Then, like the day before, I finished my work and left the school.
_____
The next day I received yet another note from this secret person.
Are you suggesting we all drink engine oil instead? It read. I immediately wrote back.
Yes, yes I am. My organs do love that fresh engine oil in the morning.
This time, I closed my eyes and drifted off to sleep until the bell awoke me.
_____
The next day, I was disappointed to find that there was no note. I hurriedly pulled out a pencil and wrote.
Did you drink too much engine oil or wh-
"Ahem."
I turned behind me to see my teacher staring daggers into me.
"Writing on the desk? Really?" she said. Pulling out a piece of paper, she angrily scribbled a note on it and handed it to me before stepping back towards her desk.
Detention, 2:30. For vandalizing school property. I sighed and crumpled the note into a ball as the period began. This time I didn't sleep, or pay attention, or anything. I just thought.
When the bell rang, I hurried shamefully to the detention room, not wanting to be late and have to do it again. As I arrived at the classroom, I pulled the door open and sighed, finding a seat near the back.
"Welcome to detention, young lady," the teacher said, rising to take my note and sign me in. I groaned as he returned to his desk. As soon as he sat, the door swung open and a curly haired boy stood in the doorway, panting.
"I'm sorry for being late," he said, bowing his head to the teacher.
"Stan, calm down, you're not late," the teacher reassured. The boy, presumably Stan, handed the teacher his note and dropped his stuff beneath a desk a couple of seats away from mine.
Only a few minutes after detention began, the teacher got a call. He picked up the phone hastily and spoke into it, sighing and shaking his head. After hanging up, he sat back in his chair and eyed us.
