Deep In // Klance AU

Chapter 9: Keith

My freak-out session was the least of everyone's concern as the day went on. They were all just thankful to get out of first period to take in some fresh air. It was a rare leisure. If they had known it was me who had pulled the fire alarm, I might have even received some praise. Yet again, I had pulled it. It was as if it never happened in their eyes. Instances such as that made me not hate the world. Then I was confronted with the fact that I have Mr. Iverson as my lit teacher and I hated the world all again.

Seventh period was expected to be every senior's ditch class. We could snore and snooze and smoke pot in the worn down restrooms. But I had him. He made sure my last hour of every school day was derived from the pits of hell.

I walked in readily knowing of my treatment, my paper in hand and an insincere smile to crawl his ass. I had skipped lunch to go and print off my writing prompt. He looked and sounded dissatisfied, "I've seen better work from you," I hadn't even given it to him.

I dropped the attitude and gently sat down my paper. I held back from slapping it on his desk angrily; storming off into the back with two middle fingers raised. It took self control I didn't believe I possessed.

Lance.

Lance's eyes sparkled and gleamed and were full of so much joy. He raised the corners of his lips slightly in a sheepish smile. He looked tired, but he was still radiating light. Lance gestured me to move towards his desk and since it was the beginning of class, it was not an illegal move, "Did we have homework due?!" He breathed nasally.

I cocked him a brow while leaning on his desk, "And did you run a marathon?" I looked at his shirt that was stained with sweat, then I gazed upwards into those hypnotic eyes of his. I could feel my cheeks redden.

Hysteria swallowed him whole, "I've been through too much shit today," he tugged at his thin hair, "I cannot believe this."

"I'm receiving special treatment. It's just some stupid essay he had me write for him," I quickly reassured him. I tried to reel him back in, emphasizing the word special.

He softened his expression at the news, "What a relief! Don't ever do that again," he gently gabbed my shoulder with his fist and laughed. I beamed. I was such a fucking mess to go from on verge of breaking down to being uncontrollably smitten.

Mr. Iverson moved his eye to better see the ruckus he had heard. Once his glare found my own, he called me over to sit down where my desk was, far far away from Lance McClain.

The bell rang as I walked up to my seat. I never broke my contact with Mr. Iverson even as I trudged to where I sat. I challenged him with my eyes. And though I coldly looked at him, he still  managed to make my skin crawl. Following one eye was not a difficult endeavor, but continuing to was like being sucked up into a deep, dark void.

Mr. Iverson began to write long words that seemed to be extinct in the English language, words like pulchritudinous or vicissitudes. He cleared his throat, "I'm assigning everyone partners for your next paper. It'll be a creative writing opportunity. You may write about whatever you wish as long as you include at least half of the vocabulary words we've been discussing over the past two weeks," he took a moment to examine our facial expressions. Everyone either looked engaged or drowsy. There was no in-between, "Your story must be a minimum of five hundred words with a plot line that's not too difficult to follow. I will recommend the pair that writes the most intriguing paper to the young writers association. Please take your time and take this seriously."

Lance, who I was more than certain would love to take a nap, seemed to be charged with energy at the news. His eagerness made my heart pound, throb. My heart rate soared exponentially at the possibility of working with him.