Beautiful Tiger

Chapter 1.

My story is like many stories, but not all... they start off as crap, but it will come together at some point. If you're reading this, thank you. And be patient? x

It was ten minutes into class and Professor McCormick still hadn't shown up yet. She does this often, but for the most part, she was just 5 minutes late. I'd heard or read once that, by law, if a teacher wasn't in class by the first fifteen minutes, then everyone was dismissed without it being considered ditching. But maybe that concept was only applied to certain states in the US, and probably only high schools.

Right now, I would be hidden behind my oversized notepad that would be on its stand in front of me to paint, but I had left it under my bed back in my dorm because we were only scheduled to bring them on Mondays, unless notified a different day. Today we were suppose to have art discussions, find an inspiration within ourselves (which only meant to meditate), and sketch designs and shapes into our sketch books for a head start at next week's assignment, pottery.

I stared at the clock for thirty seconds and it stared right back at me. It was Friday and I could be sleeping late right now rather than being up so early for a class with a teacher who doesn't even show up on time. Everyone prattled on to each other, all over the room, goofing around like imbeciles on a playground.

As soon as I stood up from my stool with my bag on my shoulder to leave, causing a scraping sound against the floor, I knocked the stool over with my awkward butt making the room go silent.

I flushed red as I bent over to pick my seat up. When I sat upright, trying to ignore other people's eyes, I realized they weren't paying me any attention and that made me thankful for being a nobody.

McCormick had just rushed in looking rather exhausted with mussed curly red hair everywhere. "Greetings, children of the world," she would say to us everyday, opening her arms, as if welcoming us in her arms for a hug.

I sat back in my seat and groaned because I had to endure half an hour more of sitting in a seat without back support.

"Late!"

"Late!"

"Late!" Different students would greet her in different tones, some teasingly, some furious. It was the same routine every time. She rolled her eyes, proceeding with the class.

I took in the fact that Professor McCormick had her shirt inside out, but you couldn't tell unless you looked close enough at the stitching along her collar bones like I did. She turned around to write amongst the black board behind her desk, and I noticed a green hair roller she had forgotten to take out of her hair.

"Today's objective," she says.

Man in the Mirror

Her writing was slurred and sloppy.

Had someone listened to Michael Jackson on their way here? Because as far as I was concerned, that had nothing to do with pottery at all. This woman had obviously had a drink or two before she got here this morning, because she was now taking off her shoes, and propping herself onto the top of her desk, eating ice chips and groaning.

Alexander Martin had just made a comment about Michael Jackson being McCormick's inspiration, making everyone laugh. Then he added how she was making no sense though she hadn't really gotten any words out.

"Alejandro, would you like to come up here and teach my class?" She didn't even give him a second to answer... "No. So shut it, kid."

Every single one of the forty-nine students laughed, even Alexander himself, but I hadn't. I was the fiftieth who didn't, the only. I just wanted to sleep and my time was wasted in a college class of ten year olds, including my teacher herself.