My Love, My Drug, My Release

Chapter 11: Gallagher

By the time I stumbled into school, I'd missed my first two blocks. No one was around, so third block must've already started. And of course, I was approached by the prefect on duty who had an eyebrow raised at me, attempting to smother a grin.

"Miss Foxwell, is that really you, at this hour?" he asked. "Why even bother showing up at all?"

I shrugged, shuffling in place uncomfortably.

"Well, see you this afternoon." He handed me a red tardy slip, his hand brushing mine, before he walked off, chuckling to himself. I wondered if that was just an expression, or if he was actually the one monitoring today's detention.

Unfortunately, my third block was English class with Mr. Grant, and I could feel a migraine coming on already.

"Ah, Lorraine Foxwell, thank you so very much for gracing us with your presence." My English teacher leaned back in his seat, lacing his fingers behind his head. "After a night of partying with your rock and roll parents perhaps? Or maybe you just needed an extra few hours of beauty sleep?" 

Some students laughed, but it was more pitiful than normal, almost hesitant. Maybe it was because he was laying into me harder than usual, and that was saying something.

"And I see you still haven't gotten a skirt in the proper length."

"I tried, I just-"

"On your knees."

"What?" 

"On. Your. Knees."

The whole class was almost silent, barely even a few snickers. It was comforting, at least, that other people recognized how horrifying this was. It wasn't like a dean telling you to do it in the hall, because that happened to tons of people, and most of the other students just kept going about their day. But this was the middle of the class, where everyone was forced to bear witness to my humiliation.

But what could I do, refuse? So I knelt on the floor, and Mr. Grant stood up, buttoning his blazer as he came to examine me. 

"Well, it's better, but certainly not regulation." He was close enough to me that I was uncomfortable, especially since I was about eye level with his crotch. "Okay, you can stand up now."

I did as I was told, my face so hot and flushed it hurt. Mr. Grant stayed standing, arms folded in a way that made them look imposingly muscular, and I wondered if that was the idea, if he enjoyed feeding the imaginations of the girl he taught, the ones who worshipped him. There was a certain air to him, the way he walked and talked, that seemed like he was very aware he was being watched.

"What am I supposed to do?" he asked like he was an actor in a play, appealing to the audience. "How should I respond to such a blatant rebuke of our school's rules."

"Please sir, I'm not purposefully disrespecting you, this is the longest length they have in my size-"

"How convenient," he said, almost laughing. "This is the 'longest length.' So I guess that gives you the freedom to parade around my classroom in a miniskirt like a common whore."

There was a collective gasp, and even Mr. Grant realized he'd gone too far. I should've dropped it there, should've bowed my head pitifully and maybe he would've left me alone. Or better yet, I could take a few sympathetic classmates to the Dean and formally complain. But no, I had a vindictive streak, and, even worse, I never had been clever under pressure.

"How dare you say that to me? I'm fifteen and a student, you disgusting, arrogant prick!"

For a moment, there was quiet, my teacher's face was blank, and the possibility of me scurrying off to my seat and all this being forgotten still existed. But then someone laughed, a boy, and a few more, and then the entire class was guffawing at my gall.