Mending a broken heart.

Part 1: The Fitzgeralds...

"Come on Mrs Fitzgerald, how can you assume that? You know I'm going to miss this school when I graduate, especially you," I pretend to wipe a fake tear and clench my heart. Mrs Fitzgerald, the old reception who looks like she came in a post-it mail when the school was built in the 1800s, stands up and walks over to the printer in the reception area.

"Is that why you didn't print your timetable. Again?" she snatches a paper from the printer and walks back, shoving in into Leya's face, all patience lost.

This is not the ideal start to my final year I had imagined. I had thought that the ass liking of school officials would only start later on, but better to start off with my favourite receptionist, Mrs Fitzgerald, who unlike, her son, is a bit more tolerable and easily manipulated. The same son I have my first class period with.

"Thank you, ma'am," I wave the paper in the air and dashe out off the reception area, passing the foyer, headed for my first class, which I am already 20 minutes later for.

I pass a few students, others probably late as well, a few teachers and as the dutiful student that I am, I greet them all and climb the stairs to the third floor.  As I near the AP English classroom, I composs myself, preparing to do some more asslicking. Who would have guessed, mother and child, in the span of five minutes.

"I'm so sorry I'm late, Mr Fitzgerald, my alarm didn't ring," I begin blubbering breathlessly as soon as I enter the classroom, causing Mr Fitzgerald to halt his teaching to look at me with an emotionless expression.

"It's okay, Miss Stanton, take a seat, we're already halfway through with class, there's no use interrupting it," he says in a monotonous voice and resumes with his teaching.

Compared to previous instances with Mr Fitzgearld, this is probably one of the few positive ones and Leya smiles as she walks towards Chelsea.
Usually he's more judgemental and makes his late students leave the classroom and spent the entire class period, standing by the door, where he can see them. If you sit or move, it's immediate detention. His rash actions come with being out of touch with the youth.
Born in the early 1970's, Mr Fitzgerald is a tall, thin man, who wears a tire everyday to school and looks like he stands in front of his mirror everyday shinning his bald head. He is also man of punctuality and respect. Like most of the male teachers around the school who walk with poles stuck up their asses, nose flared up in disgust, like the downgraded versions of 90s dictators, he's among the top 2.

Leya makes her way towards the middle desks, where Chelsea has kept a seat open for her, "Hey," she whispers to Chelsea who is busy copying the work from the board.

"Hey," Chelsea replies, not giving Leya an ounce of attention, her hand still scribbling notes down.

Leya takes her seat and scans the room, noticing one unfamiliar yet familiar face in the room, sitting next to Mike. Taking her books out of her bag, she continues staring at him, not quite sure where she has seen him.
The remainder of the class, she doesn't pay much attention to the work being done, since she was already late and missed half of the work, that there is no point in trying to catch up now. She'll just get the notes from Chelsea, since she looks dedicated enough for them both.

As the bell rings, indicating the end of class, Leya slipps her books back into her bag, which were decoy and slids her phone back into her blazer as well. Yes they have to wear school uniforms and no this is not some elite private school for the wealthy.

"Please grab a study guide on your way out and read through it so you can familiarize yourself with the work we'll be doing this year," Mr Fitzgerald screams hoping someone will at least hear him and the rest will just follow suit.

"How were you late?" Chelsea asks while packing her bag and slinging it over her shoulder, "when I left your house yesterday you were passed out. At three pm"

"You know how well I deal with hangovers," Leya grabs two copies from Mr Fitzgerald's desk, handing one to Chelsea.

"Yeah mine was quite hectic, anyway I just hope we have more than one class together this year," Chelsea whines as they walk out of the class into the buzzing hallway filled with either excited, bored or tired looking faces.

"I think we might have Calculus together."

"I hope so. When do you have your first class?" Chelsea asks.

"Directly after this," Leya states.

"Oh me too," Chelsea informs excitedly, bumping her shoulder into Leya's.

"I hope we have PE together though. Even though we will running the whole time at least we will be suffering together," Leya says looking at the piece of paper in her hand.

"Same. But I gotta go, I'm gonna be late for class," Chelsea pats Leya onto the shoulder.

Leya looks at her watch and realizes the bell won't be ringing for another 8 minutes, "What's the rush. Wanna play kissy kissy with Josh before class starts?" She teases, hoping she can maybe ask Chelsea a few questions about the new kid, she just saw in the English class.

"Don't be nasty. They just moved the history class to the other side of the school and I don't plan on arriving there sweaty."

The only reason Chelsea even takes History as a subject is because of her utter dislike for science. While Leya strives in science class, Chelsea describes herself as impressionable and artsy. Chelsea just doesn't see herself working with test tubes, mixing liquids and having them explode in her face and eat through her skin.

"Well, at least. We all kind of need the exercise after all the Chrismas dinners," Leya says laughing, "go, don't be late."

Chelsea darts off into the opposite direction, leaving Leya alone with her block period.
Leya walks out of the school buildings and walks over to the football bleachers, were she finds a spot and opens her reading book, ready to absorb the little sun January seems offer. On the other end of the bleachers are other students in different grades, sun bathing as well, waiting for the following classes to commence. Once in a while a teacher walks past the bleachers observing the students and engaging in small chit chat with a few of them, but you can see no one is really interested in the conversations.
Being caught talking to a teacher who's on bleacher duty, is like being a drug dealer and being seen by your boss talking to the police. You never want to be in that position. Everyone knows the teachers scour the place for anyone smoking, doing drugs or having sex under the bleachers. Unfortunately there has been some instances and many fingers have been pointed and suspensions have been raked up to expulsions. So you never want to be seen talking to a teacher on bleacher duty.

"Who gives people homework the first day back at school? Where's the Christmas and New Year spirit. This week should be like our off week," Chelsea complains, taking her seat next to Leya.

Besides having to walk all the way to the other side of the school, History introduction was hell for Chelsea. From being informed about the yearly assignment to being told they have to start working on their weekly assignment on the "Use of weapons in Ancient Civilizations". A foreign topic to most and one that won't be of any interest to Chelsea, meaning dull research.

"Right. Then next week you'll say the same thing," Leya grabs her Calculus textbook out of her bag and slams it onto her table with a loud thud, "why are you so surprised anyway, you knew what you were signing up for when you started attending high school."

"This is not voluntary. This country does not make studying voluntary. Because if I was to drop out chances are I'll end up jobless and then potentially homeless. Do I look like I would survive being homeless?"

"Bill Gates..."

"Oh shut up!"

The class begins settling and quieting down as Mr Owen, our Calculus teacher walks in a briefcase in hand, followed by a new student enveloped by one of our oversized school blazers.

"Okay quiet down, everyone, this is a new student, Sean and he'll be joining us for his final year. Show him some respect and help him get around," he says, "you can sit down young man."

"He looks so much like Sean Coleman, remember him?" Chelsea mumbles as the room erupts again into conversation.

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