Potent

Chapter 3

I can’t concentrate. Not on what Mr Farrell is saying anyway, about Pythagoras. I just can’t concentrate when I’m distracted. Distracted by the fact that, my every move is being watched but not by the teacher for once. Whipping my head around quickly I see his head snap to the right to look back at the teacher. Just as I expect; he had been staring at me. EVERY lesson he shares with me. EVERY lesson he stares at me. Why ME?  Why do I have to be different?

“Miss Ender, can you please tell me what the hypotenuse is?” Mr Farrell asks, noticing my lack of attention.

Turning back to face the front, I notice that all eyes are on me. My heart starts racing as I try to remember anything…nothing. I hate maths. Why me?

“Urrrr…I don’t know, sir,” I admit, dropping my head in embarrassment.

“Well, that’s just not good enough,” he snaps at me. “I expect you to have completed all the questions in this text book to do with Pythagoras correctly or else you’ll have an after school detention with me.”

“No.” I mutter under my breath.

“WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY?!” He yells at me, fully aware of what I’d said- I am at the front of the class and despite his grey hair he has ears like a bat.

“You heard me,” I answer back, feeling my anger rising. “NO! You can’t expect everyone to be some maths genius. You CAN’T force us to do bookwork for 2 hours straight and then if we haven’t done at least 500 questions you CAN’T automatically put us in an hour detention so that you can release all of your stress-induced anger on us! We are NOT top set! We are NOT perfect! SO I’M NOT SORRY IF I DON’T KNOW SOMETHING BECAUSE IT’S YOUR FAULT THAT I DON’T KNOW IT!” I scream, now standing up and pointing at him accusingly, releasing my pent up anger.

Mr Farrell is gobsmacked; his jaw hangs wide open revealing a set of yellow stained rotting teeth from his regular smoking habit. He soon collects himself up and orders in a clipped, stern (no room for negotiation) voice: “GET.OUT.”

I smirk and do a theatrical courtesy. “With pleasure,” I say with confidence. As I strut out of the classroom it erupts in applause which makes me smile. Just as I open the door to leave, I see Dylan start to clap as well looking at me with respect.

Surprise, surprise I’ve got an after school detention with none other than the evil dictator, Mr Lawson, who just happens to be our principal and Mr Farrell’s right hand man. Great. None the less, it was worth it to see the look on his face. At lunch, as I am in the canteen enjoying my ham sandwich, everyone both in my maths class and not keeps coming up and congratulating me on my defiance.

“You’re quite the celebrity now you know. Everyone’s talking about you,” Izzy informs me whilst munching on her chocolate muffin.

“Tell me about it,” I reply.

Slowly, an ache creeps into the back of my head. It is a sign. He’s here. That same headache always warns me of his presence. Scanning the room, I find him lurking in the corner alone, staring right at me. Dylan.

What is his problem? Why is he there every time I turn around? Have I done anything to deserve being stalked? It’s time to get some answers.

Standing up abruptly, I begin to sprint across the canteen to him. Startled, he turns to run out the door but not before I grab him and say: “We need to talk.” I lead him out into the corridor out of the prying eyes in the canteen. When we’d reached a quiet spot, I turn and start firing at him the questions in my mind.

“What is your problem? Why are you always staring at me? What have I-”

“STOP,” he orders, cutting me off. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do! Don’t play dumb with me!” I argue.

He looks down at me with a sneer. “Why would I want to look at you at all? What’s special about you? If you think that everyone is looking at you and following you then you must be the most self-centred, delusional, selfish person I know. I don’t care about you.”

Suddenly, Dylan’s skin feels like ice, which makes me release my grip on him immediately. Shocked and hurt at his words, I begin walking away but not before I say: “What have I done to deserve this kind of treatment?”