The Babysitting Contract | j.jk

12 • biology

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It's so quiet you could hear a pin drop.

The Biology class remains fearfully silent as Mr. Bang peruses the down the aisles of desks. With his hands clasped behind his back, he peers over our shoulders, analyzing our worksheets with narrowed eyes and acid smiles.

"Pitiful," he scorns Park Jimin, who pulls his page closer and ducks his blond head in shame. From the corner of my eye I catch his cheeks flush a pretty coral pink.

Mr. Bang moves on, pausing this time at Kim Taehyung's desk. I can sense the brunette stiffen beside me, his face screwed up in a look of determined concentration. He bites at his lip, checking his textbook once more before hesitantly scratching an answer onto his page.

Mr. Bang clicks his tongue. "Embarrassing."

Taehyung curses under his breath.

My spine grows rigid as Mr. Bang's attention now shifts to me. Gulping down a wave of terror, I keep my gaze fixed to my papers and continue to scrawl down my answer. He remains hovered above me, watching me work for what could be anywhere between mere seconds to entire centuries.

I'd wager centuries.

Finally he speaks, his tone reproachful as he concedes a stiff, "Adequate work, Miss Kim."

Pride blooms in my chest.

That could've quite possibly been the best comment he's given all class — all semester, maybe, but that might be pushing it. No matter. Mr. Bang thinks my work is adequate, which is the closest thing to a gold star anyone will ever get. And I got it.

If I could do my victory dance, I would.

I release the breath I'd been holding as Mr. Bang continues on the hunt for his next victim. He passes a handful of students — all who garner feedback along the lines of horrible, terrible, repulsive — before he finally reaches Jeongguk, who sits near the front of the class.

I risk raising my head. Jeongguk shifts through his notes frantically, fingers either flying across the keys of his keyboard, flipping through the pages of his textbook or pressing pencils to paper. The cords of muscle in his back are visible through his crisp shirt. His foot taps a mile a minute.

Mr. Bang's grin is bone-chilling.

Before Jeongguk can think to react, the teacher snatches his worksheet off his desk. All eyes snap up as Mr. Bang begins lazily scanning it's content, his beady little eyes filling with bloodlust the more he reads. The class collectively holds its breath, knowing already what's to come.

"Wrong. Wrong. Wrong again." Mr. Bang laughs, a sound akin to nails on a chalkboard. "Honestly, Mr. Jeon. Were you listening to a word I said?"

The ravenet shrinks down in his chair, looking as if he wished the floor would open and swallow him whole. "Yes, Sir."

"Your dismal work says otherwise."

The bell rings. No one moves a muscle.

With one last scathing glare, Mr. Bang slams the boy's worksheet down on his desk, eliciting a sharp, hollow sound from the wood. To his credit, Jeongguk doesn't flinch. He remains made of marble, his head set dead ahead.

Mr. Bang strolls to the front of the class before turning to face us. His gaze skips over our faces, as if we are as unimportant as the crumbs of his meal or the dust beneath his desk.

"Test. Next Friday." He halts his spiel — daring anyone to voice a complaint — before sneering, "and I pray for the sake of your grades that you'll all do better than Mr. Jeon."