James' Math Class (3rd Excerpt of DRSC)

James sat in the back of the classroom, staring at the large clock on the off-white wall—a ticking nuisance. The bell would ring in fifteen minutes; it felt like an eternity. James leaned against his wooden desk with his arms crossed and chin pressed on his forearm.1

It felt as though the time passed in slow motion—every second, a week; every minute, a month; every hour, a year.2

James slumped back in his chair and watched the time slowly go by with every nauseating inch the hand moved on the face; not paying attention to a word Candice Holling said. James couldn’t hear anything that was going on due to the earphones that exploded his dark music. He began chipping the black polish off his short nails. Though he rather fancied the notion of poking his black nails into the woman's eyes, which hid behind the reading glasses; an action he had been thinking about ever since she gave him his first detention slip three years ago. Damn. Too much blood, James thought.3

James shrugged the thought away with slight regret. Just another disappointment. He opened his large blue eyes and watched the woman as she spoke; punctuating her words by waving her hands in the air as if she were swatting an invisible fly—her actions compounding what James knew must be a deep-seated paranoid schizophrenia—while she told a story of how she had made math problems easier when she was their age. Her face twisted into great expression of the story as her hands flew back and forth, up and down with the beaded bracelets encircling her wrists, jingling loudly every time she moved.4

Her jewelry was one thing that definitely pissed him off. When she fiddled, twisted and adjusted the small beads of 1, 2, and 3’s with the occasional plus, minus and division signs that entwining the elastic band, it provoked him so.5

James gave an annoyed wince at the sight of Holling twisting a 5 on her tight necklace—the one he wanted to choke her with as her eyes wandered about the equations on the chalkboard. As she turned, her hand waving resumed and this only furthered James’ irritancy. It made him want to bury his nails deeper into her eyes, and perhaps even tickle the front of her brain. 6

Three hundred years ago, James thought, they would have burned women like her alive at the stake.7

James sighed as he thought of the brief contentment cutting off her hands and waving the ugly bracelets in front of her face would bring him, maybe even tearing out her tonsils so he wouldn’t have to hear her gab on.8

James decided to ignore the thoughts, finding they were just too excellent to be true. He took a glance towards the door, wondering how long it would take him to escape from the captivity of school and set off to the tainted company that bought, sold and traded drugs.9

Still, James wasn’t even sure if he wanted to leave—aside from the lure of what was waiting for him quietly in the drawers of his bedroom and the shelves of the that small company, he didn’t see school any differently than he did of the place he lived. He had only spent five months there, which was one of the longest periods of time he had ever stayed in a home. The past few homes he had stayed were ironically in the same school district as the current. He hated it.10

James learned when he was young that the only person he had was himself.  But when you despise yourself and you are the only thing you have… what are you in the world? It was sad, how accurate the word “homeless” that the people had pinned to him actually was. He was alone like an imperfect person in a world of locked perfection; like a poor man in the midst of millionaires. He usually wondered why the hell he was still alive. He didn’t want to be. But that’s the way it happens; when you want to die, you live, and when you want to live, you die.11

A few minutes later, James snapped from his trans, noticing the slight rumble in his stomach. He normally would have ignored it but this was Holling’s class and it gave an added reason to make her mad. James pulled a small bag of chips from his backpack and noisily tore it open. A bit too noisily; making it obvious he was purposely making racket. As he started chomping at the snack, his gaze started towards the clock but stopped at the teacher who was staring at him with an intense expression. In fact, most of the students were shyly looking at him through the corner of their eyes. He looked around the room suspiciously; every student had their eyes on him. He raised a dark eyebrow and turned off the music to find what was going on.12

“Did you bring your report, James?” Candice Holling asked, twisting a plus sign around so it would face up.13

His eyes turned to Holling; surprised she expected anything from him. He packed his mouth with a chip or two and replied dully, “No.”14

“And why is that?” she inquired, watching him lick his finger, caked with seasonings.15

He crossed his arms over his chest and shrugged. “I don’t know,” was his careless response. “My dog ate it?”16

“That’s an original answer, James,” Holling said dryly as she got up and stood in front of her desk; her body manner proving her patience was nearly spent. She pressed the arch of her back against the desk, and tapped her nails on her forearm. “Now, what really happened to your report?”17

“Maybe I lost it,” James said, his voice cunning and his look screaming, “I don’t give a shit.” He shifted his weight to lean against the armrest of the desk and muttered under his breath, “Why don’t you try checking up your ass?”18

Hearing a distinct noise escape from the boy, Holling perked up, her stare never leaving him. “What was that, James? I didn’t quite catch what you said.”19

He looked at her sharply and replied loud enough for anyone to hear, “I said, ‘Why don’t you check up your conceited ass?’”20

“I need the report, James,” she exhaled, tight-jawed and fed up. “And, I need that book back.”21

Chomping down at another chip, he shrugged reluctantly. “Well, I haven’t finished it yet.”22

“Well, since this is the due date for your report, maybe I could give you and extension. How far have you gotten?”23

James’ eyes wandered the front cover. “‘The Mathematics of—’ is as far as I’ve gotten so far.”24

“That’s as far as you’ve gotten?” Holling said, her irritation showing through her tone. “I gave the assignment a week ago and you haven’t even read the cover?”25

“You want me to read the cover?” he scoffed.26

“It would help,” she said with a sigh, rubbing her aching forehead.27

James cleared his throat, wiped his mouth and read the title, author, illustrator and editor—all the names listed on the cover. He looked at the woman, slowly pushing the book away. “I read the cover; a week’s worth of reading right there. Have I met your quota or should I read the acknowledgments, too?”28