t w o . P O L L I N A T E
854 Words
Yes, unfortunately, I was still here. That's what happens when you take a two-hour class because our asses were still here trying to complete the project before it was over.
The people in the group project weren't as bad as I assumed, pretty intelligent and hard-working. I didn't even know they existed in this classroom until now and even though I just complimented them—
I take that back because they were becoming an annoyance.
Emma would charm her way towards the boys, the majority to E, by gossiping about someone's latest party while slapping her yellow chewing gum around her mouth. Mees was goofy, but one weird child that I cringed at when he told a corny joke. E didn't say much, only agreeing with them on an occasion.
I only spoke to them when I was spoken to. I didn't chime in with them and I wasn't trying to be their new best friends. I was there to work, then get the hell out of there. If I ever looked up from my work, it was about my part of the presentation so we could seam the individual workpieces together.
All I had to do next were rehearse my lines from my index cards for the next couple of minutes and present. Extra ink lines were drawn on to add more room for my scribbled sentences and I mouthed everything until it somewhat came naturally yet unscripted. I fumbled here and there, trying to hide my anxiety when I started slipping once practice time ran short. I sped the sentences up in my head. Faster. Even faster.
My palms began to sweat and unnecessary trembles of nerves cracked my insides to split into halves like earthquakes. My eyes didn't look into the eyes of the audience while giving jokester Mees and chatty Emma the spotlight they enjoyed.
"Can we please begin the presentation? I know everyone wants to go home. Mees? Emma, stop talking." Professor Cooper demanded, pulling the grading rubric up her lap.
Some of the crowd giggled.
I briefly examined the members of my group, anxiously waiting for them to start so I can get this s**t over with. Professor Cooper even wants to go home. God, I hate English so damn much. . .I hate it with a passion. Mees wiggled his strawberry-blonde eyebrows at our teacher with a goofy grin on his face. Emma quietly shoved him with her elbow to make him knock it off.
I could barely see E on the other side, his posture calmly languid and lazy on the board so the metal chalk holders can support him, resting his hands behind him. I watched his fingers play with a mahogany curl on his head but he stopped.
Especially when he caught me staring.
"An F will land on this group project for both of you, Miss Baker and Mr. Murphy," Professor Cooper threatened, still conversing with the troubling duo and cutting off my gaze instantly.
"We actually strayed away from Shakespeare and Emily Dickinson, as those are famous, classic pieces of literary work and chose a different approach, John Donne, The Flea."
Admiration ignited a knowing interest in Professor Cooper's glimmering eyes as her attention grew undivided and her legs crossed over the other at the graceful voice that randomly bounced in. "That is actually a good poem. A very good one recognized on the exam, especially the author. Good E."
I tried hard not to whirl my pupils upward at the ass kissing. He wasn't the only one that agreed to do the poem, but all of us did. Plus, that sentence wasn't even rehearsed, E was winging it.
Once he kicked us in with a good start, Emma coasted in with our introduction and Mees broke out some jokes to our three-page analysis, granting him entertainment points for making the crowd laugh, even the instructor.
Then low and behold, my turn awaits. I set my note cards down and my shaking hands behind my back.
The computer flashed the next slide and any sudden noise fell silent.
The students either uninterested or waiting their turn, counted on someone to speak next.
Mees cleared his throat like the silence was unbearable and someone else sneezed. Emma nudged me with impatient eyes to talk and I tried, but damn, can I clear my throat, have the right public speaking tone, and get my thoughts together?
Apparently not.
Not when Golden Boy speaks for you to ruin your part in the presentation, clearly having it covered, with my finger up and mouth propped open. Just blatantly sabotaging your life and everything you worked hard for in the class to finish off somewhat strong was now down the drain.
That day, because of that stupid day and for assertive people and impatient fuckface jerks, my grade went to a low D. And God. . .God only knows bringing that s**t up will be a pain for the rest of the semester.
As my eyes widened at his mouth moving and ballsy boldness, they narrowed to knife-cutting slits.
After all,
there was a reason to hate him.
- Writer
