People tell me I am way too critical of others. I don't think so, though. I remember getting back a training feedback survey from a trainee a few months ago at work. The guy ended up walking out halfway through his shift on his third day. He said that I was, by far, the worst trainer he had ever had. Since I was younger, he expected me to be nice, but I was way too demanding, rude, and hard on him. I laughed and rolled my eyes when my manager showed me that. If I have to put on big girl pants every day after school and work my butt off, this twenty-something guy can suck it up and learn the hard way. The world isn't a nice place.
It isn't just at work that I am called overly critical, though. My little sister Harley and my best friend Cale tell me the exact same thing. They tell me that I probably don't have many friends because I criticize people and shut them out too easily. I just have high standards for what I want in my life. If you are fake, dependant on others without valid reason, have mixed up priorities, have an overall shitty attitude, are stuck up/think you are better than others, or just a plain bad person in my book - walk away. I don't want you. That may seem like a lengthy list, but I think it is perfectly reasonable.
I don't let the whole "not many friends" get to me, though. Cale has been my best friend since elementary school. We may lead very different lives, but he has still always been there for me whenever I need him. He is a good person in my book, too. He can stay. He is a social butterfly, unlike me. He likes to spend the mornings exploring the halls. He has so many friends that he has made in random places that he never has to worry about being lonely. He always asks me to join, but I refuse. I hate the way people walk in the hallways, I hate the smell of the hallways, and most importantly, I hate the people in the hallways. I prefer to sit alone in homeroom.
Right now, I am quickly doing my homework for my first period math class. I worked from 4-12:30 last night. I promised myself that I would do my homework, but the second my head hit the pillow, I was out. I have no idea what the fuck any of the numbers or equations mean, which means I am falling behind yet again. Lovely.
Cale's response is always, "You really shouldn't be working so much, Bree. Give yourself more time for school work or you're gonna fail."
See what I mean? Such different lives. He can get away with working part-time, because his mom doesn't charge him anything for rent, or fall behind on her bills every other month, hell, I've had to dish out money for my mom's drug charges once or twice. I would absolutely love if I could get away with only aorking part-time, shit, maybe even "no time". I do care about school work, but it is admittedly my second priority for now. College is off the table for now, too. Once I graduate in a few months, I plan to get a second job so I can get a car and an apartment and move Harley in with me.
I'm still struggling to finish this homework when the warning bell rings. I have this old, strict homeroom teacher who wants everyone in their seats by the time the second bell rings, and to have a clear desk. I basically have three minutes now to half-ass this.
"Hey," I poke the girl sitting next to me. She is some random girl in my math class. Desperate times call for desperate measures.
"Oh my God!" She shrieks and jumps about a foot in the air and takes a headphone out. Extreme overreaction, much? "I'm sorry, what?"
It takes everything in me not to roll my eyes. I have to physically stop them from automatically rolling on their own. "Did you do the homework for Mrs. Danson's class?"
"Mrs. Danson's class?" She asks. "Um, wait what?"
"Mrs. Danson's math class, first period? You sit like two people down from me," I explain. "I mean, right?"
"Oh! Yeah."
"So, you did the homework?" I ask.
"Oh! We had homework?"
This girl really just wasted two out of my three minutes to quickly copy her answers. And people wonder why I hate people. I am going to have to remember to add "stupidity" to my list of reasons I hate people later.
"Uh. Yup. Thanks anyway," I have to turn away now. I cannot hold back this eye-roll anymore.
"Well, wait! Did you do it? Could I maybe copy it?" She asks. I blatantly ignore her as I put away my binders for the bell that rings fifteen seconds later. Mrs. Bell is already up front taking attendance. Cale slips in two seconds after the bell and tries to quietly sit down without her noticing.
"Cale, see me after the first period bell," she orders without looking up. She also yells at the dumb chick next to me for her headphones being on her desk, and at some other boy for lending a pencil to the girl behind him. Mrs. Bell takes the whole homeroom thing seriously because she barely has any other actual duties in the school. She is an attendance officer, so after she handles our homeroom, she sits in her office all day and occasionally signs pieces of paper and whatnot.
After attendance, morning announcements come on. The old bat turns it up ALL THE WAY to ensure that everybody could hear. Not only can we hear the announcements, we can hear them so well that we could barely hear anybody else, including our own thoughts. The announcements kids, basically honor roll kids looking for extracurriculars for their college resumés, boast about irrelevant shit like the school lunch, the freshman choir concert, and senior school clothing sales. After announcements, we just sit for the awkward two minute period until the bell rings. We can't talk, do work, or have any electronics.
Mrs. Bell is startled by the bell, like she is every other day, and nearly throws her book. She reminds Cale to come talk to her and then we all leave for first period.
In between periods is always the worst part of my day. You've got the girls with dangerously high heels clacking around with their lattes sloshing in their lid-free cups. Groups of people meet daily on the sides of the hall, and also in the middle. Instead of separate sides, kids walking in all directions walk wherever they want to. Worst of all, people will just randomly stop in the middle of the hallway. They will literally just stop as if two hundred people aren't scattered behind them, and send a text or shuffle through their bookbag to find something.
The stupid girl from my homeroom walks dangerously slow in front of me, typing on her phone. I am already fed up from the moron behind me who stepped on my shoe and the blonde high-heeled chick who almost launched latté all over me. I accidentally shove her and keep walking.
"Oww," I hear her mutter. Maybe she hit her head and it'll knock some form of intelligence into her. I battle blood, sweat, and tears before finally making it to room 145A for class. Mrs. Danson is furiously writing numbers and shit on the board. I take my seat next to the saltwater fish tank and try to half-ass my homework while I wait for the bell. Nothing. I still have no idea what any of this means.
I figure I am going to have to pay close attention during class today and take notes. Tonight, no matter what time I am out, I will have to make sure and get some reading and studying done. I just want to get my grade up in this class. I could take the D, but although school is a second tier thing for me, I set my standards too high for myself to do so. I want to pass with at least a B.
Unfortunately, that is much easier said than done once she starts talking. She is a sweet woman, but good Lord, she is one boring person. She just doesn't know how to make math fun. To be fair, I don't know many people who could make something so boring into an interesting lecture. Plus, I sit next to the fish tank. I watch the clownfish merrily swim around and nip at the others, rushing to the safety of his anenome when shit hits the fan. I am pretty sure their understanding of what the fuck just happened leaves after about ten seconds, and then the whole thing repeats. The clownfish is a little asshole. I like him.
I realize after about ten minutes that I lost track. Okay, focus. I squint at the board and listen to her lecturing. None of it makes sense now since I missed a large chunk of the beginning of her talk. Meh, fuck it. I will just have to read the book and Google some stuff. Besides, if you are going to be a boring teacher, you can't have a fullblown freaking saltwater tank in your classroom. It's her fault, really.
I spend the rest of the hour watching the fish. To my surprise, she calls me over to her desk as class is wrapping up. She usually never even notices when I don't turn homework in. I know it isn't that, anyway. She only calls people up if they have missed four assignments, which I have not. I'm a little skeptical, but I walk to the front regardless.
"Uh, yes?"
She looks around, making sure nobody is listening. Jesus Christ.
"So, this is going to be a little weird. I want to help you. But, at the same time, you are helping me."
"Okay..."
"So, my daughter Hope is in honor league. She needs 30 hours of tutoring by the end of this semester to fulfill her requirements for the program. She is so busy with her other stuff, though, that she can't really find anyone," she explains.
"Uh-huh."
"Well, you aren't FAILING. But you aren't doing so hot, either. Look, I'm just going to come out and ask you. Will you let my daughter tutor you?"
Geez. THAT was the hot gossip nobody else could hear? I mean, damn, all you have to do is go to the library and sign up for tutoring. It isn't exactly some black market type of deal. I guess, technically, she shouldn't be soliciting clients for her daughter. But my class is full of idiots, who would actually take the time to go report her to the honor league coordinator?
"Um, I don't know," I reply. "I work, like, a lot. I can get my grades up. Someone who is failing could probably use it more than I could."
She does one of those half-laugh, half-sigh things. "Honey, you're my only hope. You aren't doing well, but you normally don't do bad at all. You try, you do your homework most of the time, everyone else is failing because, well, they are lazy. They won't go to tutoring, and if they do, they won't even pay attention. I chose you because I think you could benefit greatly from it."
Yeah, me or your daughter will benefit greatly?
"Mrs. Danson, really. I work forty to sixty hours a week. I barely even have time to think."
She raises her eyebrow. Her face expression shows full skepticism. "That isn't even legal for you to be working so much.
I shrug. "It isn't much of a choice."
"Look, Breanna, I think you really could benefit from this. You are smart and you have potential. Please just think about it, at least.
I sigh. Why must she be such a sweet lady?
"Alright, I will. I can only do mornings though."
She beams. "Great! All you have to do is go to the library, inquire at the front desk, and fill out a form. Request Hope Danson to be your tutor. Oh, thank you, honey!"
I really don't want to do this. She is lucky she is nice and I like her. "You're welcome."
I bring up the subject as a random conversation starter at lunch.
"Damn, sounds like she's a pusher," Cale says as he spoons up some yogurt. "On her daughter, I mean. Like, why is she pushing so hard on her? It's only halfway through September. Besides, she's a big girl, she can find her own people."
"Hope Danson? Damn. She's hot," Tom Benson pipes in. Tom is a really weird guy, who I admittedly felt bad for. He was some long, greasy-haired guy sitting all alone playing Pokemon cards. People would point and make fun of him, so I invited him to sit with us. I kind of regret it now. Not so much the whole "weird" thing, like being a senior in high school and still playing with Pokemon cards. Or even the fact that he smells funny and has gross hair. He's a pervert with creepy sex fantasies that he enjoys sharing with us. Every single day.
"Ew, shut up Tom," Alyssa rolls her eyes. She's some girl from one of Cale's classes.
"What? It's true. She's, like, perfect. I love redheads, and she's short, got HUGE boobs, a big butt, I mean, what isn't to like?"
"Yeah, and you're never gonna have a chance with her," Alyssa shoots back.
"Neither would you," he retorts.
"I'm sure I would before you would," she replies. "She has a boyfriend anyway. Greg Faulkner. Hot as shit."
"Meh, who cares? I would have to get to know her. I need someone who can handle dominance. She is, like, my fantasy looks wise, but I need someone who can handle being tied up and choked."
"Dude, chill!" Cale spits out his sandwich as he goes into a laughing fit. Alyssa and I laugh, too. Her friend Gianna, a really quiet chick, turns bright red and lets out some giggles, too.
"What?" He shrugs. "It's true."
"Okay, dude," I reply. "I'm just saying how I think it's weird how Mrs. Danson pushed it so hard. You took it to a new level with your sex fantasies."
He puts his hands up. "I'm sorry, okay? It's been awhile."
He always brags about a girl he had sex with back home in Louisiana. I don't know if I believe him, though. He says she looks EXACTLY like Megan Fox, and that they had a fling for seven months, until he moved here. Unless he got a prostitute and mistook it for a real connection, I think he is either exaggerating the girl's looks or the situation entirely. I try not to judge, but I can't see Tom dating anyone, really. Maybe a library aide or something, but not a girl who looks like a super model. No offense to him, I guess.
"Well, anyway," Alyssa says, giving a sneer in Tom's direction, "I think Hope is kind of a bitch."
"Really?" Cale asks. "I have gym with her. She seems alright. Her friends are kinda weird, though."
"Yes!" Alyssa exclaims. "Mindy and, ugh, what's her face? Lexi? They don't have much of a personality."
"Yeah, I said hi to Mindy once and she just, like, stared blankly. I'm kind of convinced she's a robot."
"Okay, but Hope? Is she cool, or? I don't even know the girl," I say. "And, no, I don't want to know about her boobs."
Tom looks away. Alyssa sneers.
"I think she's nice," Gianna pipes up quietly. "She helps me with homework and she saw me sitting alone in science so she sat with me."
"You barely talk," Alyssa says. "To, like, anyone. She probably felt bad. But, yeah, I don't know. She's alright."
"But you just said she's a bitch," I pointed out.
"Well, I don't know," she says defensively. "I only talked to her a few times. She wasn't in the mood to talk, maybe. She wasn't really mean, I guess."
"Bro," Cale says. "She's cool. Besides, it's, what? Thirty hours and then you never see her again? She's cool, you're cool, it's all good."
I nod. It's just tutoring, right? The lunch bell rings and as everyone starts gathering up their things, Tom chimes in one more time.
"And, no, this isn't about her boobs. Or butt. But one time, she told me she liked my Mario shirt. Okay? She's just a nice, normal girl."
I give Cale a look and try my best not to laugj. "Gotcha, Tom." I gather up my stuff and leave to my fifth period.
Everyone's reactions to my tutoring adventure to come is comforting, to say the least. I may not know or have ever even seen this Hope girl before, but at least I know that Tom the creeper wants to bang her, despite the fact that he isn't sure if she is up to par with his fantasies, Alyssa thought she was a bitch but quickly changed her mind when Cale said otherwise, Gianna the extreme introvert says she's a nice girl, and Cale strongly despises her mother pairing us for our session. Our session is tomorrow morning at seven. It's only tutoring, but this whole being in high school and being surrounded by people who know gossip about everyone and their mother thing makes it seem so much more serious.
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