Who would believe such bullshit?
“Then help me hide a body!” Brandon Mitchell jeers. “Had to off my old man for being a giant dick!”
“Put it in a barrel of slacked lime or lye and then let it get shipped off by one of the garbage disposal ships.” Rhys feels his eyes widen at the completely deadpan answer, his focus narrowing in on the suddenly blank-faced man.
Armand’s entire posture has changed. His slouch is gone, replaced by squared shoulders, which look wider than they did only a moment ago, and a glint seems to appear in his magnified pale eyes. For just a second he reminds Rhys of a predator, lethal and ruthless. Then the moment is gone and the gullible idiot is back with an awkward laugh and innocently bitten lips.
“I mean that’s how they do it in those mobster movies, right?” He giggles, rubbing the back of his neck, ruffling his blond hair.
The class boos and tells him that he sucks, but before the guy could come up with any answers the bell rings and Homeroom is over. No one spares a second glance at their new teacher before flowing out the door. Rhys feels oddly disappointed and bereft and doesn’t understand why, but he refuses to mull over it. Teachers will always be teachers, incompetent, judgmental, and useless. A second of could have been intrigue won’t change that.
“Everything okay, Rhys?” Thommy asks as they take the stairs one floor down to their shared AP Calculus class. Thommy pretends to not be the sharpest tool in the shed but he has a way with numbers not even Rhys can match, and despite his bravado, he hopes to go into mechanical engineering.
“Yeah, just bored,” Rhys replies with a shrug, earning a back slap that nearly sends him face first on the floor. He glares at his friend who can only grin sheepishly.
“Oops?” Thommy says holding his hands up in defense. “Still learning my way around the extra thirty pounds and six inches.”
“Yeah, you’re a giant. I think everyone got the memo,” Rhys grumbles, refusing to rub at the sore spot.
“Aww come on, we’re nearly the same height!” Thommy’s grin only widens at the glare Rhys shoots him. “But really, what’s four inches? Unless we’re talking about a different kind of—”
“Please spare both of us the embarrassment of finishing that sentence.”
“Are you implying I have a small dick?” Thommy’s eyes narrow and Rhys smirks up at him but doesn’t reply. “Rhys, are you?”
“Would I ever do that?”
“You would and you know it, you jerk.”
“Hmm… yeah, you’re right. But the question is, did I?” With a wink, Rhys walks into the Math lab and takes a seat, ready to sleep through yet another class.
Thommy drops down next to him, still fuming and ignoring their teacher as the old bastard tells them that the syllabus has been sent to their devices the day before and should have been already studied carefully. Traum is an ancient dickwad that always expects the impossible to be the standard and then yaps like a dog when he’s let down.
“Mr. Martinez, stop slouching and pay attention!” Traum snaps at him, his white brow framed stare attempting to be culling but only makes Rhys want to curl his lips in disgust. The man is an even bigger moron than Rhys thought if he still thinks that anything would change after two years just because they are in AP Calculus now.
“You think the stick up the geezer’s ass is barbed or something?” Thommy whispers when Traum turns towards the old-fashioned whiteboard and starts writing. Projectors and smart boards are obviously beyond his capacity. He launches into an explanation on limits and continuity, because who needs reviewing last year’s material after over two months of not touching a single book?
“Who knows?” Rhys replies noncommittally, glaring at his empty desktop. He doesn’t care about all the bullshit the teacher is spewing. Honestly, he doesn’t even know why he decided to take the course after the absolute torture Pre-Calc had been.
Oh right.
His father.
“I’m surprised no one glued on the cap of his markers,” Thommy goes on, undeterred. “Then again look at all these nerds wagging their tails for a bone. Pathetic.”
“Anything to add, Mr. Prescott?” Traum cuts in sharply and the class around them starts murmuring. Rhys can’t hear what they say but he can guess. After all, there is a reason why their group is always assigned the same classroom. They are the black sheep of the prestigious Edison Academy, hooligans who can’t appreciate how fortunate they are for being born rich and important. Deviants who are hellbent on bringing shame to their precious families’ names. Ass-kissing drones, the lot of them.
Thommy obviously doesn’t care. He never has. He simply smiles wide and bright, looks at the board for a second or maybe two, then says, “Yeah, Dr. Traum, I have actually. There is an error in the third formula you listed. It’s actually a property. Just saying.”
Rhys feels his lips twitch at the way everyone is suddenly studying the board with an intensity usually only spared for investment portfolios and smuggled porn magazines. Traum is nearly gaping at Thommy, his face turning into an unflattering puce color, but when he looks at his list of formulas he can’t counter Thommy’s argument. Thommy flashes a winning smile at the gaping teacher then turns to Rhys and winks.
“You think our new English teach will be this easy?”
“Should be a piece of cake.” Rhys doesn’t know why his words feel like a lie. Maybe the man’s strange momentary behavior left a deeper impression than he’s comfortable to admit.
“What are you planning?” Thommy nudges him playfully, ignoring the teacher once again.
“Just a little fun,” Rhys replies with a smirk and a raised eyebrow, but it sounds hollow to his ears—more bravado than truth.
Frowning down at his lap, he tries to figure out what it is about the slip of a man that leaves him unsettled. For all his little show, Armand came across as a fool; young and full of enthusiasm that would fade in a few days when he realizes that his dream job is nothing but a hoax. Rhys and his friends have had front row seats to watch as goodwill and liveliness left every new teacher within the first week since they started their studies at Edison.
The teachers despise them, even the ‘good students’, for being born privileged and rich enough to get away with everything. They resent them for being saddled with their care, for getting calls over things that should be dealt with their families. They keep claiming they didn’t sign up for this, that they were tricked, and find the most underhanded ways to dole out punishment.
Like Mulligan did.
Thank God the sick bastard is gone now, and he’s sure the new teacher won’t last much longer either. None of the new ones do. And if Armand tries anything like Mulligan did, disappearing him in a barrel of lye shouldn’t be that hard, should it?
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