You carelessly sling the test at Mr. Hall. You can tell by the way that he looks at the test and then at you that he knows you faked the signature; but what do you care? Besides, he should be happy that he gets that much creative writing from you anyway. The girl, Jasmine, is still talking, or maybe she's not, but you walk away just the same.
You pass the pillars of flesh that will someday be kicked out of the finest colleges in America. You pass the walking wads of soiled paper that make up your generation.
You pass the bathroom where you intended to cop a butt and, turning on your heel, walk directly into a cardboard cut-out of Goato, the school's mascot, and fall.
There is a blazing silence before the storm of leering pours on you. You are acutley aware of your aching knees on the gritty linolium, and you can feel the stab of tears start in the back of your head. You gather you books as the laughing starts, trying to make them think that you don't care so that you can beleive it. Here comes Hall with his hand out and teacher-mask on, offering to help you up and to class. You heft your Civics book and swing it at his face, shattering the bridge of his nose with a bloody pop.
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